America's Next Star

by Katie Dozier

  “ Bonsoir , Ella. I do not like to disturb you, but I thought I heard my name. May I get you or your guest more tea?”

  “No merci ,” I said with a smile.

  I turned back to facing the interviewer.

  “And next month, I’m opening another free live-in eating disorder recovery program in Florida, which will be open to both girls and guys.”

  “That’s great. I think that will be all for now. I just have to say I wish you the best with your recovery, and with your upcoming first album.”

  “Thank you!” I said.

  As I let him out, I saw a thin figure through the window. He was pacing between the door and then away from the house in a loop that looked like the infinity symbol.

  I swung the door open.

  The man in front of me was fragile and pale and he wasn’t from Rolling Stone .

  He held a tiny bouquet of violets in his hands—which he held like a lost flower girl.

  “Dad?”

  “I…I just got out. I’m sorry, I wanted to see you sooner,” he said.

  I felt the feathers in my throat threaten to silence me again, and my feet began to step backwards into the safety of home.

  I remembered my eighteenth birthday and how Dad had made me Mom’s spaghetti while fighting tears.

  I remembered how he pushed me to try to feel alive again, even when he felt dead himself.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said.

  I thought of Mom.

  And I realized that Dad was here at this mansion, full of hope—just as I had been only months ago.

  I hugged him and said, “Come on in. We have the second best spaghetti in the world.”