“You okay, Kid?” he whispered, barely moving his lips. I was a kid, about nine years old, maybe ten, but he’d call me “Kid” forever (and I called him “Kid” most of the time, too). To me, it was an honour; it was what he called my mother (his little sister), and their relationship was special.

“I’m okay, now, thanks,” I said, sipping tap water with a sugar packet dissolved into it (sugar water helped ease my throat, and kept me away from dehydration).

He gave my back a couple of pats. “Knock ‘em flat, Kid.” With that, he left the backstage area to take his seat in one of the front rows.

I was done throwing up, through being nervous (My uncle used to say that I puked up my stage fright). It’s why I always carried a large-ish cosmetic bag. Toothbrush, toothpaste, Listerine, dental floss, sugar packets, and a couple of paper cups made up my post-puke kit.

This was a small afternoon recital for one of my uncle’s clubs. Three girls went on before me (we joked how I was “batting clean-up”). After my performance came three boy soloists, and then the show finished with a trio of tenors, older boys. After the show, we would all retire to the reception room (really a small cafeteria) for punch and baked goods… typical stuff.

The girl just before me, Girl #3 (I do not remember her name; I never saw her again) was pretty bad. I did not laugh (I was taught better manners than that!), but it was funny to me; she’d done nothing but talk about how great she could sing the whole time she was backstage. She was sharp; she was flat; her timing was slightly off. She was just all over the place.

I went onstage and I did okay… even though Girl #3 was having a fit just a few steps away, behind the curtain. She was screeching, crying and stamping her feet throughout my aria.

When I exited, I walked past her and she shoved me. I regained my balance and looked up at Girl #3’s mother, expecting her to say something (really, she should have moved her daughter away from the stage area altogether). When she said nothing, but allowed Girl #3 to continue screeching about the piano being out of tune (it wasn’t) and the accompanist being bad (he wasn’t), I giggled a little bit and walked away.

At the end of the recital, Uncle Joe Bagga Donuts met me backstage to escort me to the after-party. He was all smiles, talking with all of the other mothers and teachers. Girl #3’s mother asked him about giving her daughter vocal lessons.

My uncle said, “No, thank you. My niece keeps me busy.”

The woman followed us around the tables at the party, dragging her brat with her. She offered my uncle all kinds of money to teach her kid to sing. Uncle Joe Bagga Donuts politely answered, “No, thank you,” to each offer.

I kept my mouth shut, but I wondered at his rejection of money. He certainly wasn’t making any cash teaching me.

As we made our way to my uncle’s car, the woman came outside, alone.

Uncle Joe gave me the Oh My God Can You Believe This Woman look and unlocked the passenger door. He said, “I’ll be right back.”

I cracked the window and pretended not to listen in… But I had to hear this.

“Mister P_____,” she said, “Why won’t you teach my daughter?”

He sighed. “My niece gets sick before every recital. Nearly passes out every time. Stage fright.”

I closed my eyes, embarrassed and glad Girl #3’s mom couldn’t see my face turning red. Why would he share that information with her?

“So?” the woman said.

“So… she goes on, anyway. Because she loves to sing. She loves the music.”

“That’s nice,” she said, “But why won’t you-“

“Your daughter does not love to sing, ma’am. She loves attention.” He was using his Stern Teacher voice. I tried not to giggle; I always thought that the Stern Teacher voice was reserved for kids. He added, “Maybe she should take up acting.”

If Girl #3’s mother said anything in response, I didn’t hear it.

As soon as Uncle Joe slid in behind the steering wheel, I gave him a big noisy smooch on the cheek. He looked at me in surprise.

“I just love you, okay?” I giggled.

He smiled, reached into the backseat and handed me my bouquet (Uncle Joe always made sure I received flowers after a recital). I thanked him, stuck my nose into the flowers and snorted loudly; then, I handed the flowers to him and he did the same thing. It was our thing; we always did goofy things after a performance, you know, let loose a little.

“I love you, too, Kid,” he said, messing up my hair as we drove away. “You’ve got class.”