by Alex Hayes
I grin and throw him a see-ya nod.
Opening the door to the music room, I spot Mrs. Jones straightening music stands along rows of raised seating. Two clang together, hitting a middle C.
Moving down the line, the teacher chats to a skinny blonde who plays clarinet. Um… Melanie. The second Mrs. J spots me, she wraps up their conversation. I lean against the wall and watch Melanie’s eyes widen as they stray my way.
She’d be attractive if it weren’t for the stammer. It’s possible Public Speaking Club would buy her back some confidence. But then again, it might break her into a million tiny pieces.
A contemplative frown twitches but I smooth it away. Why should I care about fixing her stammer? She’s totally not my type.
I pull in a deep breath, thinking of Rebecca. Can’t wait to see her over vacation. Man, I’ve missed her.
Melanie approaches, watching me as she clutches her clarinet case to her chest. I sidestep and open the door.
A tentative smile creeps onto her face. “Th-thank you,” she squeaks.
“Welcome,” I answer, and let the door swing closed behind her.
Mrs. J smiles, wide enough to make me nervous. She’s dressed super professional in a pencil-gray jacket and skirt, but her eyes are generous and kind. She isn’t going to give me permission to go out with her daughter, is she? Marek would slit my throat.
“Idris, I’m so glad you stopped by.” Mrs. J circles her Formica-topped desk and picks up a sheet of paper. “I heard about your award. Congratulations.”
I bob my head and thank her.
“And I have to say, it got me thinking.” She crosses her arms, the sheet of paper curling in her hand, trapped behind an elbow. “You need two things to win in competition. Adequate preparation and confidence. Take Melanie…”
My breath hitches because I’d prefer not to. Melanie sweats fear. Please. Please… Oh god, please, Mrs. J, don’t ask me to help Melanie Mills with her nerves.
“She’ll practice, practice, practice,” Mrs. J continues, “but the moment she gets in front of an audience, all preparation takes flight.”
Yeah, like a flock of seagulls. I’m still holding my breath.
“Idris, I’d like you to consider entering a music competition. One for an original music score. I’ve heard you practicing your compositions in music lab and… Well, your pieces are beautiful, evocative. I’m impressed. Your music coupled with your confidence tells me you have every possibility of taking home a prize.”
In my mind, my lower jaw hits the floor. For the first time, ever, I stutter. “I…Um, I-I’m really not sure.” Of course I want to do it, but…
Mrs. J offers a sympathetic smile. “Performing your own work in front of an audience is a big step, but you’ve already proven yourself. Audiences don’t intimidate you and your music is worth sharing with the world. You should go for this, Idris.”
Honestly, I’d love to, but Dad would have a fit if I entered a music competition. He hates me playing as it is. Thinks music is for layabouts and singing is for girls.
“Man, I’d love to play my music to an audience, but the preparation… It’s senior year. I’ve got a lot going on, and more speech competitions lined up in the spring. I appreciate you thinking of me, Mrs. Jones, but… I’ll need to think about it,” I finish, lamely.
God, where’s that Mr. Slick Marek was talking about when I need him?
She nods, but her eyes tell me she’s disappointed. She’s not the only one. The idea that my music might be valued by other people is pretty awesome, but Dad would ground me for the rest of my life if I entered.
The teacher holds out the sheet of paper. “The entry deadline is December 31st. There’s an online application. Details are on this flier. If you’re accepted, you’ll attend the competition late January.”
I rattle my head and the smooth-talking me makes a comeback. “That sounds really exciting, Mrs. Jones. Thank you so much for sharing the entry details. I’d love to compete.”
Mrs. J’s eyes soften like she’s hypnotized.
I snatch the sheet from her outstretched fingers and hightail it.
I’m in the living room, contemplating the music competition, or more precisely, the impossibility of it. A sigh escapes me as I finger a new tune on the piano. A glossy black grand. Only the best for Mom.
She practiced on an electronic keyboard as a kid and always dreamed of owning the real thing, so Dad bought a Steinway for her fortieth birthday. Every morning, she practices scales and her favorite classical pieces, but the afternoons are mine.
I glance at the clock on the mantel. Mom’s usually home by now, but she said something about a manicure or whatever. What is it with women and nails? The girls at school are the same, flashing their talons like eagles about to dive in for the kill.
Does that make guys their rodent prey? Hmm. Guess I know a few who’d qualify. Red-eyed night-dweller types.
The front door slams. Too loud for Mom.
“Janice?” That’s Dad.
Uh-oh. My gut tightens. He’ll find me here, and there’s no way to fake that I was doing anything else but playing. The living room is pristine. Wood floors, antique rugs, black marble fireplace. A space for visitors. Not somewhere I’d hang out, except to practice piano.
Dad’s not supposed to be home until tomorrow. He knows about the used guitar in my bedroom closet, but doesn’t know I play the grand every day he’s away.
Mom’s a saint and she thinks Dad’s insane giving me stick about playing, so it’s our little secret.
He passes the living room entry just as I twist on the piano seat.
Act casual. “Hi, Dad.”
He frowns. One of those deep v-shaped brow deals. “Idris, shouldn’t you be doing homework?”
“Done.” A light day at school, thank the God of Excuses.
His frown doesn’t lessen. “Have you seen your mother?”
“Nail salon. Should be home soon. Don’t think she was expecting you back today.”
Dad nods. “That was the plan. Today’s the anniversary of the day we met. I decided to surprise her.” He’s holding a huge bouquet of long-stemmed roses. Purple. Her favorite color. “How’s the Toastmasters’ speech coming along?”
Yeah, I know where this is going, but that doesn’t stop me stumbling into the quagmire. “Figured I’d use the one from the Go Tell It Competition.”
Dad’s eyes narrow.
“Just…you know, tweak it a bit.”
His fingers tighten around the rose stems. “If you’re going to be a great speaker, Idris, you’ve got to keep creating new work.”
What if I don’t want to be a great speaker? What if I don’t want to spend my life motivating people? I gave up with the protests a couple of years ago, because Dad doesn’t give a crap about what I want.
“But I haven’t had enough hardship in my life to make a compelling story,” I argue.
Dad crosses his arms. His disapproving parent pose. “Then talk about someone who has, someone you know who’s won against amazing odds.”
“I don’t know anyone who’s overcome anything more complicated than a twisted ankle.”
“Then make one up.”
My eyes widen and my jaw drops. You’re kidding, right?
The cogs turn in Dad’s brain. I can almost hear them cranking. He nods as the idea mill starts to churn out creative nuggets. “A girl. Your age. Bookish. An introvert who gets bullied in school for having one leg longer than the other. But she overcomes her oppressors.”
I roll my eyes.
Dad doesn’t notice because his mind’s in that innovative space he goes to when he’s writing his books. Makes me wonder how much of what he writes is based on truth and how much is invention.
“How does she overcome the bullies?” I ask.
“By becoming a super model.”
I’m tempted to slap my head. Of course. Why didn’t I think of that?
A smile erases the frown hanging over Dad’s features. “And creat
es her own designer shoes for women with similar disabilities.”
That’s pushing invention a little too far, Dad.
“Daniella Marino Lombardi,” he says like he’s announcing the Oscar winner for best actress in a leading role.
“Who?”
“Look her up. And put the fallboard down before you go. That piano cost forty grand.”
My head drops backward. Argh.
2
Cadi
“Cadi?” Mama Jacobsen calls up the stairs.
I drag my gaze from the snow-covered fields and rolling hills at the foot of the White Mountains and leave the window seat in my tower bedroom. “Yes, Mama?”
“I’m putting the reindeer cookies in the oven.” She wants me to help glaze them as soon as they come out. “Fifteen minutes.”
“Okay.” I close the door and return to the window where six Christmas ornaments and string sit in a pile on the cushioned seat. Cradling a featherlight sphere in my hand, I reflect on my first day here, when I stepped into this Victorian bedroom with its four-poster bed. I couldn’t believe the place was real.
A room fit for a princess.
I consider the irony of that thought and finger the rainbow crystal hanging on a silver chain at my neck. The necklace has no catch and won’t come off. The stone rests against a diamond-shaped birthmark on my breastbone, almost as if the crystal were made to fit. I’ve had both for as long as I can remember.
My social worker, Mr. Scrim, brought me to Mama and Papa Jacobsen’s from an apartment in Chicago where I lived with a family that had three boys. I was given my own room, until two more kids showed up. Then we took turns sleeping in the bed.
With no privacy, I didn’t last two months. My telekinetic abilities were discovered and my foster parents freaked.
The older I get, the harder my talent is to ignore, like a racehorse that needs to run or a lion that needs to roar.
The feel of the crystal’s polished surface helps me focus. After a quick glance at the door, I push the glass orb from my hand and let it bob in the air. It’s as easy to lift as the ping pong balls I use to play with Roly-Poly’s kittens in the barn. Here, I’ve no foster siblings to tattle on me, so my secret play with the kittens has gone on for weeks without discovery.
In less than six months, I’ll be eighteen and have choices. But for now, the Jacobsens’ Vermont farmhouse is the most wonderful home on the planet, and Mama and Papa are the best foster parents ever. I’ve lived here almost a year and my life’s close to perfect.
I lift the next ornament, and the next. Soon, all six orbs are hanging in space. As they float, I tie the string, evenly spaced, to the decorations.
I’m almost done when my door swings open.
“Cadi, the cookies are…” Mama’s voice fades when she sees what I’m doing.
Oh my god!
The ornaments clatter onto the window seat cushion, miraculously, without breaking.
Mama drops her hands to her hips. “Well, that was quite a trick.”
Oh, no. What do I say? There’s no way she’ll believe I faked that.
She crosses her arms. “And what’s that called, dear?” The tone of her voice demands the truth.
Suppressing my horror, I whisper, “Telekinesis.”
Mama’s eyes narrow. “And have you had it long?”
Does she think it just popped out of nowhere? “All my life.”
“Hmph.” Her eyes brush the fallen glass balls as if they might be contaminated with black magic or the devil’s hand or something.
Mama’s religious. Does she think I’m a witch? We aren’t so far from Salem.
I imagine myself filthy and smelling rank after a night spent in a pig pen. A pyre of worm-eaten wood has been erected in the goat field, encircling a wooden cross. Faceless men in black hats drag me through the mud and over gravel that slices into my soles like glass shards. But that’s nothing compared to the pain of burnt flesh and asphyxiation to come…
Mama’s lips stretch into a smile and my heart goes up in flames. But wait. Her eyes don’t reflect the murderous glint of a zealot. She approaches the window seat to sit and I scoop the ornaments out of her way.
Once settled, she reaches for the one untied decoration, a bright red ball with a silver angel painted on its side, and brushes it with her fingertips. “Angels are the mighty ones. They execute God’s will. But sometimes, they need help.” She sets the orb into my hand. “You have a gift, whether it came from an angel or not, and I know you’ll use it for the good of others, because I know you, Cadi.” She touches my hand. “But that doesn’t mean everyone will see your talent the same way.”
I stare at her in shock.
Mama clears her throat. “Is this ability of yours the reason you’ve passed through so many foster homes?”
My eyes meet hers. I blink and nod.
She pats my knee. “Well, you don’t have to worry about that here. I couldn’t have asked for a more delightful daughter than you, dear. But as I’m sure you’ve discovered, people fear what they don’t understand. So, let’s keep your gift a secret.” Her sympathetic smile sinks deep into the wrinkles around her eyes. “No point rattling the cages of sleeping tigers, is there?”
Relief floods through every blood vessel in my body. She isn’t going to send me away.
Mama stands and gives me a long look. “Do you feel all right, dear? You look a bit off-color. You’re not going to be sick, are you?”
I shake my head. “My stomach’s fine.”
She shrugs. “Then come on downstairs. We’ve got cookies to glaze.”
Following at a slower pace, I scoot into the bathroom to examine my face in the speckly antique mirror. Jade eyes stare back in surprise because Mama’s right, my cheeks have taken on a greenish cast.
3
Idris
I dial Rebecca’s number. No answer. Again. I’m about to try for the seventeenth time when Marek pulls his beat-up Toyota into the horseshoe drive outside my house. The engine thrums a solid B-flat.
Pocketing the phone, I pick up a cardboard box filled with Dad’s old recording equipment and slip through the side door. Dad revamped his office last April. I practically drooled over his API preamp, Sennheiser headphones and Shure microphone, all of them dumped like yesterday’s girlfriends.
Why should I care? I can use his new equipment anytime, right?
Yeah, as long as it’s to record speeches. To play music? Forget it. I can’t even ask him what the big deal is about me playing, because he switches off the instant I say anything related.
I talked Marek into asking if he could buy the old stuff, instead. I’d pay, as long as Dad didn’t find out.
Dad laughed and told Marek he could have the old equipment for free as long as he used it.
Today is pick-up day. We’ve got the whole thing worked out.
There’s no space at Marek’s house to set up, but his mom owns a place out on the fringes of the industrial part of town. A real estate agent with an eye for a good deal, she picked up the building at a quick sale a few years back. An old train station house converted into a nightclub called the Thorny Rose.
Rumor has it, the station house was owned by a gangster who was later killed by a car bomb. Marek says the place is like a fortress, so maybe the rumor is true. Though what kind of a gangster would put down roots in Hopper, in the middle of the Adirondack Mountains, is anyone’s guess.
Marek pops the trunk and pushes aside empty soda bottles and lunch wrappings going back several months. The box fits into the space he clears, and we hop in the car.
I roll down the passenger side window to let in some fresh air. “So, your mom’s okay with this?”
Marek starts the engine with a gusty roar and puts the car in gear. “Yeah, no problém-o. She likes the idea of someone being around the place over winter. She’s worried about frozen pipes. Happened once at my gran’s and Ma’s been paranoid ever since.”
He glances at me after pulling onto th
e street. “So why didn’t you ask your dad for this stuff? I was half expecting he’d hit me with a giant price tag. Then he goes and hands it over for nothing.”
I sigh into the cold wind slapping my face through the open window. “I told you, he doesn’t like me making music.”
Marek shakes his head. “Which I totally don’t get because you’re actually good.” Wow. A compliment from my best friend.
My shoulders arch in a shrug. “Maybe that’s why he cares. Music doesn’t fit in with his plan for me to join him on the motivational speaking track. Says he wants me to pick up extra speaking engagements this summer.”
Marek groans as he takes the next turn. “So I was right. He wants a clone and you’re it.”
“I guess. But what can I do? I owe him, right?”
My best friend’s brow pinches. “Maybe, but not with your whole life.”
I slump. “A father-son deal.”
Marek laughs. “Chip off the old block. You’re pretty convincing too. You sure he’s not your real dad?”
I toss him a frown. “I remember them adopting me.” Though barely.
“You do?”
“Yeah.” I recall the first time I walked into the house — my new home. Stumbling over the threshold, I looked around, wide-eyed. The place seemed huge and echoey. Mom clutched my hand, like she was more nervous than me, and Dad talked, all vibrant and enthusiastic, the way he always does. Except when the talk is about me making music.
I tap a rhythm on the door handle as my mind drifts over the possibilities my life might hold, if Dad wasn’t pushing motivational speaking down my throat.
Marek interrupts. “Do you remember the time before that? Like your real parents?”
As the car flies over the mottled tarmac, I squint into the sunlight that slits through the pine trees along the edge of the road and flashes across our faces, like shards of broken memories.
“Nope.” My default answer for that question.
The only recollection I have is a round-cheeked smile below a button nose and thick-lashed green eyes, the face of a kid who must’ve been about three, like me, at the time. And another memory which haunts me to this day. Those same eyes filled with tears, echoing a pain that cuts deeper than anything I’ve felt since, so sharp I wonder if I dreamt it.