Awakening Foster Kelly

by Cara Rosalie Olsen

  “So what?” she hissed, throwing the towel on the bathroom floor and whirling on Becca. “So are a ton of other guys at this school. Being cute is hardly impressive. Have you seen his grades, Becca? Not exactly Valedictorian status. And seriously, out of all the guys in Music, he’s probably the least talented.”

  Becca was quiet a moment, with genuine shock. “That’s why? Because he doesn’t have straight A’s, you’re not even going to give him a chance?”

  The lot of Vanya’s fury transferred from the ruined shirt to hapless Becca. She had at least three inches on Vanya, but somehow Vanya still managed to look down on her.

  I had long since finished washing my hands. In fact, I had washed them almost four times now. And had anyone been watching my feet, it might have looked like I was trying to tap dance—albeit, very poorly—the way they shuffled back and forth, indecisive; however, in order to exit, I would have to pass by Vanya, and with tension filling the bathroom like noxious smoke, I figured now was not the time to make a stealthy departure.

  “Well, Bec-ca.” Vanya intoned her name cruelly. “Why don’t you go out with him, if you think he’s so freaking great, huh?” Her eyes narrowed, then went wide with fallacious surprise. “That’s a great idea, isn’t it? You two already have so much in common.”

  I could see Becca’s reflection; apprehensive and uneasy. Vanya didn’t seem to notice her friend was already trying to apologize. She spat out the next words with ruthless venom. “Really, it’s a match made in heaven, don’t you think?” she continued in mocking gaiety. “Both of you can’t seem to stay away from disgustingly greasy food, and you both have to buy knock-off clothing because your dads are incompetent losers who can’t support their families with one income.”

  It couldn’t have been more than a whisper, but when a soft horrified gasp slipped out of my mouth, Vanya’s eyes flicked over to me in baleful warning. It wasn’t in defiance that I kept my eyes on hers, but in sheer astonishment. I knew Vanya considered Becca to be her very best friend, but these were some of the worst things I could ever imagine someone saying to another person. Becca’s head lowered ostensibly in embarrassment and shame.

  Vanya inhaled so deeply her collarbone protruded and, letting out a petulant breath, raised an arm and squeezed Becca’s shoulder. “I must not have slept well last night or something,” she said, as if this explained things. Then she laughed, inviting Becca to do the same. “I’m acting like a total grouch, aren’t I?”

  A small smile, obviously forced for Vanya’s benefit, appeared on Becca’s face. “It’s okay, I understand,” she allowed. “Your schedule is crazy.”

  “It is, I know!” Vanya agreed. “But I have an hour between ballet and yoga today. Do you want to get pedicures after school? My treat.” She smiled brightly, no sign of an apology on her lips.

  “Yeah, sure.” Becca nodded, looking as if she were valiantly trying to forget the words she had just heard. “My toes are disgusting right now. Last we—”

  “Oh, I know! Me, too! It’s been at least four days since my last mani-pedi,” Vanya looped an arm through Becca’s, and pulled her toward the door. Just before they passed through, Vanya glanced over her shoulder, stared me right in the eyes, and said, “I’m so glad you came in here, Becca. It’s really kind of creepy being in the girl’s bathroom alone.”

  ~

  I shook the memory away, shuddering.

  Radiating with a born confidence, Vanya continued to share about her experience working with Taylor Swift’s vocal coach. Smiling, she gesticulated with lissome arms, her lithe figure appearing like it had been put together with whispers and fog. There was something incredibly graceful about her; the way she moved, the way she angled her shoulders when she spoke, her fingers, especially; it was as though this facet had been sewn into her DNA. Occasionally Vanya’s mother would pick her up for ballet class before the day’s end. On these days Vanya wore black leggings and a skintight black tank top that scooped low in the back, revealing a pallid knobbed spine. Vanya’s blanched hair was pulled so tight, the tiny white hairs plastered to her head puckered under the strain. I watched her now, lifting a china doll hand to her cheek in modesty, as someone complimented her. Before letting her hand fall, she scratched her cheek, marking her porcelain skin with a faint pink line.

  It was indisputable. Vanya was beautiful; but she possessed none of the kindness that made a person warm.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, “and at the end our session, she told me that I should be very proud of myself, because, although Taylor is talented and all, she doesn’t have the vocal range that I do.”

  Mr. Balfy—a natural truth-teller—his face possessed a transparency unable to hide its emotions; so when he smiled at Vanya, he looked both sad and frustrated.

  “That is great, Vanya . . .” he said sincerely, “but I want to encourage you, and whoever your partner turns out to be, to work on the Senior Piece just the two of you.” He addressed the class then. “I won’t prevent any of you from seeking outside assistance, but, my friends, hear me when I emphasize that the whole point of this assignment is to grow and develop within a pairing of two uniquely designed minds. I want to see what you can do—not a professionally orchestrated composition, okay?” He dropped the pen in his hands, and stepped back inside the semicircle, approaching Vanya’s desk. “Tell me what inspires you, Vanya.” He placed a hand on his heart and smiled. “I want to know what touches you here.”

  “Oh, don’t you know, Mr. Balfy? Vanya doesn’t have a heart. The wizard forgot to give her one.” More than one person laughed aloud. Two seats to Vanya’s left, Gina Peart, the niece of Rush’s Neil Peart, drummed her pencil against the desk absently, smiling. Her dark brown eyes shone from beneath a black fringe of bangs, dyed cherry-red at the tips to match lips with the same hue.

  I could tell Vanya bristled at the remark, but remained stoic, carefully concealing any reaction. Slowly, she turned her head, smiling acerbically. Gina met her glare and blew her a kiss.

  Gina was one of the few people in our class who didn’t cower to Vanya’s talent, beauty, and tyrannical disposition. She was a drummer, of course, and well on her way to becoming one of the world’s greatest—just like her uncle. Save for a few fellow musicians, Gina kept to herself, and on more than one occasion complained the school was filled entirely with uppity, pretentious, mindless snobs—her words verbatim. Once I had caught a piece of the conversation she was having with a boy next to her. He had asked why she was here and not on tour with her uncle and his band. She relayed that her parents were sticklers for school, insisting—much to Gina’s chagrin—she get an education first.

  Mr. Balfy, abhorring dissention amongst his students, moved to intervene. “Let’s keep the feedback positive please, cool?”

  “Sor-ry, Mr. Balfy,” Gina intoned, twirling a pencil between her fingers. “I’ll play nice, I promise.” She sat up in her chair, calling around the people between herself and Vanya. “Hey, Vanya? Maybe you, me, and Taylor Swift’s vocal coach can all get together and write a sappy little love song?” she asked in a voice reminiscent of morning-time cartoons. “Or I could bring my softball bat and practice some pop-ups, while you twirl around in your tutu. What do you think?”

  “I think you’re a dirty little heathen with more sexually transmitted diseases than the sheets in a brothel,” Vanya replied in an equally cheery voice.

  “Okay, that’s enough, girls,” interrupted Mr. Balfy, perching on Gina’s desk. “Thought you said you’d play nice?” he said reproachfully, stealing her pencil and bopping her lightly on the head with it.

  Gina looked shocked. “That wasn’t nice?”

  He gave her a strong look of disapproval. “Foster.”

  At the sound of my name, my stomach pinged. “Yes?”

  Mr. Balfy slid off Gina’s desk and moved toward me, collapsing to the floor beneath my desk, relaxing onto his back, and throwing both arms into the air. “Please! Help us! I know you can explain to the class what I
’m talking about,” he said with eyes closed. “What helps you focus on the music?”

  The muscles in my stomach were clenched tight, my throat equally so.

  Mr. Balfy waited patiently for me to answer his question.

  “I think . . .” I paused and swallowed. “Well . . . usually I . . .” I gazed around at the class, noticing each and every person had already grown weary of my ramblings. Gina had reloaded and was busily drumming on her desk with two pencils. Connor was staring at Vanya. Vanya was whispering something in Stephanie’s ear, and the rest of the class looked like they might nod off at any moment. Only Shayla Sparks and Pilar Knight looked moderately interested in what I might say. I didn’t want to disappoint Mr. Balfy, but I also knew what I had to say sounded completely ridiculous.

  “Yes, Foster?” Mr. Balfy encouraged, opening his eyes.

  “Sometimes I like to stand on my balcony,” I began in a whisper. “When it’s still early in the morning, and the sun hasn’t quite risen. And then I’ll close my eyes and just . . . listen. Listen to all the sounds.”

  Mr. Balfy’s arms rose once more, fists clenching tightly. “Yes!” he cried. “I love that, Foster. I love that. And what do you hear?”

  I heard Vanya mutter under her breath, “You mean other than the voices?”

  She and Stephanie snickered, but Mr. Balfy ignored her, still awaiting my answer. I hurried to finish before my face started to blaze red. “Well, I hear everything,” I told him. “The birds, the wind through the trees, every awake and breathing thing.”

  “And what’s the best part of being out there? About listening to all the sounds?” he asked, rising into a sitting-up position, and bringing his knees to his chest.

  Immediately, an answer surfaced in my mind, but again I thought it sounded absurd. I swallowed it, pushing it back down from where it had come from. “It’s very peaceful.”

  I knew without looking at him, it wasn’t the answer he was hoping for; still, always polite, he affirmed me. “Good, Foster. Each of us could benefit from taking a little more time to inject peace into our lives. Anything else before we continue?” Only then did I raise my head, thankful everyone had their eyes on Mr. Balfy. “Okay, then.” He popped up from the floor, rubbing his palms together. “Tonight, I want each of you to spend some time doing something you love. It can be anything, just so long as it’s an activity.”

  Connor raised his hand, and asked, “Does sleep count? I really love sleeping.”

  Smiling, Mr. Balfy clapped his hands on Connor’s shoulders. “Don’t you get enough of that in your classes?”

  The entire class emitted a low Ooo amid the snickers.

  “Yeah, good point,” Connor said.

  “Seriously though, guys.” Mr. Balfy turned and walked to the middle of the circle. “Levity aside, I mean it,” he said, earnestly. “Don’t be afraid to tap into that place. Go there. Figure out what makes the music real for you, okay?” A murmur of assent went about the room. “All right, cool. Other than that, just be sure to bring everything you’ve been working on to class with you tomorrow. After everyone has been assigned his or her partner, I plan to give you the whole period to get started. Oh, and don’t forget your phones! Plan to exchange numbers and be prepared to put a few dates down on the calendar. You’re going to be spending a lot of time working together, mostly outside of class.”

  Sitting perfectly still, curled inward, I felt like a spring-loaded trap. My mouth was as dry as talcum powder; nervous energy ran up and down my spine, sending shudders like waves down and off the sides of my shoulders. I swallowed again, trying to lubricate my tongue. I would need it when I went to talk to Mr. Balfy.

  Ever since this morning, I had been toying with an idea; it was a long shot, but I thought perhaps Mr. Balfy might consider it, as there was an odd amount of students in the class this year. While I concluded it was less likely he would permit a group of one, rather than conjoin a group of three, what if I volunteered to work alone on the Senior Piece?

  Restless, I wiggled in my seat, bouncing a foot. So eager to approach Mr. Balfy with my proposition, I missed the last of something he’d said. When he dismissed us five minutes early, I all but floated from my seat, buoyant on hope. However, it was only to deflate as he announced there would be no after school sessions today due to an appointment.

  “Have a great day, my friends! I’ll see everyone tomorrow,” Mr. Balfy hollered, slipping into his worn sandals. “Get some good sleep tonight—especially you, Connor.”

  Connor held up a fist. “Affirmative, Captain Balfy.”

  Laughing, Mr. Balfy saluted Connor, flung his backpack over his shoulder, and jogged out of the classroom.

  My hands twitched and stiffened at my sides, a futile effort to pull Mr. Balfy back into the room by powers of telekinesis. This not working, I relaxed them, and took a very deep breath, consoling myself with reassurances; there would be plenty of time to speak with him tomorrow. I would arrive early to school and find him before first period. Or, if that didn’t work, I would come in during tutorial, or at lunch. Eventually our paths would cross; no need to get myself worked up just yet.

  All around me bodies rose from desks, animated chatter filling the room once again. One voice carried above the rest. I turned my head slowly, taking care to ensure she didn’t see me.

  Although there were no guarantees, and I was considerably disheartened at not being able to speak with Mr. Balfy this moment, I took solace in knowing one thing: there wasn’t any chance of being partnered with another vocalist—namely Vanya. Of all the possible fates that awaited me, I simply couldn’t imagine any of them being worse.

  Chapter Four

  Singing softly to myself, I walked past empty classrooms and wound my way through the deserted hallways. School had only let out roughly twenty minutes ago and already there alluded a wasteland atmosphere. With the weather being so warm, my guess was most of the school had already disposed of their clothes, slipped into their bathing suits, and made their way to the beach. After a day indoors, the sand and surf was cure to the mood dispirited by frigid classrooms.

  I enjoyed the beach, also, but only after the sun went down.

  After a quick stop at my locker, grabbing the books needed for tonight’s homework, I headed toward the parking lot, pulling off my cardigan as I walked. This grievous error in judgment caused me to stumble when my sandal caught the lip of a shallow fracture in the cement. I knew there was no avoiding it and braced for impact. It wasn’t too bad. I tended to my scraped palms and knees, slathering a precautionary layer of Purell over the potentially infected areas.

  My Honda Accord, Hattie McAllister, was waiting for me under the partial shade of a tree.

  About a month after we moved, my parents thought it was time I had my own car. I picked Hattie for two reasons, the first: I was told by the mechanic that they were planning to scrap her for parts and the image I had of her limbs being ripped from their hinges made me queasy. The second: she looked very, very durable. Durability, above anything else, is a must for me. An expensive, shiny new car would be like putting diamonds in a toddler’s jam-smothered hand. I didn’t have to worry about Hattie, who was already in a state of disrepair—sturdy body covered in scratches and silvery paint chipping like muscovite.

  I gave her elderly frame a gentle pat and slid into the well-worn leather seat, checking the mirrors before shifting in reverse. I sighed. There was rubble stuck in my hair.

  Five minutes later we were whining and rumbling loudly down our quiet street, disrupting the stillness of the tranquil neighborhood. I had a thought and chuckled: if I were traveling around the Monopoly board, then our community would definitely have been Boardwalk or Park Place, and I the old boot.

  Green lawns shimmered back at me like lakes of emeralds.

  I ducked my head and sped onward with gusto, when a woman, retrieving her mail in a pink satin robe and matching heels and flanked by two standard white poodles looked behind her to see what was causin
g an awful racket.

  With one final squeal, Hattie kerplunked next to my parents’ matching red and black Priuses . . . or was it Pri-i? I’d have to ask my father.

  It was becoming more and more difficult to access the greenhouse by way of the side gate. Beneath my feet an ankle-high bed of dried sycamore leaves crunched in submission. After saying hello to my parents, I would have to tackle the neglected walkway and re-clear a path. We had yet to hire a permanent gardener, which suited me fine, even if the grounds were suffering a bit in the way of landscape. But I liked the feel of a broomstick in my hands—the sturdy weight of it; something I couldn’t very easily break or hurt myself on—and I enjoyed the mindless activity of maneuvering dead leaves into tidy piles. It was when I made up songs in my head and experimented with them aloud.

  Standing on my toes, I reached over and unlatched the gate. The heavy wooden door closed behind me with a loud slam that nearly caught my backpack in its teeth.

  A bit sweaty, I arrived at the glass dome. Size wise, it looked more like an airplane hangar than a greenhouse. Squinting up at the inconspicuous camera nestled between tree branches, I said, “Hi, Viva,” and I waited for the voice verification authority to grant me clearance.

  “Hello, Foster,” the granulated voice greeted me. “Please verify your authenticity on the biometric system.”

  “Oh, yes, right. Sorry. Here I come,” I said, and immediately began to chastise myself. Here I come? Did you really just warn a computer system that you were coming? Oh, Foster . . .

  I sighed, pressing my hand flat against the gelatinous pad attached to the wooden post mounted in the dirt. It warmed beneath my skin, glowing purple and eventually dimming to pastel blue. I had yet to discover what color it turned should Viva deem me an intruder. Knowing the inventor—my father—the possibilities were endless.

  “Welcome home, Foster,” Viva announced, sounding genuinely pleased despite her inability to feel emotions. Though not relational exactly, Viva was programmed to be somewhat personable, responding uniquely to my mother, father, and myself.