Reaching under her, I picked up two musical composition books. “What do you think, Rhoda? Beethoven or Bach?” She immediately laid a paw on an option I hadn’t given her. “All right,” I sighed, “If you say so.”
Inhaling deeply, I waited for the soft commanding pull just below my belly button, arranging one hand, then the other, to rest over the cool, ivory piano keys. Like gossamer strands, my fingers went taut for the barest of seconds before compelled into pliant submission. Starting at the tips of my toes, Chopin’s Nocturne in F Major pulsed through my body, whisking me away from the dissonance of the day to a place of peace. I could breathe.
Exhale.
Within moments, my spine had softened—a reed bobbing with the cadence of the piece. I embraced the dark, feeling my way through the music without need for sight.
The song began as somewhat of a lullaby; sweet leisurely notes gently depicting tranquility. The high belling overtones danced, rising and falling, dropping and curving, all to present a picture in my mind of birds painting the sky with their flight patterns. Beneath the languid notes there remained a constant and much lower melody—another bird—barely spreading her wings; just enough to avoid crashing. This little bird, ordinary in shape and color, flew in a straight, steady line, far below the shortest trees. Careful not to disturb or disrupt the other inhabitants of the air, she was content to observe them, watching how they spun and quivered, soared and sang, lifting their voices and volant bodies in joyous proclamation. She observed their loveliness without envy or impulse, never deviating from her safe trajectory.
By chance, a beautiful butterfly flew by and, taking pity on the pathetic bird, she tried to coax her, encourage her, nudge her away from the dismal ground. Astonished by the sight of a creature with capable wings she did not use, the butterfly flapped and fluttered, displaying her vibrant stained-glass wings; for this she received an appreciative hop, but the bird made no attempt to copy her. With one last appeal the butterfly executed a devastatingly lovely pirouette; she took her time with it, basking in the flaxen sunlight, knowing the entire world had paused to behold such a beauty.
All but one.
Upon finishing, the butterfly sought to find the bird, certain her dance had inspired a flight. And though she searched both high and low, it appeared the odd creature had vanished into thin air. Soon the butterfly tired, fluttering away to join her friends, leaving that little bird—hiding deep within a berry bush—to her dull and empty life.
And there she stayed for awhile, passing time, until it was safe once more to come out . . .
Only, it wasn’t.
Stormy notes, beastly in temper, rioted in rebellion. Where there was once peace and predictability, there now was only chaos and danger; and it was entirely the little bird’s fault. Flying with her head down, no more than a foot above the ground, she did not see him coming straight at her.
A collision ensued and they tumbled to the earth.
Seeing him, the little bird faltered.
Darker than midnight and with eyes like the royal sky, he railed at her, furious and frightening. She tried to apologize, to explain: it was only an accident. Never had she expected to find another bird this far below the trees, hiding. But even accidents assume a price. And for this one she would pay dearly.
She, just a small, ordinary bird, was no longer invisible.
The song shifted a final time, ending in the same tranquility in which it had begun. Heavy with disappointment, I realized I had come no closer to figuring anything out; if anything I was more confused. I replayed the events in my head, starting from where I had run into him, and ending where he stormed out of the classroom. Nothing, as far as I could see, explained the instant and vehement hatred. Even Vanya had taken longer than a few seconds before coming to the conclusion that she couldn’t stand me. And to everyone else, I was invisible. You can’t hate what you don’t see.
Seeing me, I suppose, was completely my doing. He couldn’t exactly ignore a body thrashing into him. Considering this, I wondered if avoiding that initial confrontation would have made any difference in his reaction to us being assigned as Senior Piece partners. Had the first time we met been under better circumstances, would he have responded differently? Something told me it wouldn’t have mattered. And somehow I was certain: I never stood a chance. Progress on this puzzle evaded me. Important pieces were missing; pieces I would need if I were ever going to figure this out. I heaved the hefty bulk of sheet music on the bench next to me, determined to play through the entire stack, or solve this discouraging mystery—whichever came first.
Exhaustion won out. When I could play no more—my back aching in protest and my fingers stiff and refusing to no longer cooperate—I gave up. Though I still had fewer answers than I did questions, I did feel a little better. Sleep had helped tremendously, and so had the time alone, unloading my sheaf of emotions onto the therapeutic piano. I felt empty and drained, but much preferred that to the squelched combustion of a few hours before.
Night had fallen without me knowing, and with it a light rain. The clouds shimmied across the sky, pockets of moonlight peeking through and illuminating the land it touched. I stepped onto my balcony barefoot, breathing deeply, invigorated by the clean, wet, earthy air. A thin layer of drizzle covered my flowers in a pearled blanket of gauze. They looked healthy and proud—all except for one.
My sick poppy—the one I was supposed to check on every day after school, and had already failed in doing just one day after taking ownership of it—had been given a makeover. Thanks to my mom, the soil was damp, though nothing was left but luminous black dirt. When she’d come to water it, she must have also then snipped off the dead remains. I knew from years of watching her do this, that sometimes in order to survive, the plant must be culled. Everything not growing, or hindering its growth, must be tossed out. Dead leaves were like hands strangling the plant, stealing its very own nourishment and preventing any sort of healing to take place. A fresh start offered it a chance; the rest was up to the flower. So with roots intact, shocked, exhausted, and invisible below the mulch, I wondered what choice this little flower would make. After being stripped bare and exposed in crude nakedness, would the roots decide they’d suffered enough, give up, and die silently? Or would they fight for their life?
Was this the end? Or was it the beginning?
I laid my hand across the flat surface, patting it gently. “I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”
Chapter Eight
From the balcony I heard my phone vibrate. I stepped inside my room, wiping my feet first on the beige doormat. I grabbed my backpack and unzipped the outer pocket, pulling out the small, black phone. On the screen it read: Voicemail.
“Hey Fost, it’s Em—” Immediately I wondered if Emily was being polite by introducing herself. By now she had to know that other than my parents, she was the only one who called me. “Just calling to see what you’re doing. And . . . okay, so listen. You shouldn’t be upset about earlier.” I cringed. So much for the effort expended in trying to keep the panic from showing on my face. Emily couldn’t even get one sentence out before swerving into damage control. “It’ll blow over by tomorrow. Like I said, it’s only a matter of time before better gossip comes along and everyone forgets about what happened. And if not, well . . . you know I’m good for it.” She laughed. It was strained, though, and died away almost immediately. “The other reason is because high school is lame, Fost. Seriously. I mean, there’s some good stuff, but mostly it’s all backstabbing, gossip, and being as fake as possible so you feel better about all the crap in your life. Nobody will admit it, but so many people will do anything to be liked. They’ll make you think you know them, but really, they’re just lying to themselves and everyone else.” She paused to make a disgusted sound. “I can’t stand those people.”
Slowly, I lowered myself onto my bed, legs weak and trembling, trying to stay present to hear the rest of Emily’s message. A violent roll of nausea swept through my lo
wer abdomen. It didn’t seem possible I could feel any more miserable than I already did. Somehow, I managed to. Unwittingly, Emily had figured out my secret. It made no difference that it was everyone else’s too. What mattered was, I could no longer pretend that maybe she would understand; maybe she wouldn’t care about all the half-truths. I’d heard with my own ears. When Emily found out I was one those people, she would never speak to me ever again. I would lose my only friend. Several months ago, when I decided it would be easier to give in to Emily’s request to eat lunch with her, rather than prepare a new excuse every day, I resigned myself to the fact that someday—likely after we graduated—Emily and I would part ways. Distance would do what it does best, and we would both go on with our lives. I knew, expected, and accepted that—or so I had thought.
With her continuing to carry on in my ear, I forced myself to listen, catching the tail end of a cheerfully contemplative muttering. “Run him over with my car, or maybe I could just poison him. Because if you’re in a coma, then you can’t be a tool, right?” For the first time since Music class, I had forgotten all about Dominic. Amid the crowded quarters, my brain willingly made space. I rubbed my temples. “Okay, Jake and I just got to the beach, so I gotta go. I’ll be on the water for an hour or so, but . . . you know I’m here if—if you . . .” She sighed, agitated, and fumbling with the unfamiliar words. The sound of Emily struggling against every instinct, telling her she was being the epitome of everything she despised about sappy and maudlin girls, made my eyes start to sting. Just the way she charged barefoot across the blistering sand to get to the damp shore, she hurried to get it over with. “I’m-here-if-you-need-me.”
With that done, she let out a big sigh. I heard Jake’s rumbly laughter in the background. When she spoke again, I could tell the phone wasn’t near her mouth. “Oh, that’s funny, huh? Well, just wait until I tell Madd—” When the line disconnected, I pressed the end button, and laid back on my bed, hoping my horizontal posture would quell the chaos inside me. I laid a hand over my stomach, wincing every time a thrashing slice of pain rippled across me. It felt like high tide, with people in rowboats sloshing back and forth, digging their wooden oars in unceasing desperation.
They’ll make you think you know them, but really, they’re just lying to themselves and everyone else.
I sprang forward, poised at the end of the bed, one hand clapped over my mouth.
I can’t stand those people.
Leaping off the bed, I ran for the bathroom.
I’m here if you need me.
I hurled myself toward the object of my projection, praying I made it in time.
~
After a shower, using both antiseptic mouthwash and toothpaste to cleanse the acrimonious filth from my tongue, I laid back down on my bed, swathed in a plushy tan towel. Immediately, I sat back up. I couldn’t allow myself to think about Emily; my stomach couldn’t handle it. I moved to my dresser and quickly tugged on another pair of leggings, this time gray ones, and slipped into a long-sleeve white shirt spotted with pink polka dots. Moisture from my hair soaked my neck and the back of my shirt. In front of the standing oval mirror, I neatly wound my curls into a tight bun at the crown of my head, securing it with an industrious clip qualified to handle my monstrosity of hair.
Now what?
The urgency to figure out what I was going to do about tomorrow weighed heavily on my mind. I pushed the palms of my hands above my eyebrows, rubbing my forehead like a magic lamp in hopes of conjuring a perfect plan. Nothing happened. I remembered I focused better when I was in motion. Looking around, I frowned at the relatively spotless room, scolding myself for the clean-a-thon this last weekend that now deprived me of an activity. Back at my dresser, I located a few areas I could obsess over and got busy color coordinating my shirts.
While playing the piano, I had firmly decided a new school was not an option, and realistically, neither was dropping out of Music class. My parents would be concerned, wanting to discuss at length my reasoning behind this rash decision. Worrying or upsetting them wasn’t something I wanted to do. They shouldn’t suffer because their daughter was a coward. Besides, it wasn’t a plan without consequences. A new school would grant me some peace of mind as there would be no possibility of ever seeing Dominic again, but there would also be that interim period where people might confuse my newness with interest again. No, leaving definitely wasn’t an option.
Ten minutes later, I had a hefty pile of “not an option” amassed. The energy spent organizing and coming up with an unhelpful list took a toll. Even with the two-hour nap, the fatigue caused by the events of the day wearied me. I felt like a worn shoe—no, worse than that; I felt like the chewed gum stuck to the bottom of a shoe—mangled and thinned out. Even with hours before my usual bedtime, falling asleep wouldn’t be a problem. Unfortunately, that wouldn’t keep the dreams away. And oftentimes, what took place while I was sleeping, was far worse than just thinking about it.
I lifted my backpack onto the bed, unzipping the largest pocket. My homework wouldn’t keep me occupied for long. At best it would take me an hour, though I was immeasurably grateful for even the small amount. A guaranteed distraction was just the thing I needed right now. Scooting back toward my headboard, I moved the fluffiest pillows behind me, situating each one until it felt just right. I pulled out my Physics book first, followed by the bulky binder with all my notes, and lastly the formulas and shortcuts I would need to solve the more difficult equations. After exhausting every possible procrastination, I finally began working on my homework.
It wasn’t more than fifteen minutes into immersing myself in the Second Law of Thermodynamics, that I was interrupted with a soft knock at my door.
“Can I come in?” my mother asked outside my door.
“Sure,” I called out bending my head, pretending to scour the pages of my Physics book. I heard the doorknob turn and the door close behind her. “Sorry I didn’t start dinner, Mom,” I murmured into my lap, “I was really tired after school and came upstairs to take a nap.” This also explained why I wouldn’t have stopped by the greenhouse after school.
“No problem,” she answered, her voice soft and understanding. “We’ll have leftovers tonight. How was school?” she asked, sitting on the edge of my bed. Her jeans were stained with dirt and bright, magenta liquid.
“Um, it was good,” I replied, smiling up at her briefly, casually flipping a page I wasn’t really reading.
“And music? Are you planning to have your partner over to work on the Senior Piece?”
I stiffened reflexively, but forced my body to bend in one continuous motion, reaching into a stretch. “Mmm, I don’t know . . .” I gave a contended groan, keeping my arms aloft for a few seconds too long. “We may just work on it at school. Mr. Balfy gives us plenty of rehearsal times in the theater.”
“Oh.” She sounded disappointed. “Well you know you’re always welcome to have her over to the house.” Like most mothers, she received endless joy from fussing over my friends and spoiling them with homemade food when they came over. This happened very rarely. I often felt terribly guilty for not being able to provide more in that area and bring her the simple happiness.
I smiled. “Okay. Maybe we will.” It was careless of me to say this knowing it was highly unlikely I would be able to follow through. I couldn’t help it, though. With her shoulders dropped forward and eyes glossy, my need to make her happy overpowered my common sense.
“What instrument does she play?”
“It’s, um, actually a him,” I corrected, “someone I don’t really know,” I added, noting how she suddenly became more alert. Her head was tilted, brown eyes contemplative and perceiving. “Dominic . . . is his name,” I murmured as if it were an inconsequential afterthought. It was the first time I had said his name aloud. All three syllables jabbed at my temple, begrudging me for the mention.
Stay away from me.
“And how did it go?” she asked, holding my eyes. And while she
was reading me, I was doing the same with her. It was more than just disappointment in her voice; I could see that now. I’d been so consumed with keeping her attuned senses from registering, that my own antennae had been slow to respond. And whatever it was, she was working to keep it from me—just the way I was doing with her.
I blurted, “Mom, what’s wrong?”
Startled, she began folding her hands like she was lathering them with soap. “What do you mean?” She continued to busy herself, removing the white bandana from her head and releasing her thick, wavy hair so that it fell forward in matching brown tufts over her shoulders, and down her red-and-white-checkered flannel.
I inclined my head, giving her a pointed look. “Mom.”
She shook her head, a small smile curving at her lips. She reached out to rub the worry from my brow. “You’re getting good at this, you know? Too good,” she laughed. I didn’t laugh with her. She still hadn’t answered my question and now was eluding it altogether. I knew this tactic; I had planned to use the same one on her.
“Are you okay?” I pressed. “Is it Dad?” She seemed too calm for something drastic to have happened, but upset enough to carry it on her like a cloak of bricks. I swept the room, relieved when I found Rhoda still snoozing near my piano.
The humor vanished from her face, replaced with a look I could only describe as Mom: part brave protector, part gentle nurturer. She repositioned herself on my bed, tucking a leg beneath her, and touching my knee.
“It’s nothing I want you concerning yourself with just yet. It’s still very early, much too early to start worrying.” But not too early for her to start worrying about it, apparently. “I’ll make you a deal.” She locked her eyes on mine like magnets, the smile returning just a bit. “You tell me what happened with your partner, and I’ll tell you what I know so far. We have a deal?” I nodded. I would have agreed to anything. Never mind the fact she had more than likely come in here to talk about whatever she had just bargained me with.
Awakening Foster Kelly Page 18