“I know it sounds egotistical—but even as a kid, I was one of the better players. And as I got older, I began to beat my uncle and dad. My Grandpa Clement, though . . .” A smirk, one of contemptible admiration pulled at his lips. “No other way to say it, but he was the King of this game.” His brows raised and the smile expanded generously. “No one could beat him, and I’m ashamed to admit this, but I spent a fair amount of time trying to catch him in a lie. I studied everything I knew about him, and anytime I could do a school project or report on him, I would. My Grandpa would lean over, clasp a wrinkly hand on my shoulder and say with genuine sincerity, ‘Nicky’—family nickname,” he explained, and I thought I noticed a brightening at the cheeks. “He’d say, ‘You handled yourself admirably. You should be proud.’ And then, as if he suddenly found the situation amusing, he’d bite back a smile and say, ‘But you won’t catch me lying, Nicky. I’m pure of heart, true and true.’”
“I learned, though . . .” His eyes sharpened; something unpleasant imposing on his good mood. It was fleeting, lasting only a second before a crooked smile replaced the grimace. “As I got older,” he rolled his eyes, chuckling, “well—I won’t say it got any easier to lose, but eventually winning didn’t seem as important as the time spent with my Grandpa Clem. I don’t know how to describe him, other than saying he was sort of a magical guy. Open and unassuming, but mysterious and very shrewd.”
Dominic looked down into his lap still smiling, then took a deep breathe through his nose that made his shoulders rise and fall. The pause in his story was just long enough for me to sense what he was about to say next. And whether it was because my own Grandpa Giovanni came to mind, and his pending health prognosis with it, or because my rawer than usual empathy nerves were stoked, my heart constricted, squeezing not only my chest, but the muscles behind my eyes too.
“He died shortly after my sixteenth birthday,” he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. I wanted to assure him he didn’t need to share any details, but he went on speaking through them therapeutically. “Thyroid cancer. In the fifties, doctors used radiation to treat his enlarged thymus glands, which made him more susceptible to that type of cancer. He was sick for a long time, and honestly we were all kind of relieved to see him pass . . . before he did, though, he was determined to spend one more afternoon with all of his children and grandchildren. It took a while to get through all of us, but eventually he did it. On our day together, he wanted to play The Game.” He snorted and rolled his eyes. “And, of course, even sick as he was and on all sorts of pain killers, he destroyed me—effortlessly, I might add. At the end of the afternoon, just before I was about to leave he asks me to come close so he can whisper something in my ear. After they removed his thyroid, his voice was never the same. Speaking became . . .”
“Difficult,” I finished for him.
He smiled briefly and took a moment to collect himself. “So he whispers in my ear, ‘Nicky, you wanna know how I’ve been beatin’ ya all these years?’ I told him of course I did. And after he told me, Foster, I almost couldn’t believe how simple it was.”
Dominic paused, seeing me again.
“You puzzle me, Foster,” he said softly. “I’m good at reading people. Very good. Doesn’t take me more than a couple minutes usually, to decide if someone is fully genuine, or full of . . .” A tiny smirk flicked the corner of his mouth upward. “Something else. But you—” He shook his head from side to side slowly. “I have yet to decide what or who you are.”
My hands were shaking. I curled them into fists, sweat pooling in my palms. I felt like a small animal being backed into an alley. This was not helped when Dominic took a step forward, shortening the distance between us to less than a foot.
“But here’s the thing: it’s not your lying that confuses me . . . you’re actually quite transparent then.” He smiled gloating, the most wicked, alluring grin I had ever seen. He licked his lips before continuing. “For the longest time I believed there was an unfair advantage for the youngest of us playing the game. The oldest had the furthest reach; they could make statements we would have no way of knowing were true or not, because we hadn’t been born. This is what I believed. But I was wrong. It was never about what I was saying, but what my face was saying for me.” He laughed very quietly. The warmth left his mouth and touched my neck. “And, Foster?” he whispered. “Your face—is very talkative.”
I tried to step back, but my feet were planted to the ground, like roots. Dominic’s eyes burned with a combination of determination and insatiable curiosity.
“It’s not your lies I can’t figure out,” he told me. “It’s your truths.” With one more small step forward he had brought our faces six inches apart. “It shouldn’t be much longer now, though. I’m almost there, Foster. Does that worry you?”
He smiled, into my face. I stared at his mouth.
Then I said, “I have to use the bathroom.”
Chapter Fourteen
I have to go to the bathroom? Really?
And now what, I asked myself, staring at the bathroom walls.
I wanted to scream. Not just any scream, but the kind that purged a soul of its writhing fear or frustration. I had never done this—not in my entire life, but I’d heard about it, read about it in books. Once, after losing the championship game—Emily had launched the ball halfway across the pool, missing the net by centimeters—Emily screamed like this. It was amazing.
I’m almost there, Foster.
“No!”
I leapt up from the bathroom door—I would have to burn these clothes—and ran to the sink. Under the running water I threw my chin hard, whacking it on the faucet. I felt my bones shift under the skin and the flesh rip open. And now I was bleeding.
I grabbed several paper-towels and wetted them, pressing the wad firmly—ouch!—to the hemorrhaging wound.
I stopped when I heard sounds; like claws, rapping at the back door.
“Haylo? Are ju okay in there?” There was a muffled voice, heavily accented, calling through the adjacent door on the far side of the bathroom.
Geraldine.
She called out again, amid another round of rapid nail clicking. “Hayloooo?”
Geraldine’s nails were somewhat notorious and somewhat of a spectacle. Each one was nearly three inches long, all decorated with more fanfare than the inside of a kaleidoscope. The children found them utterly frightening. And after making a little girl cry, when she reached out to give her a pat on the head, Geraldine now made a conscious effort to tone them down and make them more cheerful.
Geraldine didn’t love. She smothered you in it—usually starting with her crimson-stained lips; a kiss to both cheeks in a customary Columbian kiss. I guessed her to be somewhere in her mid-forties. Her short brown hair, the exact texture of a scrub brush, was usually augmented with some sort of curled, braided, or dyed attachment. It changed consistently, and I hadn’t seen the same hairdo on her more than twice. The clothes she wore could make me a little nauseated if I stared at the patterns for too long, but beneath all the gaudy apparel and layers of colorful makeup, resided one of the kindest people I had ever met; someone who took it upon herself to be anyone and everyone’s pseudo-mother. At first, Geraldine’s vivacious personality had been a bit . . . much for me. But she quickly grew on my heart. She made it very difficult not to love her.
I heard the clacking again, three quick taps. “I hear ju,” she said. “Do ju need some help?”
“Geraldine, it’s me, Foster. I’m sorry for the noise. I’ll be done in just minute.”
“Fohster? Is that ju, honey?” Her voice instantly filled with concern. “I come around to the other door. You wait, k?”
“No, no!” I winced again at the harshness. “No, Geraldine, I’m okay, really. I thought I saw . . .” I could just make out the familiar din through the door, the steady stream of Spanish. I remembered Geraldine is addicted to soap operas; she watches them during slow hours, on her little portable T.V.
&n
bsp; “Are ju sure you no need me?”
I breathed a sigh of relief and leaned back against the counter. “I’m sure,” I said breathlessly. “Thank you, though. I’m just going to wash my hands and then I’ll be done.”
“Okay, Fohster baby, ju come see me next week?”
“Yes, I will, I promise. I’m sorry for not visiting today,” I said sincerely, wishing I would have remembered to stop by. “Did you have a good day?”
“Of course. Geraldine always have good days. Ju come next week and bring me some of those tart-tarts, k?”
“Absolutely. And I’ll bring those books for you too.”
“Oh, jes, jes. I need new books!” she exclaimed, accompanied by fervent tap of the nails. “I already finish with the romance. Now Geraldine wish she has a boyfriend. Sweet dreams, Fohster baby. Love ju.”
I laughed. “Goodnight, Geraldine.” I was still smiling when I turned around and saw my hand clutching my chin. I pulled the towel away. I wasn’t bleeding anymore. I dabbed and wiped, until all traces of the injury had been removed—all except a fine line running vertically down my chin, the size of a thumb nail. Wrapping the soiled towels in a clean one, I tossed it in the trash, moving back to the sink to wash up.
Then I realized something awful: I couldn’t stay in here forever.
When I stepped back outside I saw immediately that Dominic was no longer standing at the back of my car. He was inside of it. I didn’t know if this was good or bad.
I noticed music drifting through the parking lot. I passed under a light, peering up, trying to locate a speaker. The music seemed to be growing louder with each step I took toward my car. Of course: he had turned on the radio.
A few yards away, I could clearly hear a female voice, passionately belting out a very high note in the key of A. Even through the thick glass windows I could tell she was much louder than her accompaniment—a piano or guitar, maybe—as if the mix hadn’t been adjusted to the right levels. The melody was peculiarly familiar.
The windows were rife with condensation. A film of lacy moisture covered Hattie’s entire frame. Close as I was, I could still only see the blurry black blob I knew to be Dominic’s head, moving to the beat of the song. The piano accompaniment suddenly cut out, leaving only the soprano voice climbing toward a crescendo. Distantly, I noted the familiar technique. It was both an easy and effective way to implement poignancy and power into a specific part of the song. Occasionally I applied this tactic in my own—
I swayed on my feet, but luckily I was close enough to reach out and catch myself on the hood. I flung open the driver’s side door and was greeted by my singing. I threw myself into the car.
Hattie’s inside lights came on, illuminating Dominic’s alarmed expression.
“Woah! What happ—”
I had no room to process how insane I must look, so intent was my determination to terminate the stomach-churning ballad. Beyond that, there was only the silent but fervent shouts of off-off-off to claim the remaining space. I found the eject button and pushed hard; this caused the cassette to hiss before it spit out at me and disappeared somewhere into the backseat.
With silence came my boiling mortification. What—if anything—could I say to explain what I had just done?
I was beyond spent, and so was any attempt at salvaging my dignity. Still pitched toward the center consul, my index finger jammed oppressively into the button, I sighed and slowly sat back. The seat released a susurrant whoosh, the leather squeaking as I arranged my body. Right now I could only think of one place that made sense.
“Do you live north or south of here?”
I heard a quick exhale, like he had been holding his breath, then he chuckled. “Seriously? That’s your opening line? The one you’re going to go with?”
I sputtered, my mouth opening and shutting. “Um . . . I—the tape—it’s not—I’m still writing the—It’s not finished.”
“Is that right? Really I couldn’t tell.”
You need to get him home.
You don’t think I know that?
Just start the car.
I don’t know where he lives.
“You have a very good voice,” Dominic said, intruding on the dialog with myself. He moved to get comfortable, and I again I felt that urge to scream.
GO NOW.
“That song, did you write it for anything in particular?”
“Yes.” My temples throbbed; but not more than my chin did. “It’s for Mr. Balfy’s Music class—for the Senior Piece.”
“North.” His voice was mild and very soft.
I found my head turning, to look at him for the first time since I had fled.
He watched me in that way, pensive but with focus, turning my stomach to pudding and stone, simultaneously.
“Pardon?”
“I live north of here,” he repeated. “We can go if you like.”
I counted all the way to twelve.
~
“And you? Do you play any other instruments?” I asked, returning the question. Glancing down to quell an itch on my hand, I noticed that at some point I’d maneuvered so my body mirrored Dominic’s.
“Mm,” he tipped his chin up, running a hand absently through his thick hair, and stopping to tug lightly at the crown. This was the third time I had seen him do this while he was thinking; a mannerism, I thought with absurd delight. “Not so much now, as when I was a kid. When I was nine, I went through a phase where I wanted to be Travis Barker.” He lifted a sardonic brow. “One of my friends convinced me I sort of looked liked him, which sadly was all it took to spark what became a full blown obsession. I turned my room into a shrine and listened to nothing but Blink 182 songs for the better part of a year. I don’t know how my parents endured it.” He stared sightlessly, eyes glazed with remembrance. “I must hold some record for most persistent nine-year-old. I think I brought up the idea of me having a drum set every day for a year.” He laughed darkly. “And when they refused to let me have one—even after I had saved my allowance and mowed lawns until my hands about fell off, I bought a set off my friend when his parents surprised him with a new one for his birthday.”
“What did they say? Your parents, I mean?”
“Well . . . they didn’t really have to say anything. The look on my mom’s face when she opened my bedroom door and found me sitting on a stool with sticks in my hands was fairly self-explanatory.” He fixed his eyes on me and grinned. “I got to keep them, though,” he said smugly, “in the basement. I could play for an hour each day, but only after my homework and chores were done. It wasn’t all that bad of a deal for my parents. If I ever got out of line, all they had to do was threaten to sell my drums and I swore over a lifetime of servitude.” I laughed with him, wondering idly what he had been like as a child—mischievous and shrewd for sure, and likely very good at getting something once his mind was set; probably impossible to say no to. I blushed.
“My mom plays the piano and liked the idea of all her children learning, at the very least the basics,” he continued. “I played for the full six months, as required by both parents when trying out anything new, before deciding I didn’t like it. After that, we mutually agreed the piano was not my forte. Pun intended,” he added and grinned. “But you, on the other hand, are an impressive piano player. When did you start taking lessons?”
I looked down at my hands, fidgeting.
“Oh, I see,” he murmured. “I had a feeling it was like that.”
I raised my eyes and found him smirking. “Like that?”
“Yes. That”—he pointed his long finger at me—“is definitely the face of someone who never took lessons, but is too modest to say so.” Closing his fist, he brought the hand to his mouth, swiping just under his bottom lip with his thumb. “Am I right? And I’ll bet it didn’t take six months to figure out if you were any good, hm?”
I smiled. “Were you involved in the Music program at your last school?” I asked.
“No, they didn’t have one,
or else I would have. Nothing like Mr. Balfy’s class. We had a band and a choir, but sports conflicted with both, so I practiced my music at home. And you? Have you been in Mr. Balfy’s class all four years?”
“No, this is my first year.” I told him evasively.
“Huh. I would have expected him to have recruited your freshman year. He couldn’t stop talking about you on the phone.”
“Mr. Balfy is a wonderful teacher,” I stated in all truthfulness, “I’ve learned a lot from him.”
“I don’t know him very well yet, but yes, I would agree. Also, I got the impression it worked the other way.”
I wasn’t following. “The other way?” I asked.
“That he was learning a lot from you.”
It took me a moment. “Mr. Balfy always finds the best in his students—”
“If I remember correctly,” Dominic interjected, “his exact words were, ‘She doesn’t just play the music or sing it; when she gives herself permission, it’s as though the music is reborn through her.’”
I wondered what else Mr. Balfy had told him. “I’m sure he was just being polite,” I said. “With you being a new student, I’m sure he—”
“Mm—no,” he disagreed curtly. There was an edge in his voice, an astute finality. “No, I can tell when people are being polite, versus when they are being sincere. Remember,” he smiled. “I’m good with faces.”
The prickle was back. I offered a placating smile and nodded, but didn’t comment further. I turned my head away, still nodding, and focused on a large tree obscured by the rapidly rising moon.
Awakening Foster Kelly Page 32