Awakening Foster Kelly

by Cara Rosalie Olsen

  “I’ll go,” I offered, just as the clipboard clattered onto my desk. Perfect timing, I thought silently. It laid there a nanosecond, before I promptly handed it off to Dominic. Stronger than my desire not to rouse more animosity from Vanya, I had zero compulsion to stand up alone in front of a room full of people—not that I had any chance of being picked for the part. I would never make it past the first few notes before nerves overcame me.

  “You’re not at all interested?” Dominic stared up at me, his lips set in a purse.

  I shook my head. “I’m not, no, but if you are—if you are, you should definitely sign-up,” I encouraged.

  He glanced down, sighing through his nose. “You think so?” There was hesitancy in his voice that sounded strange. Not one for ambivalence, usually he was a one way or the other kind of person.

  “I think you would be great,” I said wholeheartedly. “And it really is an incredible opportunity.”

  He peered upward, the blue eyes meeting mine in a smile. “Maybe I will.”

  Fidgeting, I waited while Mr. Balfy surveyed our notes. He dipped one hand absently in a bag of trail mix, a look of intense concentration on his face. Thirty seconds in, the hand went still suddenly, as if forgotten. With his other hand, he jotted down Chordal Texture. After that, a streamline of words I knew from Musical Theory journals, but never used myself: Enharmonic. Inversion. Rallentando.

  He made a few noises as well, mostly murmurs and sighs. Finally, he laid the papers flat on his desk, leaned back in his chair, grabbed the sides of his head and inhaled deeply through his nose. “Foster.”

  When he said nothing else, but remained bent over his desk, I replied tentatively, “Yes?”

  He shook his head, dropping his hands. “Foster, this is . . . this is magnificent.” His voice was thick and hoarse, the gray eyes moist with unshed tears. “I know it’s not finished yet, but you have something very special here.”

  “Thank you,” I said, unsure how to respond to his strong reaction. I hadn’t watched the proceedings of the other students’ evaluations, so I wasn’t sure whether or not this was normal.

  “I’ll be honest with you,” he began, his voice still raspy. “Excuse me.” He reached for his iced tea and took a sip. “When I decided to put you and Dominic together as partners, it was not with a faint heart; I knew the two of you possessed the musical ability to create something out-of-this-world amazing. You know music—anyone could see that. And Dominic, well he possesses a passion that can only be named as musician’s rapture.” He paused, sighing. A smile flickered on his mouth and faded. “I knew the result would be nothing short of sensational. But what I didn’t know,” he said very quietly, “is if you, Foster, would use the music to hide yourself . . . or use it to reveal yourself.”

  This wasn’t too far off from the discussion Dominic and I had last night, about vulnerability and risk. In the end, I’d left nothing for myself.

  “I hope you know that not only do I have tremendous respect for you as a musician, but I think you’re a wonderful person, too,” Mr. Balfy added with warmth. “You’re thoughtful, insightful, smart, and creative.” He leaned back in his chair, bringing one knee up to rest his chin on. “You also have no idea how special you are. Sometimes—sometimes I feel as if you close yourself off. During our lectures I can sense that, maybe you want to open up, to share something real, but then it’s like this wall comes up and . . . you hide. The only time I can ever remember you letting go, was the day I talked you into auditioning for me. After that, when I observed you, it felt as if you took pains to remain hidden. Do you know what I mean by that?”

  I nodded, absorbing what he was telling me and knowing for certain it was a correct approximation, but also conscious that the first row of students wasn’t more than a few feet away. I was thankful Mr. Balfy kept his voice at just above a whisper.

  “I don’t want you to think that the work you’ve composed so far this semester isn’t good. It’s much better than good,” he affirmed. “But this . . . this right here”—he tapped his finger lightly on our notes—“is stunning.”

  I felt a smile break out on my face, my cheeks flush with happiness and something else less prominent but certainly there . . . satisfaction.

  “I could hear every note in my head,” he said, his eyes closed. “I could feel the build, the momentum, the way the chords escalated and climbed, then nearly go bleak with vulnerability. Your lyrics . . .” Awestruck, he gazed at our notes. “Raw is the word that comes to mind. That, or naked, but we’ll just stick with raw.” He gave me an avuncular wink, to which my flush deepened. “May I ask what inspired this bold metamorphosis?”

  Involuntarily, my eyes flicked toward Dominic. He was talking quietly with Brent and Stephanie.

  “Ah, of course,” Mr. Balfy sighed. He may have been the youngest teacher at our school and by far the most liked, but that didn’t make it any less embarrassing as he regarded me with that knowing smile. “So you understand, then? What I meant earlier about beauty?” he elaborated. “The most beautiful things aren’t ever things, are they?”

  I shook my head, smiling. I couldn’t deny that. Not without lying.

  “How’d it go?” Dominic asked as I sank into my seat with a sigh. The question was gratuitous, though; he smirked at me, already knowing the answer. His dark lashes swept down conspiratorially. “I might have seen him nearly cry at one point.”

  “He thinks . . . it’s great so far.”

  “Vanya Borisova and Mason Chang,” Mr. Balfy called. “You’re up.”

  “No, you stay here,” said Vanya imperiously. She passed behind Dominic, a tight smile plastered upon her fair face.

  Dominic sat across from me, his arms fixed over his chest, studying me through narrowed and perspicacious eyes. “You aren’t saying something.”

  I didn’t try to hide it, permitting the guilty smile to landscape my expression. I leaned forward, whispering, “He may have also said he thinks our piece is stunning.”

  Dominic—whether upon Emily’s stringent instruction or not, I didn’t know—had removed the cardigan, and was now wearing only a crisp white t-shirt. Smirking, he raised one wide shoulder, making show of haughty dignity. “Stunning, huh? Well, the man has excellent taste; I’ll give him that.”

  I laughed a little nervously, and glanced around to be sure no one was paying attention to us, then swallowed my anxiety in one gulp. “I want to thank you,” I said earnestly.

  “Oh?” Dominic leaned forward, a rich smile stretching the corners of his curvy lips. He reached across the desk and took my fingers in his hand. “What for?”

  “For many reasons, really.” I thought back to last night when we were working on our song, to when Dominic had forced me to examine the lyrics and decide if there was something I wasn’t saying. “For not letting me hold anything back. For making sure that the song was about the truth of what it feels like to be afraid. And then, for being brave enough for the both of us.”

  “You’re very thankful,” he teased, then more seriously, “the song was already a masterpiece long before you let me be a part of it.”

  “The song is what it is because of you.”

  He angled his head giving me a strong look of disproval, but mitigating it with a smile. “I appreciate your generous, though inaccurate statement, but it was all there already, Foster,” he intoned quietly.

  “There are some risks I’m just not willing to take on my own. The fear and uncertainty is just too strong; just thinking about standing up in front of our class makes my stomach churn,” I admitted, a corroborating low rumble making a noisy trip across the pit of abdomen. “But knowing you’ll be there, right beside me when we perform our piece . . . I don’t feel as scared as I once did. You push me, and while it terrifies me”—I laughed softly—“I know it’s good for me.”

  “Okay, friends.” Mr. Balfy rose from his chair, reaching up into a loud stretch. “Let’s take a break for just a few minutes. My head’s full of music a
nd I need to give it a chance to marinate. ” Rotating his neck from side to side, he strode toward the end of the first row, where the clipboard lay on an empty desk.

  “Oh!” I whispered, suddenly remembering the sign-up sheet for the National Anthem. “I forgot to ask. Did you—”

  “Wow, guys!” Mr. Balfy exclaimed. “So many of you, this is awesome!”

  I mouthed never mind, figuring I would find out momentarily.

  The class waited silently as Mr. Balfy perused the sign-up sheet. He walked over to Connor’s desk, taking a seat on top. I heard what sounded like his sandals hitting the carpet.

  Mr. Balfy beamed. “I expected to see a few of these names, but I’m genuinely surprised by some of you musicians.” He glanced down at Connor, clasping his shoulder affectionately. The back of Connor’s neck turned the color of cherry lollipop.

  Twirling a pencil, I leaned forward, eager to hear whether or not Dominic’s name was on the list. Suddenly it launched out of my hand, firing to the right like a missile. It landed into the open pouch of Austin Marin’s backpack. I thought I could probably reach it, and leaned very slightly over the metal bar. It was further than I first thought and I had to strain my fingers. Not slipping out of the chair or grunting from the labor required the full allotment of my concentration. I was completely preoccupied in pulling off the operation covertly that I nearly squealed with shock when Austin whipped around in his seat and stared accusingly into my face. I feigned a stretch and gradually straightened in my seat, deciding he could keep the pencil.

  Only, I realized a second later, it wasn’t just Austin staring at me, but an entire classroom of people.

  Without any forewarning, my cheeks started to burn. I glanced at Dominic hoping to make some sort of connection, but found his face strangely blank.

  “Foster, you’ve blown my mind,” Mr. Balfy said meaningfully, still sitting on Connor’s desk, grinning from ear to ear.

  “I have?” Obviously I had missed something. “How did I, um, do that?”

  Mr. Balfy laughed, appearing as if he thought I was playing a joke on him. The joke was on me, however, because I was confused as ever.

  He slid off his desk and began walking toward me. My breathing began to speed up. “What made you decide to put your name down?”

  It felt as if someone had poured a bucket of ice water over the top of my head. I shuddered and shivered, barely able to formulate coherent words. “Wh—excuse me?” My voice was nothing but stale air and crackle.

  Confusion rippled across Mr. Balfy’s cheerful features, but he gave a good-natured chuckle and lowered the clipboard. In pencil, and written in a hand that was not my own, was my name.

  Who would do that?

  “This is you, right?” Mr. Balfy asked, teasing. Suddenly his voice sounded not at all like it came from just above me, but as if I was hearing him through double-pane windows. “Or is there another Foster Kelly in this class I don’t know about?”

  “Gawd, I hope not,” muttered a disdainful voice.

  Vanya!

  ~

  I kept my neck bent at a ninety-degree angle as Dominic led me through the hallway copious with bodies, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other; that, and not throwing up.

  I didn’t ask where he was leading us, but I hoped it was somewhere desolate; somewhere I could put my knees between my head—no that’s not right . . . where I could put my head between my knees, yes, and figure out how to fix this problem.

  “Why?” I said again, too low for anyone to hear. This was the only word I could manage to say aloud, and did so repetitiously. Why would Vanya go to such great lengths to hurt me? Was she so desperate to see me fail that she would have me humiliate myself in front of my peers and teacher? This didn’t make any sense, though; hadn’t she threatened and intimated that those who competed against her were in for vicious rivalry?

  We came to the end of the hallway. Dominic pushed through the double doors and guided me down the stairs like a shepherd toting its fragile lamb. I winced against the blinding sun, discovering this did not help with the nausea.

  Feeling faint, I gritted my teeth, forcing out the words, “I need to sit down.”

  Dominic looked over his shoulder at me, his eyes blue slashes of concern. He took the steps without looking, concentrating on making sure I didn’t drop like a sack of sand and tumble the rest of the way.

  “Just a few more steps,” he coaxed.

  Hysterically dramatic was not my customary response to stress, and certainly not in public, but Mr. Balfy’s obstinacy caused me to wonder if not auditioning was even a possibility. It was completely unlike him to be adamant about such things, but after explaining that it was not me that had put my name down, he told me gently but implacably, “Sometimes things happen for a reason, Foster. I’ll see you after school.”

  Dominic pulled me along the winding pathway for a moment, then stepped off onto the warm grass. The noise emanating from the main building began to lessen the further we moved away from the students cloistered near the front of the school. I realized we were making our way toward the cliffs, where I used to sit and read before school and at lunchtime.

  “Don’t you—what about fifth period?”

  He didn’t slow down, but said loud enough so I could hear, “Do you mind being a little late?”

  I wouldn’t mind many things right now. When he glanced over his shoulder, I shook my head to say that I didn’t.

  We arrived at the small bench. I treaded to the edge of the cliff and peeked over. The ocean below was quiet and calm, unlike the currents roiling inside me. The giant tree had shaken loose many of its blooms so that they were scattered all around the tree in a purple halo. But while the view was spectacular and the place itself familiar, it otherwise offered very little consolation to me right now; however, once we were shaded and no longer in motion, my nausea mitigated.

  I turned to face Dominic when he spoke. “Do want to sit?” he asked gruffly.

  My stomach fluttered uncomfortably at the harsh tone of his voice. “No, I . . . I think I’m okay now,” I replied. “Thank you.” Seeing Dominic’s face clearly for the first time since class ended, I thought he didn’t look much better than I felt. His eyes seemed pitted in his face and the corners of his mouth hooked down—a misery similar to what appeared when he contended privately with unpleasant thoughts, though it was not at all the same look.

  “Dominic, is something wrong?”

  When he wouldn’t look at me, my fear increased exponentially. He was visibly upset and I wondered now if he was upset with me, feeling as if I was making a bigger deal about this than he thought necessary.

  I took a deep breath, struggling for composure and equanimity as I walked toward him.

  “I’m sorry,” I began, trying for humor and just sounding scared, “I’m acting completely—”

  “It was me.” I watched as he continued to stare through unblinking eyes at the grass. Though I didn’t dare touch him, I could see beneath the white shirt that his shoulders were stiff, and the muscles running from his collarbone up his neck were taut. He raised his hand, pulling it roughly through his hair.

  “What was you?” I said, uncomprehending.

  His gaze shifted in sharp, fractional movements, rising slowly up the length of my body, resting permanently on my eyes. The sheer force of the truth nearly knocked the wind out of me.

  “Oh.”

  He studied me closely as I absorbed this information. And again, I thought with certainty this time, I was going to be sick. My legs began to wobble and I wondered if I could make it to the bench before my knees gave way and dropped me. Black spots appeared, dancing before my eyes, and then Dominic’s hands were around my ribs lifting me up.

  “Put your arms around me,” he ordered softly.

  I put my hands out, my palms instantly meeting the soft firmness of his abdomen. I felt my way up his torso, managing to produce a flush despite the loss of blood flow to my brain.
/>   Each of my hands securely over his shoulders, Dominic walked backward a few steps until gently depositing me onto the bench. A few moments passed in silence. When I opened my eyes, my vision had returned to me. Beside me, Dominic was bent forward, his forearms resting on his thighs and hands dangling between them. He stared straight ahead, his jaw clenched. I considered what I might say, how I might start this conversation, but the only word that manifested was the same one I had been saying over and over again for the last ten minutes.

  “Why?”

  His chest went concave as he drew in oxygen, then slowly the breath departed from his lungs in one susurrant breath. “Hope,” he replied, saying nothing else for a moment. “I saw a chance and I took it.”

  “A chance for what?” I was desperate to understand what had prompted him to do this. I leaned forward involuntarily. When he turned his neck, our faces were only a few inches apart. His eyes dropped to my lips for one substantial second, then settled back on me—loud, fierce, and mesmerizing.

  “Foster,” he said softly, “I’m never going to give up trying to make you see yourself the way I see you.” His voice was virtually inflectionless, but somehow he still managed to suffuse it with fervency. I stole a glance at his hands, slowly kneading them together.

  “There are times when I think it’s best that I give you the time and space to do this on your own. Without my interference.” His jaw stiffened just before he blew out a sharp breath. “And then there’s times I’m certain you’ll never be able to do that; that you’re determined to think very little of yourself.” He shook his head, breaking eye contact as he stared straight ahead, his eyes hooded and shaded. “We’ve already talked about this, though. For now . . . I don’t think there’s anything more to say. Which is why I decided to do something instead.”

  “Signing my name,” I said quietly.

  He gave the barest of nods. “You barely batted an eye today when Mr. Balfy announced the Star Spangled Banner opportunity. I thought for sure you would at least give it a thought. But you couldn’t get that sign-up sheet out of your hands fast enough. You didn’t want to try out, you said. But I don’t think that’s true.” He turned, searching my face with a sudden fervency. “I think you want to sing it, Foster. But I also believe you don’t think you’re good enough to win the part.”