Bemused, I watched as a dog came bounding through the doors, shocked to recognize that it belonged to me. And although Rhoda’s appearance here was farfetched but not entirely unlikely, what wasn’t feasible was Rhoda’s brother, Rufus—my deceased dog of three years—showing up. He sped by at a great speed, the white patch at his hackles—distinctly Rufus—disappearing along with the rest of him behind the bleachers.
I blinked, slowly, and slid my tongue around in my mouth, finding what tasted like silt on the inside on my cheeks. The room began to blur; the colors of the audience faded and expanded, resembling something like a watercolor painting.
The worst part of all, was knowing I was losing it. I was very aware that my dog had not just run by, and that the crowd of people waiting for me to sing was not a pretty painting. Just as it had tempted me earlier today, I looked toward the exit sign hanging over the door, wanting nothing more to pass through it and out into the cool night air; however, that was less of an option now than it had been during auditions.
Mindlessly, I repeated the same words as before: There is only one way I am getting out of here. And that is to sing.
I brought the microphone to my lips and opened my mouth, hoping, praying that something, anything would come out. But as I started to sing—hearing only every other word piercing the silence—I took that prayer back. I watched as one by one, people turned to their neighbors, expressions such as, “What is that?” and, “Oh, it’s awful,” clearly depicted on their faces.
Near the end of “by the dawn’s early light,” my voice had disintegrated into what could only be described as smoker’s cough, before I stopped completely. Frantic and terrified, my heart smacked painfully against my ribs—the ferocious and insistent knock of someone who wanted out.
Still, I attempted to start again and, lifting my fingers to my necklace to garner strength, beckoned Dominic’s voice to infiltrate my thoughts. The same erratic, bitten-off chunks of the song came echoing back to me. I tried to close my eyes and couldn’t. Silence permeated the room, drenching it with its vulgar and hostile sound. I found my parents again, anguish and frustration marking up their faces. My gaze drifted to Emily, so disturbed and shamed by the spectacle I was making of myself, looked in another direction completely. My heartbeat continued to thump sonorously, like an impatient thunder, one sonic boom after the next. I finished the verse—or at least I thought I did, I didn’t really know. It was clear whatever I had sung, or tired and failed to, was over.
I had failed. I failed my parents. I failed Dominic. I failed Jake and Emily. I failed myself.
There was only one thing I could do. I lowered the microphone, swallowed back my tears, and took my first step toward the exit.
And then I heard it and stopped where I was, as if my feet had suddenly grown roots.
It was a voice so familiarly beautiful, I would have known it anywhere. Deep, powerful, honey-filled notes saturated the air with a heady glaze. I moved not a muscle, but my gaze rose from the floor, taking in his shoes, his legs, his stomach, his chest, and lastly his face—all within ten feet of me.
Dominic held a microphone in hand, his angel’s voice ascended in melodic symphony. I stared at him, stunned and captivated. Around the song, he smiled, his eyes telling me the words he couldn’t say just then.
Everything is okay.
He moved forward. Once he was in close enough proximity, he reached for my hand. And as our palms met, there was only us; the crowd faded away, the fluorescent lights dimmed, and the room shrunk to the size of a closet. There was the briefest of pauses, an intake of air as Dominic prepared to launch into next verse. His eyes spoke again, clearly and compellingly.
And then there were two voices.
~
My eardrums throbbed; if I thought a high school basketball game was loud, it was only because I had never taken part in the audibly brutalizing celebration that ensued, following the victory of that said game.
At the moment, Harper’s Pizza and Brewery was breaking the law; with a maximum capacity of three hundred thirty, it was clear the numbers had swelled to well near four hundred. I wondered if anyone would be able to tell, though. The place was enormous; three outside patios—equipped with lounge chairs and fire pits—a billiards and dart room, an arcade occupying a third of the second story, and a fully stocked bar that stretched down the middle of the restaurant. It was dim in here—soft lighting captured inside sconces—though the bar itself was bright. To me it looked like a work of modern art, all mahogany and brushed nickel embellishments, the glow of four giant T.V. screens showcasing worldwide sporting events. The wall just beneath the televisions was not a wall at all, but a display of what I would guess was every beer available in the United States.
The lower dining area was separated into two levels, with the bar as the focal point. Tall backless stools with inebriated patrons perched upon the frosted seats, lined the glossy wood plank. Men and women dressed in business attire clustered around the high chairless tables nearby, their hands clutched around the stems of dainty glasses containing neon green and rose colored liquid. On either side the bar was a more formal atmosphere, though it was still a fairly casual environment—lively, loud and extremely trendy. It was comprised of high tables in the center of the room, bordered by half-circle booths making up the perimeter. Each private area was unequivocally devoted to a famous athlete, decorated with memorabilia and all sorts of mementos from their time in the limelight.
The myriad of voices was similar to the ruckus earlier, again with syncopated music pumping below the threshold of dozens of conversations.
I glanced to the right and couldn’t suppress a wince.
One might think—or hope—that in a place capable of accommodating nearly the entire population of my hometown, I might have had the good fortune of being sat somewhere other than beside Chase Calloway’s booth. And were this an hour ago, I reflected, this occurrence would have meant nothing, because he would still have no idea who I was.
Unfortunately, that was not the case.
Our eyes met again, and I quickly turned away, blushing crimson. The booth containing Jake, Maddie, Emily, three of Jake and Emily’s friends, and Dominic and myself, was one of Harper’s more notorious and fulsome booths, adorned mainly in golds and purples. I looked over the top of Emily’s head, where Shaquille O’Neal’s—a name I knew only because he starred in Jake’s favorite movie—size twenty-three shoe’s were mounted to a wall in a Plexiglas box. The booth on the other side of us was filled with more of Shorecliffs’ students, pictures and memorabilia of someone—another athlete I presumed—called “The Bambino” decorating the enclosure. I didn’t dare ask Jake to enlighten me again. Not after the incredulous look he’d given me after my prior inquiry about someone named Muhammad Ali.
I dipped my head, taking a long pull on the straw dropped inside my mug of root beer. After the events of the day, the spicy cold beverage both tasted and felt blissful on my throat.
From the corner of my eye, something moved, and like kinetic energy I was drawn once more into Chase Calloway’s line of sight. Luckily I threw my gaze elsewhere before he had a chance to meet me in another awkward glance.
How could I have been so ignorant? I wondered. Perhaps I could blame it on shock.
As the very last note rang out, Dominic in harmony and I on the melody, I had come to the not-so-rude awakening of wild applause. Dominic still held tight to my hand, the microphone gripped loosely at his side. In a stupor of disorientation, I was glad once more to have him there to lead me from the court. He did his best to clear a path, though it still took over five minutes before we reached our seats. We made haltingly slow progress, due to finding ourselves swarmed every few steps. Students, faculty, and parents all wanted to show their gratitude by thanking us or shaking our hands. A few little girls, who couldn’t have been more than five or six, broke through the ring of people, asking if they could have my autograph. So utterly flummoxed by their request, I could on
ly gawk, speechless. Roused by a furtive nudge from Dominic, I eventually was able to coil my fingers around a pink pen and scribble my name.
What I found increasingly odd was the never-ending praise given mostly to me. One after another, people complimented and flattered me, all the while Dominic was barely acknowledged. It was if they had watched an entirely different performance; the one in which I hadn’t butchered the beginning of our country’s beloved Star Spangled Banner, and where Dominic hadn’t salvaged the entire thing.
The entire game I tried to make heads or tails of it, arriving at neither. Of course I had expected my parents to be supportive and act as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened during the preliminaries. But even Emily—incapable of ignoring the obvious—pretended as if she hadn’t looked away in horror. I wanted to be proud of myself. I did. I wanted to be proud of making it as far as I did on my own, for not fleeing when the exits had tempted me like immunity, but I wasn’t proud at all. Dominic had asked me to do one thing—to believe in myself.
The only thing I could believe right now was that I had let everyone down.
By the time the Shorecliffs Sharks beat the opposing team fifty-eight to forty-six, I had regained most of my motor skills, only to be embraced by the melee again. A fresh wave of bombardment awaited us every few feet or so, always me the recipient the attention and accolades. I smiled with wooden bemusement, trying when I could to thrust Dominic into the limelight. He would have none of it, however, walking just a hair behind me, his stabilizing hand pressed at the middle of my back.
The madness swirled around us like a hurricane, and me the eye of the storm.
“You were great!”
“You have the most beautiful voice!”
“Will you be singing at the next game?”
“I put you on YouTube!”
With each shout of praise and appreciation, it was all I could do not to topple over, issuing a consternated, “Thank you very much,” on replay. What seemed like an hour later, as we’d neared the door I remembered I had left my bag underneath a chair near half-court. Dominic offered to grab it for me, but as the gym had nearly emptied out, everyone in a hurry to get over to Harper’s and claim a table, the idea of a few solitary moments to process the last two hours in peace sounded too good to pass up.
I started walking, savoring the quiet and deep breaths of air, giving a start when a vaguely familiar voice shouted my name from behind.
“Foster!”
I whirled to see Chase, still in his basketball uniform and coming forward at a slow jog. Common sense told me it was highly unlikely another person with the name Foster was standing behind me. Still, indisputable logic spoke louder, vociferating that Chase Calloway could and would not be addressing me in public. Never had he so much as glanced in my direction before now.
And so, as furtively as I could afford, I snuck a peek over my shoulder; there was no one, save a few stragglers and belabored janitors carrying large, black garbage bags.
“Hey, Foster,” he said, his tennis shoes giving a shriek on the floorboard as he came to a halt in front of me. He smiled, and instantly I thought of an advertisement for dental work; his teeth were so perfect they didn’t look real.
“I’m sorry, I, um . . .” So engrossed with his teeth, I had missed what he’d said. “I didn’t catch that; can you repeat it, please?”
“Oh, I said excellent job tonight,” he said, rocking back on his heels. He smiled openly. “Penelope is a friend of the family—she’ll be glad to know everything went well tonight.”
Chase wiped a surreptitious hand across his lips and I made concerted effort to stop staring at his teeth. But then I couldn’t help but observe the rest of him, which—unlike his teammates, who following the game had looked disheveled and red with exhaustion—was pristine. His golden skin wasn’t the slightest bit flushed, not one strand of golden blond hair was out of place, and rather than smelling of sweat, a soapy aroma filled the air around us.
By this time, I realized that many seconds had passed since Chase had spoken. He continued to look anxious, wiping his lips, neck and hair, all conscious gestures.
I shook my head, wondering what on earth was coming over me. Not that it mattered, but I wasn’t the least bit attracted to Chase. I suppose it was the latent scientist in me, curious about a specimen so—so perfect.
“I, ah . . . I’m sorry—” About to apologize for the blatant examination, and deciding this would only make things more awkward, instead I elaborated with, “I’m sorry to hear about Penelope. Is she doing any better?”
“Oh, I think so,” he said, and inhaled deeply. “Actually, I don’t really know. It’s more my mother that’s friends with her mother and I hear stuff, and you know . . .” He made a gesture with his hand, smiling again. I stared directly into his eyes, nodded, and didn’t look away.
Chase did look away, however, looking altogether uncomfortable. “Anyway . . . if you’re not doing anything right now, Harper’s is still open. You think you’d want to go?”
I stared, hearing the words he’d just said, and waited expectantly for them to start making sense.
Is he asking me out?
“Are you . . . hungry?” he tried again, his eyes—baby boy blue—wide and leery.
I couldn’t believe it. It wasn’t possible. I hardly knew—no, not hardly, not at all! Why would he be asking me out now? It couldn’t have anything to do with tonight, could it? Oh, I just wanted to melt into the floor, I thought helplessly. I swayed slightly to the left, looking past Chase and hoping I might find Dominic coming up behind him. Nope. I was on my own with this one.
“Chase, I, um—” My throat was dry and constricted. “My stomach has been bothering me—I mean . . . I am! Hungry. The plan was . . .” I said, holding out a shaking hand.
Finish. Finish the sentence now; preferably before next Tuesday, Foster.
“I’m actually . . .” I felt my eyes start to squint, becoming thin slivers that I almost couldn’t see through. “. . . not available at the moment.” I cringed, realizing this was the same message on my outgoing voicemail. “What I mean is, I’ve just begun dating someone,” I finally blurted.
In the time before Chase spoke, I could have done a lap around the basketball court.
Finally, though, he said, “You what?”
His face was rife with stark confusion. I searched hurriedly for the right words to let him down gently, but with finality.
“I’m dating someone,” I repeated, my hands partaking in an awkward dance where they twisted and crawled over one another. “Maybe you know him? Dominic Kassells? He . . . I . . . we sang together? Tonight?” I looked up at the ceiling, unable to watch his face as I explained. “Yes, well, we’re not exactly a couple—actually we haven’t really had a date—but we will—this Friday. So, I, um . . . I don’t think it’s a good idea for you and me to have dinner together, Chase. I’m sorry. But thank you so much for asking.”
Finally finished with my ramble, I lowered my gaze, hoping I’d handled that sensitively, but without misunderstanding. And not that I had expected him to burst into tears or start sobbing, but he appeared as if I had just told him he was part Billy-goat.
“Um . . .” He swallowed, shaking his head. “No,” he said in a low voice, definitively. “I think you may have misunderstood me. I wasn’t asking you out.” He took a small step backwards.
“You weren’t?”
“No.” He shook his head again, very quickly. “I was just inviting you to . . . there’s probably going to be at least three hundred people at Harper’s, including my girlfriend, Samantha Keller. You’ve probably seen her cheering at the games? She’s the captain of the varsity squad,” he mumbled to a conclusion.
And now would be a great time to have an aneurism.
He scratched the top of his head, careful not to disrupt the neat coif, then began shuffling his feet like he might break into a sprint at any moment.
“So . . . anyway, yeah,” he excla
imed. “Think about it. And maybe I’ll see you there.” His voice was clipped, detached, and possibly even frightened. He started to walk away backwards, slowly, making a retreat the way one might when faced with a homicidal lunatic. “If not, that’s cool too,” he added, flashing his palms in the air and that orthodontists’ dream smile.
Once a safe distance away, he broke into a jog, until he met up with a very pretty blonde in a matching purple and black cheerleading uniform and letterman’s jacket. He planted a fervent kiss on her mouth, grabbed his duffle bag and Samantha’s hand, and bolted out of the gymnasium.
And just like I had wished, I melted into the floor. I closed my eyes, wondering how could I possibly thought for even one second that . . .
“You kind of look like a sleeping horse, standing there with your eyes closed.”
Over the sound of my own mortification and shame, I hadn’t heard Emily walk up.
I smiled, somehow able to laugh at the situation. “I am a little tired.”
“You can sleep later,” she said. “Did you find your bag yet?”
“I did, yes,” I replied, looking to where my purse lay a few feet to the right. I should never have come back for it—not alone. Alone I was dangerous. “It’s right there.”
Emily retrieved it, settling over a silky brown shoulder. “So, surprise, surprise, Jake’s starving,” she said dryly. “We’re gonna go grab some food, and you’re coming with—no refusals. I already asked Clark Kent and he’s in, too.”
I laughed. “Sounds good.” The sooner we vacated the premises the better, I thought, wanting to forget the last five minutes had ever happened. “Where are we going?”
Emily kept a fast pace as we marched toward the door. “I don’t think you’ve been there,” she said, glancing at me. “It’s called Harper’s.”
~
The cold air was a welcomed companion as I stepped out onto an empty second story balcony. I watched as people continued to filter in and out Harper’s. It was nearly eleven o’clock. Still, cars full of teenagers arrived in droves. As much as I was enjoying celebrating with everyone, the stress of the day had finally caught up with me. My body shook with the need to lie down and enter into a sleep marathon. It would have to wait a little while longer.
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