Awakening Foster Kelly

by Cara Rosalie Olsen

  “Oh,” I laughed through my fingers. “Yes, that sounds better.”

  He gave another laugh, continuing his story. “So, it was ugly,” he declared. “People were starting to complain, the sound crew had no idea what else to try. I think even Mr. Balfy might have even frowned for the first time in his life. The whole place was beyond irritated.”

  That I did remember; though, again had assumed the quarrelling and malcontent din I’d heard was subject to my doing.

  “I asked the guy if I could take a look, but he warned me not to touch anything,” he said, with an eye roll. “I get it. Those things run upward of ten grand and their finicky, but I’ve worked on soundboards before. I stood off to the side for a while, just watching. As soon as the guy was distracted, I climbed underneath. Right away I saw that the cable was fried. I was out at my car and back beneath the system in less than five minutes. The guy finally agreed to let me fix it when he saw that I had a spare cable. I had just enough time to remove the old one, and reattach all cables, but there wasn’t any time left over for a sound check. After I radioed the other guys, you were already being walked out onto the court. As soon I heard you start to sing, I got up and went over to talk to the engineer. He assumed it was the cable again. I told him the cable was fine—that it was something else, and asked if anyone had checked the microphone to make sure the battery was good. He said he didn’t know. I didn’t know what else to do, and I could tell you were just about done, so I grabbed the other microphone and started to sing with you.” He smiled, looking down and took my fingers in his. “And the rest you know.”

  I blinked, trying to process all this new information: the noise and discontent hadn’t been my fault; Dominic joining me had been short-lived; I didn’t make a fool of myself tonight.

  “Wow,” I whispered, an understatement, surely.

  “You were incredible tonight, Foster,” he said softly, pulling me close, staring down affectionately. “After your audition today, I didn’t expect you to be any better than that—I didn’t think it was possible! You proved me wrong yet again, though. You blew me away. You blew everyone away.”

  “I have a theory about that,” I said, tilting my head to the side.

  “Do you?” he asked, indulgently. “I’d like to hear this theory.”

  I smiled. “You.”

  “I’m the theory?”

  “If it’s as you say, and I really did sing better than this afternoon,” I qualified, “than the only justifiable reason for that improvement is you, Dominic.”

  He eyed me suspiciously. “You’re not trying to give me all the credit again, are you?”

  “No.” A resolute determination sprung forth. “But I am going to give you half of it, because it’s the truth. You make me a better person; someone braver, someone who dares to believe in herself.” Involuntarily, my hand went to my necklace, lifting the chilled pendant from my throat. “I still have a long way to go, but . . . I’m beginning to believe in me.”

  The smile he gave me set my heart to ricocheting like racquetballs against my ribs. “I think that’s the best thing I’ve heard in a really long time,” he said. His eyes took on a mischievous quality. “And I suppose . . . if you want to give me the credit for discovering you, then I—”

  Both our heads whipped around at the sound of gunshots in the distance. Dominic automatically moved to shield me, a protective arm wrapping around my body as he leaned over the balcony to see where the noise had come from. A second later, again, we both heard the shriek of a whistle, a boom of a canon, but were unable to locate its origination.

  “Why don’t you go inside,” Dominic suggested, his voice low with leery caution.

  Then something flashed out of the corner of my eye, the sounds of chaos slightly delayed. Only from my vantage point could one see the bright, glittery explosion; the dazzling array of colors sprayed across the aphotic sky, visible just over Harper’s slatted roof.

  Tapping Dominic’s shoulder, I signaled for him to look up, where the last of the sparkling supernova dissipated, a white luminescence lingering beneath the moonlight.

  He laughed, and immediately the tension drained from his body. Turning so that his lower back rested against the balustrade, he rearranged his posture, snuggling me against his stomach and into the safe confines of his arms.

  He held me tight, whispering close to my ear. “Do you know where those are coming from?”

  Another round of shrill and sonorous noises, followed by a sequence of pseudo-constellations appeared from out of nowhere. First a purple fountain, next a succession of perfect ovals made of green and blue.

  “I think there’s a fair going on down the street,” I replied, nestling my head into the accommodating space between his neck and shoulder. “I saw flyers at school, advertising a carnival and fireworks.”

  “Lucky me,” he murmured, the velvet returning to his voice. “Two shows in one night, and I didn’t have to pay for either one of them.” He pressed his lips to the side of my head, and kissed me with tenderness.

  I closed my eyes and leaned into him, thinking that this, right here, was indisputably the most wonderful part of the entire day.

  It was silent for a period of time.

  “Hm. That was quick,” Dominic observed. “You think it’s over already?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  We regarded the empty sky, devoid of all colors except for tiny white sparkles far off in the distance.

  “Maybe they have stage fright,” I quipped, and was just about to tip my head up to look at him when an enormous red heart took shape directly above us, a white arrow shooting straight through its center.

  “I doubt it,” he replied softly. “I think they were only waiting for someone to ignite them.” His arms—wrapped around the front of me—moved slightly to take my necklace between his fingers. Resting his chin on my shoulder, he took the clasp that had fallen beside the pendant and tugged until it lay against the back of my neck. “After that, though, they explode all on their own.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Just a few more steps; six, maybe seven if I took small ones, and then blissful relief. I paused in the doorway of my room, staring at my bed as if it were a turkey leg and I a ravenous Rottweiler. Exhausted didn’t begin to describe the level of tired to which I ascribed, with my lank limbs and droopy eyes.

  Lowering my shoulder, my backpack dropped off the side of my arm and landed like an anvil on the floor. I left it where it fell; no need to make the remainder of my journey more difficult than necessary. Leaning forward for momentum, I galumphed toward the fluffy oasis beckoning me, nearly crying tears of joy when my thighs met with the side of the mattress. Face first, I descended upon the entourage of pillows. I sighed, unable to imagine it feeling any better if I were held aloft by a fleet of flocculent clouds. Bleary-eyed, I shot a gimlet eye at the clock on my nightstand. Seven minutes past three it read; plenty of time for a nap, I decided, pulling the comforter up past my head and shimmying my sandals off till they clunked to the hardwood floor. With one last contented sigh, I surrendered gladly to the sleep taking me captive. My last thoughts were a muddled pondering of where the last twenty-four hours had disappeared to.

  A couple days ago it had truly seemed as if Friday would never come. And here I was now, a handful of hours away from the night I had been dreaming about for a week, waiting for my whole life.

  Beyond the benign discomfort of a weary body, I was grateful more than anything else. If not for the delirious exhaustion, I would no doubt have been a frazzled mess—fastidiously grooming myself or ransacking my closet, looking for something that morphed and transformed my string bean shape into something more like Emily’s; however, unless I found a genie hiding between my jeans, that was one wish I would have to make do without.

  Instead, I was perfectly calm. If the artifice of sleep was the cost for tranquility of mind, I would take it.

  The beginning of the week had been a little rough, once again obs
essing over the secrecy and bewildering mood changes: the sudden looks of pain, glazed eyes, the incessant worrying about me, the—however subtle—unwillingness to introduce me to his family. While cognitively I understood that belaboring the mystery surrounding Dominic was somewhat a futile and disconcerting endeavor, I couldn’t help it. It was as if he and I had traveled through a universal maze together, unlocking door after door, only to come to the very last door and learn that key to open it could only be found where our journey had begun. There was no moving forward.

  That was about to change.

  I vacillated between cognizance and insentience, not entirely sure where dream and memory intertwined and separated. A recollection of this morning spilled into my thoughts, and even knowing what to expect, I still felt unprepared and anxious.

  The staring was by far the worst—the eyes that no longer passed above, through, or beyond me, but lingered on my clumsy gait as I traveled from car to tree in search of my friends. People I had passed in the halls innumerable times or sat beside in class suddenly became aware of my existence. A few times I heard my name whispered—correctly!—and nearly tripped on nothing. The first half of the morning I theorized that it was only my association with Dominic causing a commotion among my peers.

  Only later did I come to full awareness.

  After collecting a book from my locker, heading in the direction of my third period class, a sea of girls swallowed me up; they encircled me, asking question after question about where I had learned to sing and would I be performing again on Friday. Like a dangerous riptide, I floated along with them, carried all the way into a classroom that wasn’t mine.

  Redirected, I had just turned a corner when I heard a voice behind me.

  “That was awesome last night, Foster. Your voice is so pretty.”

  I stopped and turned, finding that someone who looked very much like this year’s homecoming queen had addressed me. I don’t recall whether or not I thanked her, but at some point I had wandered into my class, baffled. When it happened again, and again, and again, and again, bafflement and disbelief was exchanged for suspicion. I thought perhaps something or someone might be behind all this attention. The likely suspects were of course Emily and Dominic; and though he overtly relished every accolade or kind word someone spoke to me, I realized quickly he had nothing to do with it. So that left Emily.

  By the time lunch arrived, I was overwhelmed and jumpy. Some were satisfied to shout their sentiments in passing, but many elected to approach me from behind, playfully sling an arm around my neck or squeeze my arm in deep devotion. I felt like a limp noodle or a hot potato, and ironically lacking an appetite as Dominic and I strode across the cafeteria to find our friends. And I might have turned around, content to spend the period in my car, had Dominic not thwarted me, laughing boisterously as he dragged me toward our table.

  The occupants seated along the benches were roughly the same; however, the surrounding area had swollen and then some. Students gathered around a grinning Emily, strange looks of anticipation on their faces. As we moved closer I saw through fissures in the crowd of bodies: cookies, brownies, and a vast assortment of vending machine candy littering the table.

  Beside me Dominic laughed, then whispered, “She didn’t,” in tones of amused disbelief.

  Following his gaze, I craned my neck from left to right, trying to see what he saw. Then I immediately wished I hadn’t. Gawking in open-mouthed horror, I stared at the piece of paper taped and hanging off the end of our table, where Emily had issued the:

  “Deal of the Day!”

  Receive your very own personally autographed picture of Foster Kelly in exchange for snacks and gift-cards.

  What I hadn’t seen until the bodies blocking my view had parted, was the stack of photos, a Sharpie on its side resting on my face.

  Thankfully the hullaballoo had died down considerably by the next day; the lifespan of teenage furor and excitement was blessedly short. By this morning I was old news, everyone absorbed with planning our parties and bonfires over the long weekend ahead. Bevenny had found me earlier in the day and, after congratulating on me on my performance, asked if I wanted to go down to the beach for a little while after school. With six hours between the last bell and my date this evening, I agreed wholeheartedly. Ever since meeting Bevenny the other day, I had wanted to initiate some sort of follow-up conversation. But between the melee of the week and floundering nerves, I couldn’t think of the right way to approach her.

  In addition to a three-day weekend, it was also a minimum day. Bevenny and I were parked side-by-side by one fifteen, the midday sun strong and bright. And without any sunscreen, I could only do my best to position my body so that my clothing soaked up most of the harmful rays. After purchasing yogurt at the snack-shop—pomegranate for her and banana for me—we strolled up the pier and back, eventually ending up on the sand.

  I had wondered briefly if conversation would feel forced or fabricated, but being with Bevenny was as easy as being with Emily, albeit in a completely different way. For the most part Emily did most of the talking when we spent time together, a fact for which I didn’t mind one bit. But Bevenny was much quieter, requiring more of me in the way of reciprocal communicating. She was less prone to speaking idly, too—pensive where Emily was capricious—which meant there were silent lulls and wordless moments that, oddly enough, weren’t uncomfortable at all.

  Not altogether preoccupied with time, it was somewhere about thirty minutes in when Bevenny turned to look at me half a second before she said, “Would it be all right if I told something not all happy?”

  I noticed then that the sun was not responsible for the look of defense on her face. The puckered forehead, squinted eyes, downturned mouth—there was something bothering her.

  “Of course,” I replied, turning my body toward her.

  She stared sightlessly at the ocean, wriggling her toes in an out of the sand, and letting the soft grains trickle down the sides of her feet.

  “My little brother has cancer.” She set her yogurt cup in the sand, a tear dripping off the gentle swell of her cheek.

  Though this news literally knocked the wind from me, I didn’t attempt to respond right away. I had enough experience working with the children at The House of Hope to know when all someone wanted was someone else to listen.

  “My parents haven’t stopped crying for three days,” she added, “and I don’t want to make things worse for them by falling apart. But all my friends want to talk about is prom. The stupid dance is still three months away.”

  For the next two hours, I sat beside Bevenny as she told me about Joey, an eight-year-old who had just been diagnosed with acute lymphoblastic leukemia. His age shouldn’t have made the situation any grimmer, but it did somehow. This little boy was only a couple years older than my kids. My heart broke a little more with each detail she shared about him: his love for Legos, that he would do pretty much anything for a blue-raspberry Slurpee, his thoughts about the name of his soccer team. Joey had strong feelings about being called the Cobras, when everyone knows that snakes don’t have arms or legs—both of which you need if you’re going to play soccer. We both laughed at the sagacious perception.

  Though Bevenny never fully dissolved into tears, more than once she had needed a moment, her throat too tight to speak. I tried very hard not to cry myself, but naturally lachrymose, it wasn’t easy and I was forced to hold my eyes wide to keep them from blinking forth tears. I lost the battle completely when she spoke about her most recent visit to the hospital.

  Both parents had stepped out of the room to speak with the doctor, leaving Bevenny and Joey alone.

  “He said to me, ‘Am I going to die, Bevy?’ in the most calm voice. Too calm!” she exclaimed, angrily. “It was like he was asking me to take him to the park. I thought maybe he didn’t really understand that he’s very sick, but then I looked at him—really looked at him for the first time since finding out. I saw how scared he was, that he was doing t
he same thing for me that I was doing for our parents,” she said, and gulped in a ragged breath of air. She swallowed and sniffed, swiping at her nose.

  “Ever since he was old enough to talk,” she continued, meeting my eyes, her own red-rimmed and glassy, “I’ve never lied to him. We’ve always had this deal. We would tell the other the truth, even if there was the chance that the other would be mad. And . . . and I’ve never wanted to break that deal more than I did that day at the hospital.” She turned away again, tucking back the sandy brown bangs falling in her face.

  “But I didn’t,” she declared stoically. “I told him that I didn’t know, but that I would be talking to God and reminding Him that there is a little boy who really wants to be the first person to build a working automobile out of Legos.” She smiled wanly. “I also told him, though . . . that sometimes God creates people so special, ones He loves so, so much, that He takes them home to be with Him a little earlier than normal.” She swatted at her eyes again and laughed loudly, a wet, ravaged sound. “After that he’d wanted to know what kind of Slurpees were in heaven, and if God would have a Wii he could play Mario Cart on.”

  I laughed with her. And I cried with her.

  Time was filled with more wordless moments, neither of us saying anything. We watched the waves play tag with the sand, and men in wetsuits dance with the ocean.

  Eventually the moment arrived where I thought I might try and say something, conjure a few words that might mitigate Bevenny’s pain. When nothing surfaced, I found her hand instead, her knobby knuckles clenched in a white fist. When she started, and turned to see who had touched her, I saw that she had forgotten she wasn’t alone. She smiled and squeezed back.

  “Thank you, Foster” she said softly. “I apologize if that was too much. I know we barely know each other, but I don’t know . . .” She shrugged and shook her head. “For some reason you seemed like the perfect person to talk to about this. I hope you didn’t mind.”