Saving Me

by Sadie Allen

  Needless to say, I had spent all weekend iced and rested as my mother hovered in the wings. The only bright spot was that Sterling had kept to his plan. He had sent me two new snaps. One was a bottle of Naked Juice with the caption, “My first naked selfie,” which admittedly made me blush and giggle. The other was a picture of his half-eaten meal from Whataburger with the message, “It’s the little things, like Fancy Ketchup.”

  Everyone in Texas knew that Whataburger had the best ketchup. Fancy brand ketchup was something the fast food chain served in little tubs that came in regular or spicy. I preferred regular, but I noted that Sterling preferred the black label spicy.

  I knew what he meant by “the little things” and tried to think of some I enjoyed. Maybe if I could focus on the small, positive aspects of life, I wouldn’t fixate on all the negatives.

  I contemplated sending him a snap back, but chickened out. What would I send? I could pose for a selfie and use a cute filter that made anyone look perfect, but … that felt lame. Therefore, I didn’t send anything. I did, however, add Sterling as a friend.

  At school, I got even more looks and whispers, more people asking if I was okay, and more awkward hugs than I did last week right after my injury, all probably due to the video. Though people continued to help me, I didn’t see Miles or Sterling, which made me both happy—Miles—and disappointed—Sterling. I didn’t go to lunch. Instead, I went to the locker room to turn in my uniform and talk with our track coach.

  I was mad at everyone. I was mad at Laura and her crew. I was mad at Miles. I was mad at myself for letting this go on for as long as it had.

  It was the end of the day, and I was at a loss. Athletics was my last class period, and I didn’t think I would be able to go home yet. I didn’t want to go out to the track because a) my armpits hurt, and it was a long walk out there on crutches, and b) I didn’t want to talk to anyone, especially about my injury or when I was going to be competing again.

  It was strange not practicing or training. I couldn’t recall a day since seventh grade when I hadn’t at least run laps, done agility drills, or hit the weight room. My life had revolved around track for five years, and for it to be gone so suddenly, it left me feeling adrift. I was a boat without a port.

  This past weekend, I hadn’t given much thought to what I would do with my afternoons. I didn’t have homework, and there was nothing for me to do with any of the other organizations I was a part of. Prom committee had already raised all the money we would need, so I didn’t have to do anything else for that until April.

  What was I going to do now?

  Well, right now, I was going to find Rick, the school trainer, and talk to him about my physical therapy. Maybe he could give me some insight into what else I could do to heal quickly.

  I opened the door that led into the boys’ locker room where the training area was located. The way the school had this set up was probably a violation of Title Nine, but no one really cared enough to say anything, though I wish they would.

  The boys had a huge locker room with a training area in the middle that had a metal whirlpool tub, a couple of padded tables, an ice machine, and a kitchenette. It reminded me of a cell with the training area being the nucleus. The coaches’ offices were at the gym side, toward the front. On either side were doors that led to two different dressing rooms for the boys where they had a laundry room, another ice machine, and an equipment room toward the parking lot/football field in the back.

  The girls had a locker room on the other side of the gym that was behind the visitor bleachers. If we had use of the whole space, it wouldn’t have been so bad, but they had split it into two locker rooms. One was for P.E. and the other was for girls’ athletics. Again, it wouldn’t have been so bad except the half we had was split into a dressing room, bathroom, equipment room with washer/dryer, no ice machine, and one coaches’ office for five coaches to share. It was cramped and hot.

  I walked through the door and noticed Rick wasn’t where he was usually stationed. The space was empty, which wasn’t surprising since everyone should be at their designated field by now.

  I deposited my backpack on one of the tables, debating on whether to just wait for Rick to return or go sit in the gym, when I heard voices. I wouldn’t have thought anything of it if it wasn’t for the female voice I heard shouting from the dressing room.

  I hurriedly made my way to the dressing room door, and as I got closer, I noted this wasn’t some girl shouting for help; this was a very familiar voice shouting in anger.

  As quietly as I could, I cracked the door open. When neither person noticed, I watched in fascination as what I knew all along played out.

  “You son of a bi—” Laura hurled as she reared her fist back and hit Miles in the arm. He was standing in front of his locker, dressed in his baseball practice clothes. He was in profile, so I couldn’t see his face, but I could see all of Laura.

  “Baby, it didn’t mean anything.” Miles’ voice was smooth, conciliatory. He sure liked to use the word baby, didn’t he?

  He reached up to touch Laura, but she slapped his hand away hard enough that an audible crack echoed throughout the room.

  “It didn’t mean anything! Screwing some slut at my house, in my room, during my party didn’t mean anything?”

  “I don’t know why you’re mad, Laura. You know the score. You know the rules.”

  I could hear the blood rush through my head, and I gritted my teeth as I tried to control the impulse to march in there and slap the snot out of him. He treated girls like used socks. We were all interchangeable and disposable.

  I didn’t mean anything to him, not really. I was a status symbol as one-half of the golden couple of Oleander High. My father was the second richest man in town and owned his own law firm. In Miles’ eyes, us being together was just the natural order of things.

  “You don’t know why I’m mad?” She sounded incredulous.

  “We’re not together. I’m not your boyfriend. I think you forget that I’m with Ally.”

  Laura laughed, the sound bitter. “You’re with Ally? Goody-goody, straight as a board, wouldn’t know what to do with a dick if it slapped her in the face, Ally? The girl who can’t sneeze without her daddy’s say so?”

  Ouch. Tell me what you really think …

  “Don’t talk about her that way.” Miles’ body was rigid, his tone hard and defensive.

  My heart would melt, but he was currently arguing with my former best friend about having sex with someone besides her.

  “What do you think Ally would say if she found out you’ve been screwing me and the rest of the female population at this school for years? Think she’d want to stay with you then?”

  I wanted to laugh. I really did. Did people really think I was so clueless? Then the urge to laugh died as … Yeah, people really thought I was that naive. That stupid.

  The familiar feelings of self-loathing coursed through my veins like poison.

  Miles leaned forward, getting in her face. “You breathe a word to Ally, and I’ll make your life a living hell at this school.”

  I watched as Laura’s face morphed from anger to something else. It made a sick knot form in my stomach as I watched her lift her hand and run her fingers from Miles’ shoulder to his hand, and then to his thigh.

  “I’m sorry, Milesy-poo. You know I get jealous.” She even stuck her lower lip out.

  “Well, don’t. It pisses me off.”

  Her eyes flashed, but she hid it so quickly I doubted Miles even saw it.

  She knew Miles would make good on his threat. He would mess with the one thing she wanted, the one thing she valued above anything—her popularity. He was the richest and most popular guy in town, and if he whispered the right words in the right ears, her reputation would be in tatters.

  “Let me make it up to you,” she purred as she brought her body closer to his.

  Oh, yuck.

  “You know what I like …” Miles’ voice deepened.


  Before I could witness anything that would require eye bleach and a puke bucket, I closed the door. My breath was coming in and out in shallow pants. Anger and disgust churned in my gut. I wanted to smack them both.

  I wasn’t sure where I was going, and I didn’t realize I was heading in the wrong direction until I was already through the gym and opening the doors to the cafetorium.

  Music assaulted my senses as I looked into the dimly lit room, the only light coming from the overhead ones on the stage.

  Our high school didn’t have a true auditorium. They had simply added a stage to one end of the cafeteria and put the band hall behind it to one side, and the speech/drama teacher’s room to the other.

  Feeling lost and a little sorry for myself, I moved to the back of the room. I just wanted to hide for a little bit before I made my way back to the locker room to get my backpack.

  I pulled a chair out as quietly as I could and parked my crutches against the table, then watched a girl’s performance. The girl from the parking lot.

  She was even more beautiful under the lights; her pale skin glowing, her black hair shining, making it look iridescent. She also had a decent voice. It was smoky and bluesy, but it didn’t really fit the song. I was more jealous. I loved to sing and had a pretty decent voice. Not smoky and bluesy, but adequate.

  The sound of a chair scraping along the floor drew my attention away from the stage. I looked across the table and saw a young boy with smiling eyes and an impish face looking at me. He didn’t say anything, just pointed his finger at the girl and nodded.

  I smiled and nodded back, not sure what else to do. Then I took in his facial characteristics and noted he had Down syndrome. I didn’t know anyone with Down’s.

  I turned back to the stage and watched the girl finish the last lines of the Olivia Newton-John song.

  When the music ended, and a small spattering of applause broke out, Mrs. Cook called, “Good job, Raven,” and held out something for the girl to take.

  I was even more jealous of her. She was beautiful, talented, had a cool name, and most of all, she knew Sterling better than I did. The sour feeling grew when I saw Sterling watching her from the wings.

  I felt a hand on my shoulder and jumped. The boy was standing next to my chair.

  He took my hand, pulled me up, and basically dragged me toward the stage, sans crutches.

  “I have a hurt leg! Stop!” I cried to no avail as I limped along behind him, my hand captured in his solid grip.

  I guessed no one had seen me come in earlier because the room suddenly broke out in whispers at my sudden appearance on stage. The boy—I needed to learn his name—mumbled something I couldn’t understand and gestured to me. As the music started back up, he then bowed to me before disappearing, leaving me to stand there like an idiot.

  “I bet she can’t even sing,” a catty voice said to one side of me.

  I looked over in the wings to see Raven standing near Sterling, her arms folded against her chest, hip stuck out, and a smug smirk curled on her perfectly plumped lips.

  Can’t sing?

  I was so freaking tired of everyone taking pot shots at me. I hated that my father didn’t trust me enough to make my own decisions and had basically taken over my life. I hated that my mother let him treat me any way he wanted. I hated that my boyfriend didn’t think I was worth the wait and screwed anything that moved. I hated that my friends weren’t good friends and had stabbed me in the back … repeatedly. And I hated that this girl thought she had one over on me and had expressed that in front of Sterling.

  Something in me cracked.

  If I had any nerves before, they were long gone, burned away in the heat of my anger. I was going to show them all. I didn’t spend all those years in church choir for nothing.

  I had already missed the opening verses. The song was now at the part where it was building to the pre-chorus. I caught the wave and started singing.

  My lower half was stationary, but my top half? I could have joined the Supremes with the moves I was making. I was telling a story using my voice, my face, my hands. I just let the music flow through me.

  I told the tale of sitting around, waiting for a boy, and then my heartache at my love being pushed aside. I built the momentum to where I unleashed all the emotions that had been percolating inside me through the pent-up longing of the chorus. I sang, and I sang my heart out. I poured myself onto that stage. I channeled Olivia Newton-John, and she took over.

  As the song neared the end and the last strands of music played, I wound it down and finished strong. When I was done, the cafetorium was silent.

  I stood there, panting, my heart sinking. Had I just embarrassed myself?

  My chin hit my chest as I fought the tears that wanted to come, but then it happened. The room exploded into applause, and a male voice yelled, “That was de-vine.” There were whistles and shouts.

  I picked up my chin and looked around the cafetorium, seeing people who had been seated were standing and still clapping.

  “Excellent!” Mrs. Cook practically squealed. She approached the stage with a bag of something in one hand and a clipboard in the other. Her hair was up in her trademark bun, wearing a floral print dress and sweater, and her cat-like glasses were perched on her nose. “Marvelous, Allison! I must have you as our Sandy,” she breathed out, excitement laced in her tone. She clutched the items in her hands and did a little shake as she smiled so big I could see almost every tooth in her mouth.

  Mine dropped open, and I tried to speak, to tell her this had to be a mistake, but I couldn’t form the words. It hadn’t dawned on me that I had walked in on the auditions for Grease. Maybe I was as stupid as everyone thought.

  “I didn’t know she had that in her,” came from Blake, a boy I’d had a few classes with, and who I often saw hanging out with Sterling. He stood over to the side of the stage, next to Elodie.

  She gave a shy wave when she saw me looking at her. Not sure what else to do, I gave her one in return, but it was in slow motion since shock was the main emotion taking over my body.

  I turned my attention back to Blake, who was dressed in jean shorts; a short-sleeved, black, button-up shirt that had white diamonds all over it and was buttoned all the way up to the top button under a bolo tie; dark, round sunglasses perched on his nose, much like Mrs. Cook’s; and a dark brown felt hat with a wide brim sat on the back of his head. He reminded me of Duckie from Pretty In Pink. I looked down and, sure enough, he also wore shoes that resembled Duckie’s from the movie.

  “Nice shoes, Duckman.”

  “Anthropologie®, baby. Bringing Duckie into the modern era,” he said while still smacking his gum and flashing me a grin.

  “Mrs. Cook, she’s not even in this class,” interrupted a snotty voice. Raven was still standing by Sterling, arms still crossed over her chest, but now she was glaring daggers at me.

  My gaze flicked to Sterling, who was staring at her in consternation, before looking over to something in the audience area.

  “Well, now—”

  “And she’s a gimp,” Raven interrupted Mrs. Cook, making my head jerk up at gimp. Who the hell did she think she was? “She tore something last week. I saw the video of it on Instagram. How is she going to be able to do any of the choreography?” she asked with a superior smirk.

  “I can do the choreography.”

  What was I saying? I couldn’t do this. Could I?

  Before I could take back my statement, Raven scoffed, “How? I doubt you could have danced before your bum knee.”

  “Hamstring,” Elodie corrected quietly.

  As something unpleasant moved through Raven’s features that looked a lot like loathing, I decided she wasn’t pretty anymore. If you could contort your face into something so spiteful, your beauty quotient dropped.

  “Whatever.” She rolled her eyes.

  “I started physical therapy already. I probably can’t do anything high impact, but I doubt y’all will have me sprinting and jumpi
ng over obstacles.”

  Mrs. Cook’s mouth skewed to one side like she was thinking.

  “Still, you’re not in this class. You’re in athletics,” Raven broke in again.

  We were all still standing around, but some had moved from their spots backstage, and others had come to sit on the steps that led up to the stage in the front. They were all looking at me with bright and hopeful expressions, all except Raven.

  Mrs. Cook, who was in front of me on the second step from the top, said, “This is true.” She looked disappointed.

  “Is being in drama a requirement to be in the musical?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid so,” Mrs. Cook replied, her exuberance from before subdued.

  “Then I can switch.”

  A few gasps rang out. Even I couldn’t believe I had just said that. That I had just committed to this without discussing it with my parents first—mainly Derek Everly.

  Something foreign unfurled in my chest. It made me feel lighter.

  “Are you sure?” This was from Sterling.

  I saw he had moved closer, the boy with Down syndrome now standing slightly behind him, grinning big and wide. I couldn’t help returning the smile. That fella was either mischief personified for getting me into this, or he could be an angel sent from Heaven. I was guessing the latter.

  “Yeah, I’m done. My track season is over for this year, so this will work for me. I was just wondering before I came in here what I would do this period.”

  Sterling smiled, stealing my breath.

  “Wonderful! Why don’t you go to the office right now and get it straightened out so you’ll be on the roll tomorrow?” Mrs. Cook instructed, the happiness back in her voice.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Before I could move to try to navigate the steps, Sterling was there and I was lifted. He had one arm under my knees while the other curled under my back so I had no choice but to wrap my arms around his neck as he carried me down.

  He was warm, the muscles I could feel against me were solid and strong, and that woodsy scent I associated with him flooded my nostrils. He carried me like I was lighter than a feather. All of it almost made me groan, yet it did make me shiver.