by K. M. Walton
The piano kid’s classical piece fills the auditorium. With my head resting on the wall behind me, I listen. He’s playing way better than at rehearsals. Good for him.
“Look at her, Sydney.” Cara and Sydney stand in the doorway. “She took her mother’s pills or something.”
I chuckle and lift my foot. “For that. It’s broken.” I give them a big smile.
Sydney squats down next to me. “Could I have one?”
Cara playfully swats at her shoulder. “Syd! We have to help her.”
“What? If it’s that good, then I want one. I don’t have to perform.” She twists up her hair and then lets it fall back onto her shoulders.
I reach into my front pocket and am about to pull out the bottle of Vicodin when Cara says, “She’s going to get up there and do something stupid.”
Stupid? I’m not sharing anything with these two. I close my eyes and will them to leave. I don’t want to hear either of their voices anymore.
Cara says, “I’ve gotta go. Mrs. Salvatore’s going to kill me if I’m not ready to go on. Dell’s, like, passed out anyway.” Cara’s heels click-clack as she walks down the hall.
I don’t open my eyes because if I do, I’ll cry. Sydney whispers in my ear, “Sorry about the cow drawing. Taryn made me do it. She was pretty mad about what you did to Brandon that night at the party.” She stops talking and pulls away. I pretend that my eyelids are superglued shut.
“Please don’t tell Taryn I told you. I felt really shitty about it. I-I tried to tell you that day in class. I went to Mr. Drueller and told him I was worried about you.”
I squeeze my eyes shut tighter.
“I didn’t tell Mr. Drueller anything about Brandon, Dell. I swear.”
I swallow hard. Everyone believes Brandon’s story. No one has bothered to ask for the truth. Is it that hard for people to consider the opposite happening—Brandon raping me?
And Cara never went to Mr. Drueller.
She’s not worried about me, about how I feel, about our friendship.
Cara is worried I’ll do something stupid onstage.
No one is worried about me.
Eating Electric Guitar Notes
SYDNEY AND HER REVELATIONS ARE LONG GONE.
I hate people right now. I’d like to barricade myself in this corner backstage. I could build another wall and install a lock and it would be my own little dark cave. I wouldn’t mind putting a cot and TV in here. Well, as long as I could have some food delivered.
I lift my foot to rest it on the pointy part of the cone, but my tree trunk of a leg won’t cooperate. My leg and foot slam to the ground, and I shriek in agony. A hand covers my mouth again, and I quickly realize it’s my own. Lava-hot pain rips through my foot. The audience is still cheering for the last performance. I don’t think anyone heard me.
Lying down has an urgent appeal to me. My eyes roam the space. There is not enough room.
I watch Darren and Ty do their magic act. Let’s just say they’re no David or Criss. They give a good go, though, and the audience claps. Then two girls butcher some love song. More clapping. Blah. Blah. Blah.
Even though the acts can all see me sitting over here, they don’t acknowledge me. The show goes on. During a tap dancer’s set, I have a brilliant idea and flip over the cone, giving me a much wider place to rest my calf. In theory. The problem is twofold now:
1. I still have to get my leg up.
2. It’ll be like trying to balance my leg on the tip of an ice-cream cone.
But I have to relieve the pressure on my foot. My toe feels like it’s going to explode. I don’t know if toes can actually do that, but I’m not taking any chances. That would be gross.
I’m gross enough as it is.
Brandon’s sister, Kim, and her friend are onstage with six other girls now, cheering their hearts out. Rah. Rah. Barf. I’m glad I’m in the dark because I’m giving them the finger and, oh, is it satisfying to flip those two off.
I put my hand down as the cheerleaders scurry off stage right. But Kim and her friend skip toward me, arm-in-arm, giggling. Before I have time to yank the cone out of the way, Kim trips over it.
Since the chipper skippers’ arms were linked, they both go down. Hard. The fall breaks them apart, and one lies facedown, arms and legs spread. Kim ends up in a twisted fetal position. For a second, I wonder if the girl who face-planted is dead, but she pushes herself up onto her hands and knees and crawls to Kim. “Are you all right?”
Kim sits up and shakes her head. As her face turns toward the light from the illuminated EXIT sign above the door, I see blood.
Kim’s cheek is bleeding.
“You’re blee’ing,” I say. That didn’t come out right. My mouth refuses to form words. How am I going to sing?
The two girls yelp at the same time. I’m guessing they didn’t know I was still sitting in the dark. How can you miss me? Seriously.
Kim reaches up and wipes her cheek, effectively smearing the blood. Now she looks like she’s ready to head off into battle or tackle the quarterback. “Oh my God! I’m bleeding!” Kim says to me with pleading eyes as she stands up. “You put that cone there on purpose. Didn’t you?” She holds a helping hand out to her friend. “I told you, Julia, Taryn said she’s a fat bitch. So did Brandon.”
Under my breath I say, “Your brother’s a skinny asshole.”
Both girls raise their eyebrows at me in shock. I don’t give a rat’s hiney what these two think. I hope they tell him what I said.
Word. For. Word.
I can hear Cara playing her jazzy tune on the piano, which means I’m on in one act. I wanted to prop up my foot, and that never happened. I wanted to clear my head, and that never happened. At this point I don’t give a shit about anything. I just want it done and over with. And I want these two freshman bitches away from me.
“Come on, Julia,” Kim says. She yanks her arm and pulls her toward the door. “Let’s go find Brandon.”
“Kim, Julia.” I reach up and blow them a big exaggerated kiss. “Catch it. Give that to Brandon.”
They push open the stage door, and Kim snarls over her shoulder, “You wish, you fat fuck.” As the door closes, their cackles mix with the audience’s applause. It reminds me of machine-gun fire from those stupid action movies. I can nearly feel the bullets whiz by my face.
The guitar kid is next. He plugs the cord into his amp and starts strumming. Ahhhh, this sound is luscious. So much better than bullets. Notes string together like colorful candy beads. My mouth opens. I want to chew on them.
Melissa thanks the guitar soloist. I stop chewing on his music and watch him unplug and grab his amp as the curtain closes.
Crap, I’m next.
If I hadn’t been trying to eat electric guitar notes, maybe I’d be ready. I’m not.
I’m wasted.
Like a Demon Possessed
I’M SUPPOSED TO BE OUT ONSTAGE. I PRESS MY hands into my thighs and stand. I straighten up and lift my chin so I can breathe. I get my bum foot into position and heel-walk out of the darkness. When I’m five feet out onto the stage, the red velvet curtain slowly glides open.
I’m already messing this up.
I put every ounce of focus and energy into making it to the microphone stand. I should’ve dropped out of this show. I should’ve stayed home like the gods were telling me to. Each time I look at the distance to the mic, I cringe. I swear it’s getting farther away, just like first base during my last softball game. I puff my cheeks up with air and then release it—I don’t need to look any fatter than I already do.
Three more steps and I’m in front of the mic. It’s a freaking miracle. I put my shoulders back and suck in air through my nose. The lights are blinding. I squint to find Mrs. Salvatore and her signal. She points, and then my music starts. I have a few seconds before I come in, so I use them to unclench my fists and try not to projectile vomit on the front row. My nerves are kicking the Vicodin’s ass.
I open my mouth and
sing. I sound kind of whispery and soft, and I don’t like it. My mouth messes up the word “away,” and it comes out “alay.” But I keep singing.
It’s just me and the music. It’s like the audience is behind a wall of light. Maybe the pills are winning now. I feel different. I don’t care what anyone out there thinks about me.
The next chorus comes, and I let it fly. I grab the stand like I’m in a music video. I go for it. I sway my hips, then dip down. I yank the microphone out of the holder and throw my head back. My voice rolls and booms and fills every corner of the room.
It fills all the empty space inside me.
Close to the end of the song, I shoot my arm straight up and spread my fingers as if sparks could explode from my fingertips. The music stops. There’s silence.
I think I just blew everyone’s minds. I know I’ve officially blown mine. I place the microphone back in the stand, and I swallow.
Like a bomb, the audience explodes into applause and cheers. It’s the loudest roar of the night. I lean to the side and bow.
I did it! I can’t believe I did it. I wish the stage crew would turn the lights down so I could see everyone’s faces, but I can’t see anything. I lean into the mic. “Thank you.” I smile. The smile feels extraordinary. The clapping continues, and I bow again.
On my way up from my bow, I stop for a second. I strain to make sense of what I’m hearing. There it is again.
A moo.
Then another.
Shouts of, “Do it!” erupt from the back of the auditorium. Even over all the noise, I recognize one voice as Chase’s.
Maybe he’d laugh. Chase always laughs. Maybe they’d all laugh. I can handle the laughter because I’m controlling it. I can decide if they laugh or not. I want to hear them laugh. I want everyone to laugh. I do. Maybe if I do it Brandon will laugh. I know he’s out there somewhere. He has the best smile. I want him to smile at me. I want him to like me and be impressed by my voice. What if Brandon ran down the aisle and up the stairs and made out with me in front of everyone? What if he used this microphone to apologize to me and tell everyone that he lied about everything?
Why doesn’t Brandon like me? He had sex with me. You’re supposed to like someone to have sex with them. He must like me. . . . Doesn’t he?
I want to hear laughter right now. Laughter will squash my pain. Like a bug.
“Just do it!” Cara shouts from the left. She’s backstage, so the audience can’t see her, but I can. I hear her loud and clear. I gaze at my Car-car in her perfect purpleness, with her hands on her hips, nodding at me, telling me to “Just do it,” and I see that she’s not really looking at me. She’s looking through me.
I turn back to the audience. These people see me. They just cheered for me like I was famous. Brandon cheered for me. This auditorium needs more entertainment. I can do that. I can be a star for them. Maybe they’ll love me.
I bring the microphone to my mouth again, spread my legs, and squat down into sumo position. The back of the auditorium goes nuts. My broken toe doesn’t exist right now. It’s just me and the mic and my adoring crowd.
Low and deep, the moo pours out of me like batter.
I grin into the white lights. Again I moo. Then I bow. I fumble trying to get the microphone back into the stand and it ends up clattering across the stage. The feedback squeal makes the room go silent.
The stage lights go out and the houselights go on, and I can see the audience for the first time. Mrs. Salvatore looks like she’s about to shit a coconut. They all do, actually. Someone in the back stands up and starts clapping. Slow claps. I squint through my tears to see who it is.
Brandon.
He cups his mouth and shouts a deadpan “Wooooh!”
Like I’m possessed, my arm raises, and my middle finger stands alone. A solitary tree trunk in the field.
I just flipped off Brandon Levitt in front of six hundred people, including my principal and all of my teachers. A fleeting sense of vindication passes through me like a shooting star, then it’s over. I don’t want to stand here anymore. I don’t. I feel bare and stripped clean. And I’m crying.
I hobble off the stage. When I’m back in the darkness, I wipe my cheeks. My hands are covered in jet-black mascara. Great. I looked like a freak out there—mooing with raccoon eyes. You’re stupid, Adele!
I spot the overturned traffic cone, and I want to throw it. I reach for it. I wing it onto the stage. It bounces end-to-end and lands on its side. The audience gasps as the curtain slowly closes.
The Light Is Gone
CARA RUNS ACROSS THE STAGE, LAUGHING. “OH MY God, Dell, you are so crazy. That was hilarious! Did you see—”
I cut her off. “Get me out of here.”
“Relax, spaz. I know a secret way out.”
Cara leads me behind the stage, and I take the stairs slowly. She uses her phone to light the way. It’s pitch-black and it smells like wet basement.
“Can you switch arms? You’re stopping my circulation,” she says.
I release my death grip. “Sorry.”
Her phone goes dark, and for a split second I can’t see anything. “Shit,” she says. Then her little light is back.
She holds out her other arm, and I grab on. “We’re close,” she says. “The door’s right up here.”
I don’t say anything as we make our way down the narrow hallway. My toe is trying to rip its way out of the sock, my stomach rumbles, and I have to pee.
“My car is back here.”
I don’t ask where “back here” is. I don’t say thank-you for getting me out of there. I am mute. I give Cara a nod. The mooing ruined everything.
She pushes open a door, and I think we’re still underground. There’s a set of dirty concrete steps in front of us. A waft of trash hits my nose.
“We’ll go slow,” Cara says. “I can’t believe you took all those pills. It could’ve been so much worse up there onstage. You sang pretty great for being trashed.”
The door clicks closed behind us when we’re on the steps.
“That door’s never locked, you know. That’s what Sydney told me,” Cara babbles. “She said she and Chase snuck underneath the stage last weekend after Melissa’s party and made out on the balcony prop from last year’s Romeo and Juliet.”
I am incapable of responding.
I hear crickets. We must be outside. We make it to the top step, and I look around. Big, dark green trash Dumpsters are to my right and left. I know where we are now—we’re behind the school next to the cafeteria. No one ever parks here because it smells like shit.
Cara asks me to let go of her so she can text someone. She looks over at me with a huge smile. “Just got us invited to the after-party at Sydney’s.”
She thinks I’m capable of going to a party right now? I stare at her with wide eyes as we both get into the car.
“What? Come on, it’ll be the perfect place for you to un-embarrass yourself. You know, save face. You did throw a freaking traffic cone across the stage, Dell. People are going to talk. Why not face it head-on? Besides, you sang great. Everyone loved your performance. I’ll bet you’ll get lots of compliments. Compliments are good, right? But first we’ll have to fix your makeup. It’s, like, all over your face.” She starts the car and drives.
Cara, my only friend in the world, doesn’t see me, know me, or understand me. This rips my heart apart, and my sadness smooshes the pieces into an unidentifiable mound. I’m spent. “I want to go home.”
“Whatever, Dell.”
She doesn’t even argue with me.
The rest of the drive home is silent.
My head is a jumble of phrases and words: fat fuck, darkness, don’t tell Taryn, like I’m in a music video, fat bitch, do it, stay still, zombie makeup, Vicodin, you wish, you fat fuck . . .
“We’re here,” Cara says, putting the car in park. “What are you going to do, go up there and sulk in your room?”
I shrug. Now would’ve been the perfect time to tell
the old Cara—my best friend—the truth about Brandon, what he did to me and how he lied about it. But that friend is no more. This new Cara has moved on to bigger and better things. The truth wouldn’t matter to her anyhow.
Using one finger, she fiddles with the keys dangling from the ignition. She sighs, filling the car with her irritation. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Me neither.”
She abandons the keys and drums her fingers on the steering wheel. “Do you need help getting up the steps?”
I can tell I’m holding her up. “I can do it,” I say with absolute finality.
“I don’t know, Dell. I guess things’ll be better in the morning.” Cara smiles. “They usually are.”
I can’t return the smile. My mouth won’t form that shape. Besides, with my smeared makeup, I know I look like a horror-movie murderer right now.
“I’ll text you from the party, okay?”
I don’t know how to tell Cara that I don’t want texts from the party, so I continue staring out the windshield. All of a sudden she kicks off her shoes and grabs them. “My freaking feet are killing me. These high heels are mini torture devices.” She reaches over and squeezes my forearm. “You sounded amazing, Dell. Seriously amazing. Just remember that part.”
I stare at her hand—the one that’s squeezing my arm. Her purple glitter nail polish matches her dress. I don’t even own a bottle of nail polish. Or anything purple, for that matter. I suck at being a girl.
I suck at being a person.
I suck.
I maneuver myself out of the car.
Cara shouts through her open window, “Let’s go to the movies tomorrow!” As she drives away, my phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s a text from Cara:
Just go to bed. Tomorrow = new day.
I shove my phone in my pocket. I’m not ready to go upstairs yet. I wanna sit out here in the velvety night. There are so many stars out tonight. I want to float among them, alone, weightless.