by Kristen Mae
“Sleeping,” I say, not missing a beat. “I think I’m coming down with something.”
She either doesn’t catch that I’m a little off or she’s good at pretending. Her smile is friendly and bright, and her freckled cheeks are round and rosy. “Well, I miss you! Talk to you soon!” Then she’s walking down the hallway like nothing is a big deal. I guess nothing is.
Thursday afternoon I perform in studio class, and after playing robotically for several minutes, my instrument ticking like a clock, I come apart. I make it to the end of the etude, barely, but I sound like an old man falling down a flight of stairs. Professor Yarvik sighs openly—her disappointment is tangible enough that I could almost take it in my hands and mold it like clay. But afterward, I get a message from Garrett, the first since the Halloween party: Come over for dinner tonight.
OK, I text back, my heart an earthquake in my chest.
At his house that night, he doesn’t have to ask me to beg. I’m on my knees as soon as I come through his front door, before he even closes it, unzipping him and opening my mouth so he can fuck me there, and he’s thrusting into me and laughing, “That’s my girl.”
* * *
It’s Saturday and I’ve managed to extricate myself from Garrett long enough to see the Conch Garden Symphony Orchestra with Bethany. Well, and Rome too, but Garrett doesn’t know that. Rome was the one who got the tickets, showed up at my door yesterday afternoon all “I don’t know how not to be your friend,” earnestly clutching three tickets and his hat against his chest.
Like I can fucking say no to that.
Bethany, Rome, and I sit in the balcony, midway up—the discounted student section—while the orchestra tunes. Tonight’s performance is Mahler’s Fifth, a symphony I desperately love but have never had the opportunity to hear live. Not that I’ve heard many live orchestra performances—only two, and both school fieldtrips.
The somber opening begins, that lone trumpet call, and now more than ever I recognize the foreshadowing of doom in those cold, clear notes. The strings growl in response—the futility of optimism. Sitting in the darkened auditorium, in this world where I always believed I was meant to belong, I am overcome with a profound sense of hopelessness. Beads of sweat dribble down my back. I lean forward, try to slow my breath, but I’m clawing at the arm rests, gritting my teeth against the What am I doing? What am I doing? that is threatening to shout itself from my throat. It hits me like a tsunami then, sends me spinning—the awareness that I have come to some perilous point, a point from which there is no turning back.
Bethany is facing the orchestra, eyes wide in rapt attention. She has no idea. The call and response fanfare of the opening has ended and now the entire orchestra has joined in with its avalanche of ordered chaos, a dramatic push and pull that sucks the breath right out of my lungs. The music is crawling all over me, shimmying under my skin and making me feel all the ordinary things I should’ve been feeling but couldn’t because I’ve been too busy shrouding myself in a more acute kind of pain. I am radiating distress, sending it out over the audience like shock waves. I cannot breathe. I am going to choke and die here. I’m going to suffocate. On music.
Rome’s hand is suddenly on top of mine, warm and soft, a blanket over my trembling fingers, exploring the stiffness of the wiry tendons as they clutch and release in rhythm with the cacophony. I turn to face him and realize he’s already watching me. I swear I can see the violin bows moving in his brown eyes. He still has his hand over mine, and in his face, in his furrowed brow, is a question—a request for permission. I nod, and he peels my fingers from their grip on the armrest until he’s got my hand clutched between his. He massages the heart of my palm, then pulls at my fingers one at a time until they are forced to relax. I let him keep my hand while I return my attention to the music. The sound is huge, like a movie score but a million times better because the images are already there in the notes.
My breath is coming slower now. Rome massages my hand through the entire first movement, and as the movement comes to an end, I feel my shoulders let go. The audience coughs and readjusts during the pause, shuffling in their creaking seats while the musicians turn the page in preparation for the second movement. I could pull my hand back now, but Rome has it pressed against his chest. And in the few moments of silence before the conductor brings down his baton, I am sure I can feel the warm, solid thrum of his heartbeat against my skin.
* * *
When the concert is over, the three of us make our way backstage in hopes of meeting some of the musicians. Getting backstage is easy. This isn’t a rock concert—no desperate groupies. The principal cellist, Claire Pyles, is younger than I expected given her bio in the concert program—she looks barely out of college herself, pale and thin with huge blue eyes and a truckload of curly blond hair. When Bethany and I introduce ourselves, she grins, revealing a gap between her two front teeth, a small one, but impossible not to notice.
“I’m a cellist too,” I tell her. “Your solos in the Mahler were perfect.” Bethany nods in agreement beside me. Rome is standing behind us, looking around as he takes in the bustle of backstage.
“Thank you,” Claire says, and her attention is diverted for a moment. I follow her gaze over my shoulder to a woman with a violin strapped to her back. Claire holds up a finger to her, then refocuses on me. “Are you the one who plays downtown all the time?” she asks. “Some of the orchestra members said a young cellist with black hair is always jamming in the streets.”
I feel my face heat up.
“That’s her!” Bethany says, smiling proudly.
“Cool,” Claire says. “They say you kick ass.”
“Thanks,” I say. Not that they’re right, of course not, but I’m so flattered I think I might actually die.
“You should go hang out with the orchestra musicians after,” she tells us. Apparently it’s a custom for everyone to go to the Refinery after the Saturday concerts; Claire won’t be going tonight, but most of the musicians are. She says the other orchestra members would love mingling with up and coming musicians.
Claire and her chocolate-haired violinist friend go on their way, and Bethany and Rome pester me to go hang out at this Refinery place. I had expected Garrett to tell me to come over, but when I see I have no messages, I agree to go. It’ll keep me distracted until he calls, at least.
The bar is still serving appetizers, so we order wings and fries while I do mental math to make sure I have enough in my account to cover my share. We’re laughing and having a fine time—they’ve pushed several tables together and there are fifteen or twenty people crammed around it. Claire was right, everyone is friendly and inclusive, curious about our musical backgrounds and generous with their own stories. I’m sure they think we’re adorable, clueless first years, or maybe they see their younger selves in us. I wonder what they would think if they knew I got pounded against a baby grand last weekend. I shiver at the memory. The bruises on my elbows have faded to a faint yellow now, almost healed.
The musicians order pitchers of beer, but somehow things get a little disordered so that Rome and I end up with cups in our hands and no one seems to notice or care that we’re drinking. The alcohol warms my belly, soothes my frayed nerves. Bethany rolls her eyes and says she’ll be the designated driver. Again.
Rome is all teeth and crinkly, smiling eyes, tossing out one lame joke after the next, and the raunchier his jokes become, the harder Bethany and I laugh, though she blushes furiously each time. “Here’s another one,” he says, taking a swig from his beer and clunking it down on the wooden tabletop. “Why was the guitar teacher arrested?”
I try to think of a possible answer, but I come up empty every time. How on earth does he remember so many?
“For fingering a minor,” he says, and Bethany blushes and laughs.
I snigger and sip my beer, nudge him with my right shoulder, and he pretends he’s going to fall off his chair, sending Bethany and I into another fit of giggles.
&nb
sp; Rome rights himself. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding, I’m—”
His face has gone hard as stone. He’s looking past me, and I turn to see what he’s looking at, even though I already know.
Garrett is here.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Garrett is standing a couple of tables away, watching us with a placid smile. Did he see me nudge Rome? Does that mean anything, that I nudged him? What is a nudge? It’s nothing, right? But I lied to Garrett. Lied about tonight. Or I withheld information, which is the same as lying. Maybe Bethany should have sat in the middle. Having me in the middle, between Bethany and Rome, makes this look like…makes it look like…
“Hi Garrett,” I say, and I’m pushing my chair out and stumbling over to greet him. He doesn’t look mad. I want to hug him, but…I don’t know if I’m allowed. I wish he weren’t here. I would have come to him. I would have bent over and let him hurt me any way he wanted to—why did he have to come here now and ruin this tiny bit of joy? But…god, he’s beautiful. And he’s here to see me.
“I thought you might be here,” he says. “This is a popular hangout after Saturday night concerts.”
“Come sit, Garrett!” It’s Rome, playing friendly. But I know what Rome thinks of Garrett, and if Rome doesn’t like Garrett, there’s no way Garrett doesn’t know it. I can only imagine how Garrett feels about people who elect not to worship him.
“Sure,” he says simply, and he sits in a newly vacant chair on the other side of Bethany, who moves so that she’s next to Rome and I’m between her and Garrett. Rome’s mouth is smirking, but the rest of his face is cold and hard.
Garrett leans forward with an affable expression that I know is anything but. “So I heard you telling some pretty funny jokes, there, Rome.” His eyes are twinkling—just a little too jovial. “I feel terrible that I interrupted—tell another!”
Rome smiles with pursed lips and I think for a moment he’s going to tell Garrett to fuck off, but then he says, “Okay. I’ve got one for you, Garrett. Just for you.”
I shift in my seat.
“How does a serial killer get through the forest?” He’s full-on grinning now, and oh boy, I don’t like where this is going.
My eyes dart to Garrett. He’s staring blankly at Rome.
“He takes the psychopath.” Rome taps a pretend drum kit, ba-dum, chtsh!
Bethany laughs, because she just has no idea, and Garrett laughs, because…well, I’m not sure I understand why Garrett does anything he does. I feel like the air in this place has turned into a giant clump of ice. I sure as fuck can’t breathe it.
“And,” Rome continues, because Why not poke the beast? Isn’t this fun? “how many psychopaths does it take to change a lightbulb?”
How is Rome still smiling at Garrett? He’s looking him right in the eyes, smiling, yes, but barely blinking. I’m afraid to turn around and see Garrett’s face. His fingertips crawl lightly up my spine and stop at the base of my neck, under my hair.
“Zero,” says Rome. “Because he’ll just manipulate someone else into doing it for him.”
“Very funny,” says Garrett, and now his fingers are moving forward over my shoulder and landing at the base of my throat, at the soft indent between my clavicles.
Rome’s eyes twitch downward, settling on Garret’s fingers for a fraction of a second, and then his smile dims and brightens as if he’s had an internal power surge. “I have a million jokes,” he says, but his voice has lost some of its previous inflection. “You want a beer, Garrett?” He nods at the pitcher.
“I was actually planning on leaving. And I was hoping Malory would come with me.” I turn my head and look up at him. Superman. That dimple. I can’t reconcile that sweet face with the things he does to me, or with the creeping fear that is making it so hard to breathe. I glance back at Bethany and Rome, both of whom wear patient, expectant looks, though I can see a vein throbbing in Rome’s temple.
“Sure,” I hear myself saying. “I’m actually really tired, to be honest.”
Rome looks down at his beer and smiles, but with exasperation. The way his cheek is flexing, I think he might be grinding his teeth.
“Aw,” Bethany says. “But we were having fun. And…what about your car? You can’t drive.”
“You can take my car,” I tell her, digging my keys from my purse.
Twenty minutes later, I’m sitting at Garrett’s kitchen table, a stiff tangle of nerves, and he’s plodding around the house in his expensive leather shoes, sorting mail and pouring himself a glass of water like nothing’s the matter. But his jaw is set in a hard line, his eyes are cold, and his movements, and all the sounds he makes, are precise and refined. The suction of the refrigerator door, the clink of ice in his glass, the water—surely no less pure than water from any other tap—have a clarity in this kitchen, his kitchen, that doesn’t exist anywhere else in my life.
“Do you want some?” He holds up his glass of water; it glitters like a diamond.
I shake my head and hug myself. Always so cold in here.
“I was happy to see you tonight,” I say.
“Were you?” He lifts an eyebrow. “You seemed happier before you saw me.”
“I…thought you would be mad.”
“Why would I be mad?” He takes a slow sip from his glass, and the ice falls on itself with a delicate sound.
Why would he be mad? My arms are still hugged around me, but I’m pushing furiously at my cuticles, the nail beds of each finger waiting in line to be destroyed, one push at a time. Why would he be mad? I’m afraid to verbalize why. What if he doesn’t have a reason, and he’s waiting for me to supply him one? I shrug, just to give him some kind of answer. Maybe I’m imagining the tightness in his expression. But then I remember the feeling I got when Mahler’s Fifth Symphony avalanched over me, and this feels the same: panicky, overwhelmed, What the fuck am I doing here?
As if in answer to my thoughts, Garrett sets his flawless glass of ice water on the flawless counter and glides to me, his face a mask of tranquility. He traces a finger along my collarbone, pushes my hair over my shoulder, away from my neck, and strokes my bare skin.
“Sometimes I think you are just too fucking beautiful for your own good.”
It’s not that you’re ugly, sweetie, it’s just that you’re not beautiful.
“I’m not beautiful—I’m ordinary.”
“Rome doesn’t think so.”
“He’s a friend. And he’s not my type.” But my voice is unsteady, as if I have something to hide.
Garrett tilts my chin up and searches my eyes.
“You’re my type,” I tell him, my voice inching higher with pleading.
“I’m your only type, aren’t I?”
“Yes.” He still has me by the chin and I need to swallow, but I can’t.
“Am I the best you’ve ever had?”
I’m pulsing between my legs even as my heart stammers with terror. “Yes.” It’s true, I’m not lying—he plays me like a piano.
He smiles, but then his face drops a little and he lets go of my chin. “How many guys have you fucked, anyway?”
My face is instantly on fire. “What? I…I mean I only had a couple of boyfriends in high school, so—”
“That doesn’t mean anything. I’m not your boyfriend, and you’re fucking me.”
Not my boyfriend? I’m boiling with shame, my skin actually stinging from the burn. He’s seen right through me. I was a little whore. I slept with that mechanic to get my car, and when we were moving around all the time after my dad lost his job I slept with whoever because…well, I don’t know what I was thinking. My dad knew, though, and he made sure I knew that. Those boys don’t know how to touch you…
Garrett grabs me by the chin again, turning my face from side to side as if this is the first time he’s had a good look at me. “Little slut, aren’t you? Did you sleep with the whole football team, too? I don’t know how you live with yourself.”
My heart is thudding hard i
n my temples, and hot tears are pinching out of the corners of my eyes. I wish he’d hurry up and get to the point. His hand is sliding into my hair, and I feel his fingers curling, readying to yank, so I do the quickest thing I can think of: I unzip his pants, pull out his dick, and bury it in my mouth. He already thinks I’m a slut anyway. Might as well be the dirtiest little slut he’s ever had in his life.
* * *
It is storming outside, and fat droplets patter hard against the old windows of Professor Yarvik’s room at a frequency like static, making the normally cozy space feel darker than usual, boxed in somehow. My bow is shaking—I can’t seem to get ahold of myself. I played downtown yesterday and made enough money to cover my expenses, but it took me four hours. Four hours. I really did feel like a bag lady, just a sad nobody with my hand out for loose change. I was mechanical, robotic, my arms and fingers moving as if through molasses, and sometimes my mind would wander off in the middle of a passage and I would snap back, realizing my mouth had turned to cotton, that I could barely swallow.
My mind keeps coming back to Garrett, that strange compliment, “too fucking beautiful.” Little slut, aren’t you? My mind is in a state of civil war. Beautiful, god, am I beautiful? I want to be.
It’s not that you’re ugly, sweetie, it’s just that you’re not beautiful.
Swinging your hair so proud like you’re something special…
Those boys don’t know how to touch you… The words are a roaring wind in my mind, crackling in concert with the static of the rain, popping and hissing at me like a broken walkie-talkie until I can’t tell the difference between the storm and my thoughts.
Let me show you how it’s done…
Don’t say a word…
“Malory?” Yarvik is speaking to me.