by Flinn,Alex
“What happened?” Though I can imagine.
“She cried. She flat out bawled. She kept saying how cruel kids were, threatening to call Coleman’s mom and tell her. I begged her not to. It wouldn’t make things better. Finally, I told her to please stop talking about it. So then, she gave me Coleman’s gift. I spent that day, making a starfighter with my mommy because I had no one else to make it with.”
“Stacey’s the best, though.” His story is so sad I sort of want to cry myself, but I suppress it. “Do you want to show me A major?”
“Nah, that’s enough new stuff for one day. Work on those. Try with both hands.”
“Okay.” I start playing C major, but softly.
“Anyway,” he continues, “one day right after that, I told a joke in class, just by accident, said something funny. I don’t even remember what. I’d been funny to my family all along, but never in school. I was too shy. But everyone laughed. Actual positive attention from my peers. I liked it. So, I decided I was going to be funny all the time. That weekend, I went to the library and got all these joke books and books of insults, and when I got to school, I started telling them. The first kid who insulted me, I said, ‘You’re so dumb, you’re flunking recess.’”
I laugh. “That’s funny.”
He rolls his eyes. “Yeah. If you’re nine, it’s hilarious. Everyone laughed and started making fun of him, instead of me. So the next time someone insulted me, I said, ‘Is that your nose, or did the Millennium Falcon park on your face?’ I thought of that one myself. I was a huge Star Wars freak, and this guy had an enormous nose, so it was perfect. It was easy to come up with jokes when I did it ahead of time, not on the spot. And people laughed at that too. The next week, someone invited me over to his house for real, not just to be nice. It was the same guy I’d told the nose joke about. Turned out he liked Star Wars too. And he respected me now.”
“Or feared you,” I say.
“Nah, we were friends. We still are. It was Tristan Hernandez.”
I gape. That was the guy who played Bill Sikes. Tristan’s huge (as is his nose), and they’re best friends. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. So ever since then, I’ve spent every spare moment thinking of funny things to say, coming up with pranks and stuff. It’s hard work. But no one makes fun of me anymore. They want to be my friend. I’m cool. But they don’t know the real me.”
“Do I know the real you?” I hold my breath, awaiting his answer.
He shrugs. “This is him. You like him?”
“He’s a good piano teacher,” I say.
He smiles, showing a dimple on one cheek, but not the other. “Thanks.”
Silence. I want to say something else, tell him he’s not that ugly kid he obviously thinks he is, that he’s funny and charming, but he’s also handsome, especially when he smiles. Sure, the first thing I noticed about him was his size, but his beautiful, brown eyes were a close second. But that would be awkward, so instead, I just sit there with a dumb grin on my face, playing F major.
Then, we both speak at the same time.
“Is the real you ever funny?” I ask.
“It’s not that I’m never funny,” he says, then laughs when he realizes what I’ve said. “Of course I’m funny. I’m hysterical, obviously. Just not all the time. I have deep thoughts too.”
“Got it. Deep thoughts. I’d hate to think it was all a lie. Can I read your poetry sometime?”
He looks away. “I shouldn’t have told you about it.”
“Why can’t I?” I stop playing and make my lips an exaggerated pout.
“’Cause it’s embarrassing. What if you hate it? What if you think it’s stupid?”
“I wouldn’t. I’m your friend.”
“Right. Friends.” He nudges me over and starts playing “Clair de Lune,” a piece he says he plays to relax. He’s still not making eye contact. The music is soft and gentle, moonlight over a river. “Okay, how about this? Someday, I might leave a poem lying somewhere, where you can find it. Just don’t ever tell me you read it, okay?”
I roll my eyes. “Guys are such idiots. Don’t want anyone to know they have souls.”
“Soul? What’s that? I sold mine to the devil in exchange for piano-playing ability.” He keeps playing, showing off, not looking at me. Now, the music sounds like falling water. “Hey, this is huge for me. You’re the only one I’ve ever said this to. You’re the only one who knows the real me, the me that gets pissed off at the world sometimes, the me that thinks it’s not fair.”
“Life’s not fair,” I say. “I know a lot about getting pissed off at the world.”
He nods. “I bet you do.” He keeps playing, his arm brushing mine with each arpeggio, stronger, then softer, like a river, flowing toward the ocean, then crashing into rocks. For a minute, it’s only the sound of the piano. The piano and our breathing.
Then, at the highest point, he says, “Okay, your turn. How old were you when your mom died?” and I wonder if he’s timed his question, as I timed mine, so I’ll think he’s not listening, concentrating on playing.
“Eight,” I answer. “So you were not getting invited to Coleman’s party, and my mom was planning the Zoo Sleepover of Death. They said it was a freak accident—I mean, she got attacked by a freaking monkey. One day, she was there. Then, she’s gone, just like my dad.” I suck in a shaky breath, closing my eyes and letting the music flow over me. It’s so beautiful and a little sad. I still can’t believe my dad is gone forever. I barely had time to process it before I had to deal with this, with Violet. “It feels like I’m sleeping over a friend’s house, and when I get home, he’ll be there. I regret every time I stayed at Laurel’s and wasn’t with him. Who knew it was my last chance? Violet took it from me.”
“You’ve been through a lot.” Goose stops playing, giving me his full attention now that it’s not about him. The silence seems louder where the music used to be.
I say, “When my mom died, people were really nice, at first. They brought so much lasagna our freezer was full for months. They offered to watch me after school. I had tons of invites. But then, it sort of stopped. It was like everyone forgot us. They’d do things with their families, and wouldn’t ask us, even if they used to when my mom was there. The only one who was still friends with me was Laurel.”
Laurel. I swallow hard. Yesterday, Goose left his laptop on the kitchen table when he went to school, and I saw Instagram photos of Laurel and this girl, Britney, wearing matching pink shirts that said Waiting for My Handsome Prince. I bet they’re going to the concert together too. Britney’s willing to wear the lame-looking T-shirts, and she’ll be sitting in my seat. My floor seat with my best friend seeing my Jonah Prince. The concert’s in two weeks.
Still, I say, “Laurel was my best friend, and her mom was my mother’s best friend since they were kids. One day, I was complaining about how no one ever wanted to hang with me anymore. She was playing at our friend Cassie’s house, but Cassie hadn’t asked me.” I start playing C major again, just with my right hand.
I say, “Laurel, she got this sort of weird look on her face. She said that Cassie had told her that her mom didn’t want her to play with me anymore. Her mom said that when girls didn’t have mothers, they went wild. She thought I’d be on drugs or something. I was eight, and her mom already had me pegged as a future crack addict. Laurel said she wasn’t going to be friends with Cassie anymore either.”
“So your mother was dead, and your friend ditched you too?” Goose said. “That’s harsh.”
“Friends, plural. All my friends ditched me. Maybe they weren’t all as mean about it as Cassie, but they totally forgot about me. The only one who stayed with me was Laurel. I think maybe the others never really liked me in the first place. Their moms were friends with my mom. She was the leader of the Girl Scout troop. Once she was gone, they didn’t care about me, and nei
ther did their kids.”
“How could they not like you?” he says. “You’re so . . .” He stops.
“Beautiful?” I roll my eyes.
He shakes his head. “That wasn’t what I was going to say. I was looking for the right word.”
“What word is that?”
He thinks about it. “Fierce. That’s a word. You’re fierce. People think you’re like this fragile flower because you’re so little and pretty. But you’re really strong. You’ve been through all this, and it hasn’t broken you. And it hasn’t made you less sweet.”
Wow. That’s maybe the greatest thing anyone’s ever said to me.
I say, “I guess they don’t see that about me. And I don’t even know if it’s true. I feel so alone. My parents . . . my dad. I have nobody. Nobody.” My eyes fill up with tears. They just do that randomly now, but usually not in front of anyone. Just out of the blue, I’ll be wallowing in self-pity. I hate it, but sometimes I can’t help it, with all that’s happened. The piano keys swim before me so I can’t see which is which.
Goose sees. He puts his arms around me and pulls me toward him. “You have me . . . us. I know it’s not the same.”
I sniffle, then sob. His hold on me tightens. His arms feel so warm, and he smells of lemony cologne.
“I’m an orphan,” I say. “I wish I could just take care of myself.”
“I’ll take care of you. I’ll get my parents to. They took in Tyler and Jeron. They can take you in too. It doesn’t have to be temporary. You can stay here forever.”
“That’s crazy.” But I remember what his dad said, about not treating me like a cat. Maybe it isn’t crazy.
“It’s not crazy,” he says. “It’s okay. You’ll never have to go back to her or anywhere you don’t want. We’ll take care of you, Celine. I know it’s not the same as having your parents, but I . . . we’ll love you, my family. You’ll never be alone.”
“But . . .”
“Shh. Just stop . . . stop thinking I’m wrong, okay? I’m telling you the way it is. While I am around, you will never be alone. I know I’m not a big guy, but I’m big enough. We all are.”
He takes me by the shoulders and backs off, making me look at him. His brown eyes hold conviction. He believes what he’s saying. It’s incredible. I’ve only known him a few months. Who knew there were people out there who were so kind? I’m not used to it.
“You’re so . . . why are you so sweet to me?”
He laughs. “That’s me, Mr. Sweet.” He lifts a hair out of my eyes, wiping a tear. “You win.”
I say, “Win what?”
“The pity prize. You said you were going to win, and you did.”
“I don’t want to win. I don’t want pity.”
“I know.”
I bury my face in his shoulder and sob with abandon.
He holds me tight, and he lets me.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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19
The days go by. Slowly. Stacey and Jorge attend spring concerts, and Isabella comes home with a dance recital costume that makes her look like a duckling. So cute! I help her sew the straps to be the right size. Tony’s piano recital has happened. The school year is almost over. When Kendra had arranged for me to live with the Guzmans, we had agreed it would be temporary, a few months, a year at most. Then, she said, Violet would get past it, move on. Once I was off Violet’s radar, Kendra would help me create a new identity, move me to a new town, get me a new family, sort of a Witness Protection Program with witchcraft.
The part I had pushed back in my mind, the part I’d avoided acknowledging, the part I’d definitely never told Goose’s parents was this: Violet never “got over” anything. She hadn’t gotten over her love for my father, whom she’d met at age ten. And she’d killed my mother years after she’d last seen her in high school. She’d stayed, like an alligator waiting, mouth open, for its unsuspecting prey, until my mother had felt safe. Only then did she strike.
Of course, she thinks I’m dead. Maybe that will help.
Still, it won’t be as easy as Kendra thinks. I had secretly hoped to be able to go to the Jonah Prince concert with Laurel in June. But it’s late May, and I haven’t seen Kendra since the day I moved here. Will I never go to school again? Never have friends, other than Goose? Never have a boyfriend, marry, or have children, just stay here like one of those kidnapped girls who lives her whole life in someone’s walls—albeit with really nice people? Would that be enough for me? And what about the Guzmans? Always sheltering me, swearing the kids to secrecy about me, that had to be hard on them.
One day, after practicing Für Elise for two hours, I retreat to my—our—bedroom to listen to my Jonah CD. Goose is doing math homework, so I don’t want to disturb him. I bring the book Goose got me, to look at the pictures. I wish I could get a copy of J-14 or Tiger Beat that would be sure to have pinups of Jonah. But it’s not like I can ask someone to buy me something so silly—even with my own money. So all I have is the songbook. That, and my dreams.
At night, I listen to Jonah on my headphones, and I try to conjure up the dream I had about him again. I know it’s just a fantasy, but my reality is so crazy-awful. But instead, I dream of apples, rotten, exploding apples. Lately, I’ve dreamed of being rescued, but the guy who saved me wasn’t Jonah. At least, I don’t think he was. I couldn’t see his face. Still, I can feel my rescuer’s arms around me, his lips on mine. I seek out his eyes and know that I am safe!
Only to be awakened by Isabella’s snoring. They should take her to be allergy tested! Actually, something in the air is giving me allergies too. It hangs heavy, filling my lungs, making me feel like I’m half asleep all the time.
My fantasies are taking over my life, and I will go insane.
Could work. If I’m locked in a mental institution, Violet won’t find me. I could make friends, insane friends. I can grow old and fat, pretending I’m in Jonah’s arms.
Le sigh.
Today, I’m listening to “When I See Your Face” when Isabella comes in.
Isabella is the one person who keeps me firmly grounded in reality. It’s pretty hard to live in a fantasy world when a five-year-old keeps begging you to play with My Little Ponies. Fortunately, I really love playing with My Little Ponies. Isabella insists on being Pinkie Pie, but she lets me be Rainbow Dash sometimes. I think it’s important for her to learn to share. I gave Goose money to buy her Pinkie Pie’s helicopter, from me, for her birthday.
“I like this song.” She does a little dance around the room.
“Do kids your age like it?” I ask, hoping they don’t. If kindergarteners like the same music you do, that’s bad.
“I don’t think they’ve heard it.” She points to the songbook in my lap. “Who’s that?”
“That’s Jonah Prince, the guy who sings it.” I turn over the book so she can see the color photo on the cover.
“You have his picture up by your bed too.”
“How do you know that?” I ask, wondering if she had climbed up onto my bed. I knew she could. Last week, when she couldn’t find her tap shoe, it had turned up under my pillow.
“I can see it.” She points to the picture and, since I’m sitting on the floor, I can see it’s clearly visible from her perspective. Which means Goose sees it too. At worst, he knows I ripped out a page of his gift. At best, he thinks I’m a lame fangirl who keeps a rock star’s picture over her bed. Of course, he already knows I wrote Jonah’s name on my notebook.
Okay, so I was a lame fangirl.
They said on Entertainment Tonight (which I watch because I am now the only teen on the planet not on social media) that Jonah’s dating this Teenz Channel star, Allegra Kendall. They also say he drinks and parties a lot. Not exactly my type
, but it’s his music I love. Besides, I know I’m not really going to marry him. I just want to go to his concert like a normal girl, and maybe fall in love with a normal boy someday. I’m not actually insane . . . yet.
Now, Goose comes in, so he must finally be finished with his pre-calculus. “Yay, you’re done!” I stand and try to block his view of the photo.
He looks at Isabella, who’s still dancing. “Did you ask her about the mangoes?”
“What about the mangoes?” I love the smoothies we make, but I thought we were out of frozen mangoes.
“Good news—Mrs. Ozanich brought us new mangoes. They’re ripe again. My mom wanted us to cut them up and peel them, to put in the freezer.”
“Sounds like fun.” If Goose said this, it would be sarcasm, but I actually like helping. Feels like earning my keep.
“Yeah, fun.” Still, we head to the kitchen where the counter is stacked with a dozen mangoes, red, orange, and gold, and oozing sap. I think of my dreams, of the apples. Could these too all turn to muck and maggots? But I haven’t had the dream in a few days. I feel safe. The mangoes are beautiful, the colors of sunshine.
I pick one up. There are two peelers, and I hand one to Isabella. “Do it over the sink,” I tell her. Since the kitchen is fitted for smaller people, she can do this easily. It’s harder for me. When I first moved here, I kept leaning on counters that weren’t quite where I expected, but now I’m used to it. Still, I’ll let Goose cut them up.
“Ferris Bueller’s on tonight,” Goose says.
“What’s a Ferris Bueller?” I ask.
“Celine, didn’t you ever watch TV?”
“Maybe not as much as you did.” Laurel and I watched a ton, but it was all stuff like Bridezillas and Say Yes to the Dress, stuff you wouldn’t share with a guy friend.
“Cultural illiterate. Well, it’s a John Hughes movie, the same guy who wrote Pretty in Pink. Ferris Bueller’s Day Off is my favorite. You have to watch it.”
“Okay.” I try to slide the peeler under the mango skin. It’s not as easy to peel as an apple, but at least it stays whole in my hand. Suddenly there’s a knock on the window.