When I shut my eyes, I can picture her standing by that display case, with all that rage and despair in those green eyes of hers.The way she tried to sound unfazed as she told me her sports career was over.I really wish I didn’t care, but annoyingly, I have to find out exactly what’s going on.
Ask someone.
Cleo’s voice in my head, and although she wasn’t talking about Olive Garden, I find myself remembering the simplicity of her words.But it’s not that simple.It’s none of my business.Besides, there’s no way Olive wants me to look at her like she looked at me.So concerned.That still bugs me.
I clench my fist around the rag in my hand as I walk down the corridor, looking for the room I’ve been ordered to clean today.I can’t put into words how pissed I am about this whole thing.My original plan was just to sit out my time, but that’s no goodbecause the caretaker actually checks to make sure I do the job properly.
I find the right room with a groan.There’s no escape now.I open the door, and there in the center of the room, I see not stacks of tables or chairs, but a covered object that looks suspiciously like a grand piano.My heart leaps with hope.
I glance over my shoulder, then step inside and shut the door.Mr.Carpenter is nowhere in sight, so I walk over to the thing and lift the cloth cover slightly.Yes.The piano is a little elderly; it can’t compete with the gleaming instrument I’ve seen standing in the hall.I cautiously press a few keys and wince at how out of tune it is.But hey, it’ll be fine for the dumb boy-band songs Cleo always wants.And I miss playing.I really miss it.
It’s not like I wouldn’t have the chance at this school.They offer piano lessons here, obviously.But there’s nothing I enjoy less than the kind of classical shit I’d have to practice and then repeat to some grim music teacher.
I don’t like sheet music.It hems me in.When I sit at a piano, I just let the music flow.Obviously, I can read music, but anyone can learn that.Not everyone can play by ear.It’s like a mini competition with myself every time Cleo plays me a song, and I memorize the chords and the tune.There’s nothing to compare with the gleam in her brown eyes when I get the song right away.Or the feeling of satisfaction it gives me.
Everything disappears when I play, and I’m certain that nothing else can move people like music.The first time I heard about music therapy, I knew that was what I wanted to do.Bringing psychology and music together seems like the only logical choicegiven the way I feel.So for the moment, I just brush aside the fact that, with so many problems of my own, I’d be better off having therapy myself.I do actually want to.Someday, in peace.Without my parents getting involved because that would mean it wouldn’t be worth shit.
Reluctantly, I close the lid over the keys again and turn my back on the piano.My fingers are itching, but I need to play undisturbed.There are too many people around this part of school by day who might hear me.Quite apart from Mr.Carpenter, who’d be sure to notice something.And I really don’t want to get slammed with even more punishment duties because I’m making music rather than cleaning.But then, what are the nights for?It makes sense to come later anyway.Midnight in Scotland is 7:00p.m.in New York.That’s a time when I’ll definitely be able to catch Cleo and surprise her with a song.And if that’s the only meaningful thing I can achieve at Dunbridge Academy today, that’ll be enough.
I spend the rest of the time actually doing what I’m supposed to be doing.Dusting and clearing the crap off the shelves.Eventually Mr.Carpenter is satisfied and says I can go.My idea of heaven right now would be dropping into bed and not moving an inch, but I bump into Kit, who insists on dragging me off to tennis.I’m embarrassed to admit that my muscles still ache from last time, but it does me good to feel my body like this.
It’s not exactly warm, but the sun’s shining, so we make our way to the outdoor courts near the rugby pitch.My backhand’s been better, but I still manage to win the last match.Adam, who’s in my math class, is a tough opponent, but I focus on the ragein my gut.I channel it into every stroke, even when my arms are burning and I feel like I can’t catch my breath.Serve.The firefighter didn’t have a choice when she died in the flames.Forehand.She wanted to help.Backhand.And I partied.Volley.With my no-good friends and Maresa, who doesn’t give a crap about me.
“Set point!”shouts Mr.Scheff, the trainer, after I smack a ball deep into the corner and Adam can’t get to it.I feel numb as I take up position on the line and get ready to serve.
My heart is pounding; I’m starting to panic.I’m playing fucking tennis at a boarding school in Scotland instead of owning up to what I did.Nobody here knows.And neither does anybody at home.Because my fucking parents made sure I didn’t have to face any consequences.I clench my jaw and toss the ball up.I know it’s going to be a good serve even before I hit it, packed with all my rage and despair.
Adam has no chance, and that’s putting it mildly.I take the set with an ace, but I don’t care.I feel nothing as I hit with him for a bit, then help collect the balls.
The others have finished their games too.Kit glances over to me.I look away, but it doesn’t help.“You OK?”he asks as I hand back my racket.
I can’t guarantee that any reply would be friendly, so I say nothing.And something tells me Kit gets that.He seems like a guy who knows what it’s like to be carrying so much rage inside.He just seems to have found less destructive ways of letting it out.
“Out of breath, or up for more?”He slips his jacket on.
“Fuck off,” I mumble, bending down to my bag.
He grins.“Aye.Thought as much.C’mon, then.”
God knows why I go with him, but in the end I’m glad I do.I follow him from the tennis courts back into the gymnasium, then through a maze of corridors into an amazingly well-equipped fitness center.There are a few guys on the treadmills and girls on the squat racks, but Kit leads me into a side room.And then I know what he has in mind.
“There, now you can properly punch something,” he says, putting his racket bag down on the floor by the bench, slipping off his shoes, taking a pair of boxing gloves off a rack, and throwing them to me, before grabbing a pair of pads for his hands.
I hesitate, but Kit gives me an encouraging nod, so I kick my shoes off too, pull on the gloves, and take a stance on the mats.I’ve boxed before, but I feel kind of shy as I face Kit.Then I just give it a go.
Kit laughs and doesn’t move.“All you got?”
Shut your face...
I don’t say it, I show him.Not in a bad way.Kit’s a good guy, and this proves it.But I’mangry.I’m so fucking angry, and scared.It’s a dangerous mixture that tends to build within me and generally ends up with me messing around with the lighter.This isn’t as good as burning myself, but it’s not nothing.
Kit’s stronger than I expect.He absorbs my punches effortlessly.My muscles are burning; I feel alive.
“One more, come on!”He drives me on when I ease up for a second.
A repressed growl finds its way out of my throat as I box out my last ounce of self-control, then turn away and crouch down.
“Feels good, huh?”Kit gives me an approving punch on the shoulder, then takes off the pads and hands me his water bottle.And a cereal bar.Like he knows my body needs carbs after a hard workout like this.
