It was crushing. All-consuming. The views from outside the window became my friend. But there was more to my melancholy than met the eye. The night I met Beats, the image on the computer, the deluge of repressed memories that had flooded back to me. I had a secret. A huge one. Who knew? I did, apparently. Either I’d just been too young to recall it or I’d suppressed it because my immature mind had no idea what to do with the information it had stored. The reason didn’t matter; what did was that I might have had a chance to stop what happened. I might’ve been able to save Jake from a fate worse than death.
Go beyond the ordinary, Beats had said.Unleash what scares you. It was sound advice, as long as you didn’t have a leering monster inside. Once he was awakened, I couldn’t lull him back to sleep no matter what I tried. The songs born of angst that Beats had promised if I poked the beast didn’t come. It was like the darkness was covering my eyes, trying to keep me from expressing my truth through song. There was some invisible line my mind refused to cross, and it wouldn’t allow me to ask why.
Anxiety and fear took hold. I couldn’t walk down the main hall without looking over my shoulder. Couldn’t play the piano or guitar with crying. My family took notice of the change in my mood, yet no amount of prodding got the truth from me. What would it matter anyway? What was done was done. I couldn’t rewind the past. No good would come with revealing what I knew; I’d just cause more heartache for my family. And it wasn’t like revealing my secret to Jake would bring us closer together. If I had to guess, it would do the opposite.
I also couldn’t share my heartbreak over Beats because the others wouldn’t understand. They’d only chastise me for compromising my safety and act as if I’d done something wrong. But I didn’t think I had. I’d attempted to help someone in need. In the end, he’d decided not to accept it, but I’d tried, and that was all I could have done.
My mother in particular took to nurturing me a little more snugly. It was almost as if she instinctively understood I was dealing with a broken heart despite there never having been a boy around. Little did she know! Mom and I spent a lot of time together, her teaching me the musicality of songs. Using poppy songs written before I’d slapped the devil, Mom and I tore them apart and put them back together again, structuring the songs by arranging sounds and notes to create verses, choruses, and all the other building blocks of a song. That was where my mother’s expertise came in. She’d taught Jake to write songs that reached out and touched people’s hearts, and with her guidance and training, my writing strengthened even without trudging through the murkiness of my mind. Slowly but surely, my sad heart healed.
It was during this time that I learned of my mother’s own struggles as a young woman. Things I’d only known about her superficially before now came to light. Her early life as an heiress to a hotel mogul; meeting my dad; the disownment. But nothing rattled her until the topic came to Jake and the kidnapping and the things she’d done to help him survive, sometimes at the expense of the rest of us. She spoke with regret but also pride at taking the broken boy he was and making him whole again.
That was where we had something in common. Just as she’d helped Jake get through hard times, I’d wanted to do the same for Beats. Not that it mattered now. He was gone. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t advocate on his behalf and for those kids like him who might benefit from the same musical therapy Mom had given Jake. I pitched the idea to her—start a music program for foster kids—and it piqued her interest. Before I knew it, she was working together with other music teacher friends in the area to get a program up and running. I knew the class would be of no use to Beats, who I assumed had already aged out of the system, but his influence would benefit others in similar need.
“Psst. Grace.” The kid directly behind me poked my back, waking me from my daydream.
I twisted my head to look over my shoulder.
“Check your phone,” he whispered.
“Why?”
“Trust me.”
As I turned back into my own space, I noticed kids around me staring. Whispering. I looked up at the teacher, who was continuing her lecture despite the low-rolling chatter. I slipped my hand into my backpack. Phones were not allowed during class, but when I looked again at my gawking classmates, each and every one of them had theirs in their hands.
Keeping it under my desk, I turned it on. Not knowing what I was looking for, I checked my messages first and clicked on the one from Quinn that read:
Holy fuck
It was followed by another text with a screenshot: a social media post from Jake, sent twenty minutes ago. A message to his fans. What? How could that be? He was in surgery. It was supposed to take most of the day, I’d been told. All I knew was that my brother was having surgery to repair damage to his knee, damage he sustained in the kidnapping. No further information was given, and I didn’t ask. But I’d been under the impression it was fairly routine. No big deal. Jake had even encouraged Quinn and me to go to school. I’d gone, though Quinn hadn’t. He was graduating in three months, he’d said, so any learning for him had already been completed. He was driving on fumes now. But not me. I had colleges I wanted to get into next year. I couldn’t spend all day in a hospital waiting room.
Blocking out the activity around me, I read the heartfelt letter penned by my brother to his fans. In it, he gave some insight into the kidnapping, and surprisingly, I didn’t shy away. It was like discovering my own truth had cured me of the fear. I read how the kidnapping and the media aftermath affected his life. It was honest. Heartbreaking. It was only when I finished that I realized what this was—a goodbye letter. Jake had written this thinking he was going to die. Chills swept through me, raising the hair on my arms. I didn’t dare look up, knowing I’d have every set of eyes in the class staring at me.
Grabbing my backpack, I rose to my feet and walked straight to the front of the class.
“Did I excuse you?” the teacher asked as I approached.
“I have to leave.”
“Do you need a bathroom pass?”
“No, I have to leave.”
“Not without a hall pass. We have twenty minutes left. Sit down.”
I dissolved into tears.
“Grace?” Mrs. Parker said, rounding the table. “What’s wrong?”
“My brother. Jake.”
“What about your brother?”
“I think… I think he’s going to die.”
21
RORY: A RAY OF GRACE
