Page 75 of The Invisible Roommate

35Emory

Standing at the back of the multipurpose room where Halloween had wiped its gnarled, bloody hands all over every wall and table, Emory bit his anxiety off at the head and spat it out in a display of dominance. Gerard’s swoony, full-bodied singing voice had his heart fluttering for entirely new reasons that he refused to let old wounds interfere with. Watching the pop star in his theatrical, sexy costume pluck at the dulcimer and command the crowd was worth the mental mayhem he endured to make it there.

Upon waking up, Emory mistook the cloak on its hanger on the rack by the door for an invisible intruder. Through sleep-crusted eyes and first-wake haze, he panicked with the recurring thought that Anderson had decoded his research and broken in to gloat.

As soon as his rational mind came back online, he got out of bed to inspect and discovered the note. Immediately, he understood why fans would get Gerard’s autograph tattooed in special places on their bodies. As soon as his eyes grazed the word love in Gerard’s tiny scrawl, he knew he needed to preserve the note in any way possible.

He also knew, without a doubt, that he’d need to be brave and show up to the Halloween party.

Sharing the story of his mother abandoning him had taken away some of its power. When he thought of that night while running his hands over the downy fabric of the cloak, it didn’t debilitate him. The hurt came, he acknowledged it, and it passed on without protest.

It took a full day of pep talks, but he did it. He donned the costume, turned the front doorknob in his gloved hand, and stepped out under the autumn sky that was choked with gray. On his trek, the air souped up with humidity. Cracks of lightning zigzagged across the ceiling of clouds. When he was feet away from the school, a deluge of rain broke through. For a fraction of a second, he contemplated turning back. Instead, he sprinted inside for cover.

The reward had been well worth the risk.

In the fourth and final verse, the choir members behind Gerard lent their voices to mmms and oohs that swelled the sound, growing rounder and fuller as the song reached its conclusion. At the end, Gerard ceded the microphone to Regina, and Angie passed him a stack of lyric sheets to hand out to the onlookers.

They brought up the houselights, and Emory anticipated Gerard’s pleased surprise when he reached the back of the room. Of course, it was then he registered how soaked-through his velvety cloak was, clinging to his form and making the islanders look at him funny. Thankfully, the mask did its job of hiding his invisible visage. Heart flailing about, Emory outstretched his gloved hand to take the lyric sheet as Gerard reached him.

“Cousin Cameron, you came!” Gerard exclaimed dramatically as if he were doing a scene in a bad movie. “I didn’t think any ferries were coming out today. It’s so good to see you.”

“I couldn’t miss it,” he replied, confusion crackling in his voice.

Gerard came in for a hug. His words poured out in an urgent whisper. “Don’t draw any extra attention to yourself. As soon as I finish, we’re leaving.” He pulled back with a broad smile, then skipped back onto the stage as if nothing were wrong.

Unease clanked low in Emory’s gut as the people—some on pitch, others caterwauling—sang around him. “When the Saints Go Marching In” took on an ominous resonance as he tried to make sense of Gerard’s unexpected demeanor.

At the end of the performances, the teenaged DJ cranked up the tunes. By the time Gerard came to find Emory, a slow jam about the beast inside was playing. Presumably before anyone else could pull Gerard aside and tell him how good he was, he grabbed Emory by the hand and brought him over to the snack table. “You didn’t get my message?”

“What message?” Emory asked.

“Keep your voice down. Pick up a plate and some snacks. Act like you’re here to have a good time.” The visible part of Gerard’s face was bright red.

“I am here to have a good time,” Emory said, perplexed.

“Not if they realize who you are.”

“Why would they—”

Gerard brightened his voice again, speaking as if to an amphitheater of hundreds of thousands. “Let me show you where the bathrooms are!”

They hustled out of the room and down the hallway, past the first restroom and toward one down a dimmer corridor. Once they pushed inside, Gerard took the trash can overflowing with used paper towels and tucked it beneath the door’s handle. “They found the sunglasses you ditched by the beach. Sergeant Adye is certain you’re on the island.”

His heart almost stopped, and his limbs went numb. “Are you positive?”

“I overheard Sergeant Adye discussing it earlier. I tried to get you on the walkie, but you must’ve already left.” Seemingly frustrated, Gerard pulled off his mask and splashed some water on his face to cool down.

Emory creatively cursed aloud. He knew this had been a bad idea. Why hadn’t he listened to his intuition? Raindrops pelted against the windows. “Guess I have no choice but to strip out of this and make a run for it.”

“I think that would be best.” Gerard leaned in and hugged him, regardless of how gross and slimy Emory’s cloak had gotten in the torrential downpour. “It means a lot to me that you made it. What with … all the rain…” Gerard’s words were soft and echoey in the tan-tiled room that smelled strongly of bleach. He turned away, perhaps to give Emory some privacy.

“It’s not like I was going to melt.” Emory forced out a small laugh that did nothing to abate his anxiety. “You were incredible.”

“Thank you.” Emory swore he heard the upturning of Gerard’s lips as he spoke.

“How did it feel to perform again?” Emory asked as he peeled off the sopping cloak and slung it over a stall door. The conversational distraction would do him good.

“Surprisingly nice. I mean, other than the worry about you coming, I enjoyed myself. There was something scrappy and supportive about this. Nothing at all like the well-oiled machine of a We the Wells show,” he said. “I think the context and the people are what made it. My heart’s just not in performing anymore, you know? At least not to sell albums and T-shirts. I craved that kind of attention for a while; now I think my priorities are different.”