The Way It Hurts

  It did. And it didn’t. “Let’s hear it back.”

  Sitting by the computer, headphones on, there was this feeling in my gut—the same feeling you get before the first dip on a roller coaster. This wasn’t just good—it was perfect. I shut my eyes and let the song flow over me, through me, imagining the four of us performing it live, an audience swaying to our beat. Kristen would be dancing, hair flowing back, every guy in the crowd wishing he was the guy she took home. We’d be invited on to every late night talk show to perform—it would be a hit single on a critically acclaimed album.

  “Let me post this online, Kris.”

  She looked at me sharply. “What? No! You can’t. This is for my conservatory applications.”

  “I know. But if it’s as good as I think it is, we should collect feedback and tweak it, make it even better. Make it a number one hit. Wait until we add bass and percussion—I’m telling you, this song will get airplay.”

  She lowered her eyes and said nothing for a long while. “But I thought this was mine, Elijah.”

  “It is.” I waved a hand. “But why can’t the band use it too?”

  “Because it’s supposed to be original, remember?”

  “And it is.” I wasn’t seeing the problem here. The song was dynamite, and her voice brought it to life in ways I couldn’t even imagine when I’d started writing it.

  “You wrote the lyrics. You wrote the music. All I did was sing.”

  “So change them. Come up with a few verses on your own. Now that you know how all the elements work together, you can add to it easily.”

  She slid off the stool and tossed her headset to the table, refusing to meet my gaze. “Got a USB drive or something?”

  “Uh, yeah. Sure.” I rummaged around and found a drive on a lanyard I could clean off.

  “Plug it in and transfer everything. Every note. Every word. Every frame of that video,” she ordered and stepped back.

  The breath clogged in my lungs. “You don’t trust me.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Why should I? You already posted a lot of shit about me online.”

  I blew out a sigh. “Kris, that was just trash talk, you know? It didn’t mean anything. It’s just a way to get people engaged in the band.”

  “Elijah, I’m not the band. I’m a person. Our deal was I sing for you, you help me develop something original for my applications. I get that you want to use this, but you can’t.”

  “But this is the one, Kris! This is the song that’ll break us out.”

  “I don’t want to break out! I can’t deal with the fame we already have.” She took her phone out of her pocket, swiped at it, and thrust it in my face. “See this? See what your comments did?”

  I glanced at her phone and saw her Twitter feed. “Shit, you have that many Twitter followers?” I’d been trying to get Ride Out’s count to break the same mark for months now.

  Kristen cursed. “Not the followers, you jerk. Their posts. Do you see what they say about me? I spend more time blocking people than I do talking to anybody.”

  Oh. I scrolled through her feed and read a few posts that I couldn’t disagree with. Things like, “You’re so f*cking HAWT!” or “
  She snatched the phone out of my hands. “That’s the only thing you see?”

  What the hell more was there? Things were finally happening. “Kris, they’re talking about us. About you. This is a good thing. The more they talk, the more opportunities open for all of us. Trust me.”

  She cocked her head to the side and raised both eyebrows. To prove my point, I grabbed the tablet and opened my email app. “Here, look at how much mail we’re getting now. Almost a hundred messages today. A month ago, I was happy to see—” Abruptly, I stopped talking and clicked a message from the county council. “Dear Mr. Hamilton, the committee is happy to inform you—holy fuck, we’re in! We got accepted for the county fair!” I grabbed Kristen off her feet and swung her around.

  She wriggled out of my grasp as soon as I put her down, her face tight and red.

  I sighed loud and long. “Kris, do you not get what this means for us?”

  “Yeah, Elijah, I get it. Congratulations.”

  Bull. “Oh, you get it,” I echoed. “Then why aren’t you happy?”

  She held up both hands and shook her head. “Oh my God, are you serious right now? You really need me to explain?” Before I could even think about replying, she barreled on. “This isn’t my thing! I’m not even in this band… Your friends barely tolerate my presence, you can’t stop looking at my chest for longer than two minutes at a time, and when I show you the kind of crap I have to put up with online, you hold up your hand for a high five.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but she shot out a hand.

  “Oh, don’t even!” She stomped her red-booted foot. “I was speaking figuratively.”

  Yeah. Sure. “Hey, look, when you’re online, you have to expect a certain amount of hazing. You think I don’t deal with the same shit? Girls hit on me all the time.”

  She pressed her lips together and shook her head. “Not the same thing.”

  “Oh, come on! How is it not?”

  “Because you’re a guy. Nobody threatens you.”

  I straightened my spine. “Threatens you? Who threatened you? All I saw were people tweeting that you’re hot and have a great voice.”

  With a groan, she buried her face in her hands. “Yeah. That is all you’d see. Elijah, I can’t even log on to the Beat anymore without a dozen people asking me if I’ve screamed for Elijah Hamilton yet.”

  I laughed, and Kristen’s phone buzzed. “I wish you’d just try one tiny metal scream. I’m telling you, you’d be amazing.” She didn’t answer. “Kris?”

  Her face lost all its color, and she kind of swayed on her feet. I leaped up, guided her down to the stool, and took her hand, rubbing it between both of mine. She was ice cold and shaking.

  “What happened? What’s wrong?”

  She shook her head slowly, eyes blurred by tears.

  Scared now, I grabbed her shoulders and gave her a little shake. “Kristen! Look at me. What happened?”

  Her mouth opened, but her voice was just a squeak. She said one word, but it was said on the edge of a gasp filled with so much agony, I hurt for her.

  “Etta.”

  16

  Kristen

  @Rosebud

  @kristencartwright
  @Ride_On747

  Check out this vid of @Ride_Out’s pre-Christmas concert at the mall! #CatCall #KrisVsEli

  @DTMilo

  WTF is wrong with that chick? #KrisVsEli #CatCall

  @Ride_On747

  @DTMilo: Dude, back off. She’s got autism. Can’t help it.

  @Rosebud

  oooh, @elijahhamilton is a god! I’d scream for him!! #TeamEli #sorryKristen #KrisVsEli

  @DTMilo

  RT @Mikey_T: I made @kristencartwright scream! #CatCall #KrisVsEliVsMikey3way bit.ly/2lDS6Lxtr

  RETWEETS 445 FAVORITES 1513

  I sat in a butt-busting plastic chair in a waiting room near the ICU, barely holding myself together.

  ICU. Intensive Care Unit.

  Gordon slept across two chairs, long legs dangling off the edge while the rest of him was curled into a comma. Dylan sat with Mom, one arm around her shoulders. Dad was… Dad was in with Etta and her doctor.

  Shivering, I breathed through my mouth, trying like hell to ignore the smell of medications and sickness and bad food and…and…oh, God, death.

  She’ll be fine. She’ll be fine. She’ll be fine. “Of course, I’ll be fine, Kristen. I’m Henrietta Ca
rtwright! I don’t do deathbed scenes.” I could hear her voice in my brain—in my heart. Etta’s a legend. She couldn’t die. She just couldn’t.

  She’ll be fine. She’ll be fine. She’ll be fine. No matter how many times I repeated the words, I still didn’t believe them.

  A hand covered mine and squeezed. I looked up and found Elijah Hamilton beside me. Since the night we’d met, Elijah’s eyes had glinted with humor when he teased me or sexual interest when he stared at my chest. Now they were filled with worry and sympathy and a whole bunch of other things that should not be there and meant one thing—this was bad. Seriously bad. I pulled my hand away and wrapped my arms around my middle.

  “Go home, Elijah,” I managed to squeeze out.

  A brief flash of pain crossed his face, and then it was gone, replaced with that same steely determination I’d only seen him display for his sister. Lips firmly set, he shook his head and took my hand again. “Not leaving you, Kris.”

  I didn’t argue. Finding words was just too much effort. He didn’t do serious. He didn’t do relationships. He didn’t do anything but the music. But right now, I needed to pretend he did because I could feel myself coming apart at the seams. I stared down at the hand holding mine, absorbing its warmth and feeling all the calluses. This was a hand capable of producing the most beautiful sounds—with a piano, a guitar, or even words. I didn’t know why he was still sitting next to me. He didn’t even like me… Not like I liked him.

  Suddenly, a foot appeared in front of me. I looked up into Dylan’s scowling face.

  “What the hell is this?” He waved his own hand at mine, still swallowed in Elijah’s.

  Neither of us answered, and an angry red flush crawled up Dylan’s face.

  After a moment, Elijah cleared his throat and extended his other hand. “I’m Elijah Hamilton.”

  Dylan ignored the friendly gesture. “I know who you are. Why are you here? With my sister.”

  Elijah looked at me, eyebrows raised, and something inside me, buried under layers and layers of cotton, reminded me that my family didn’t know I was singing with Elijah’s band, and for the life of me, I couldn’t remember why I hadn’t told them.

  “Elijah’s a friend, Dyl. I sing in his band.”

  Dylan’s blue eyes seemed to get darker right before my eyes. “You sing in his—are you crazy?”

  I shifted on my ass-numbing seat. Crazy? No. Determined and industrious. “It was Etta’s plan—” I revealed and then abruptly shut up when some invisible fist squeezed all of the oxygen out of my lungs. How would I do this without her guiding me, cheering me on?

  I wasn’t sure I’d even want to if she…

  No. No! Do not go there. She’ll be fine.

  • • •

  We sat in our numb little stupors for a while, but time had long since stopped mattering to me. Instead of seconds, I wanted to count heartbeats.

  Breaths.

  But they wouldn’t let us in to see Etta.

  A throat cleared from the doorway, and I looked up to see Teddy, glasses perched on his forehead, salt-and-pepper hair in its usual state of disgrace—according to Etta. A completely inappropriate giggle threatened to explode when the thought struck me—is this why she divorced him? Because he didn’t share her sense of style?

  “Grandpa Teddy.” I stood up and wrapped my arms around him, and he hugged me tight.

  “Kristen, sweet girl, look at you.” He held me at arm’s length. “Etta tells me you brought the house down with your Cats show. I’m so sorry I couldn’t come.”

  I waved that away. I totally understood the competing demands on his time with all of our various blended families. Mom hugged him next.

  “So glad you called me, sweetheart.”

  “Of course,” she murmured.

  “Have you heard from the others?”

  Mom nodded. “Everyone’s on their way.” And then her face just crumbled. “It’s Etta. Of course everybody’s coming.”

  I think I must have been about four when Teddy and Etta split up. I remember sitting on his broad shoulders, holding on to all that hair like it was horse’s reins. When I thought about all of the horror stories kids at school told about their parents’ divorces, that ridiculous urge to giggle rose up again. Only Etta could remain such good friends with all of her ex-husbands. She was that special.

  Is. Is that special. Oh, God.

  Elijah’s hand was suddenly on mine, squeezing hard. I looked at him sharply, but his eyes held the most unbearable tenderness, and instead of giggling, I suddenly wanted to dissolve into tiny pieces and have Elijah toss them into the wind and then write a song about it.

  The door opened, and a doctor in scrubs and a lab coat hurried out, Dad following at a slow zombie shuffle. His face was bloodless, and lines showed around his mouth, stopping my heart. He fell into a chair next to Mom, and Dylan rushed to his other side. Even Gordon woke up.

  “She had a stroke.”

  His voice was a scrape of sandpaper.

  “They think they’ve treated her in time, but there is damage. We won’t know how extensive it is until tomorrow. Maybe the next day.”

  A stroke.

  “A stroke! How perfectly marvelous! Do you know how difficult it is for an actor to learn to droop?” Etta had played a character recuperating from a stroke when I was in seventh grade at the local theater. I squeezed my eyes shut because the irony was just too damn much.

  “She’ll live, right?” Gordie asked, his voice a squeak of air.

  Mom sent Dad one of those looks that telepathically said Gordie was still a little boy and should be lied to so he’s not scared. Or something.

  “She’s strong, Gordie. We’ll just keep praying.”

  That wasn’t an answer. I watched Dad for the look he sent Mom—the one that said, “I’m scared too.”

  Mom’s hand came up and cupped Dad’s cheek, and he pressed his face into her touch, shutting his eyes. There it was. So I was right. This was a lot worse than either of them were admitting. I searched in my pocket for money and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. “Hey, Gordie. Why don’t you take this downstairs to the cafeteria, bring us back some sugar? I could really use a doughnut right now.”

  Gordon took the money and glanced back at Mom to make sure it was okay. “I’ll go with him,” Dylan offered, and Mom nodded.

  They left the waiting room. I gave him another minute to be sure and then pounced.

  “Tell us the truth now. How bad is this?”

  Dad let out a long sigh and slumped in his chair. “We don’t know the extent of the damage, but she’s showing left side paralysis and she can’t talk. They’re going to try food soon to see if she can still swallow.”

  “If she can’t?” Teddy whispered, and Dad looked at him, only just realizing he was there. Dad held out a hand that Teddy grabbed, but he never answered the question.

  “Dad? What if she can’t?” I prodded.

  He pulled in a deep breath, and when he spoke, his voice was thick and full of pain. “She may not be able to come home, honey. We’ll have to look at places—”

  I surged to my feet. “No. Just…just no.” I snapped up both hands—like two pieces of flesh could stop any of this from happening.

  “Kristen, honey, we’re getting ahead of ourselves. We don’t know for sure how extensive her needs will be yet. Right now, it’s about treatment. We’ll deal with care later, okay?” Mom’s hand went to Dad’s shoulder and tugged him into her arms. He buried his face against her neck and started to cry.

  I ran.

  • • •

  I ran through doors and down corridors, unable to shake the feeling that the building was closing in on me and I needed to escape before it did. I burst through the exit into the night, gulping in air like I’d been starved of it. My shaking legs collapsed, and I fell onto a bench
right near the exit, no longer able to hold in the desperate worry that just kept growing and growing. I was cold, so cold, I was sure I’d never be warm again. Gasps turned into loud sobs, and I couldn’t control them, couldn’t do anything but let them have me.

  Warm hands touched me, guiding me against a solid wall I was only dimly aware was Elijah’s chest. “I got you, Kris,” he murmured. “I got you.”

  I got you. His words penetrated the chaos inside me, giving me something to hold on to, so I clung to him and cried until I was empty.

  “You’re shaking. You cold?” he asked when I finally took a breath.

  “Freezing.”

  He shifted, holding me away from him. I shivered, missing his warmth. He shrugged out of his sweatshirt and wrapped it around my shoulders, resettling me in the crook of his arm.

  “Thanks,” I said with a sniffle.

  He shifted again and tucked a couple of folded-up tissues into my hand. I managed a tiny laugh. “Boy Scout?”

  I felt him shake his head. “Nah. Anna’s brother.” He said it with a sigh that made me picture him rolling his eyes too.

  I blew my nose, mopped up my face, and tried to get myself back under control.

  “Feel any better?”

  Actually, I did. “I’m scared. Really scared. I mean, Etta’s old, but I just never—you don’t expect—”

  “No. You never do.” He nodded, his chin against the top of my head. “Your parents are scared too.”

  I squirmed. “Yeah. I know. I don’t know how to make it better.”

  “Suggestion?”

  Puzzled by his tone, I pulled away from the comfortable warm circle he’d given me, searching his face. After a moment, I finally understood he was asking for permission before offering his opinions or advice. About to say no, I suddenly realized I wanted to hear what he thought—desperately. “Yes.”

  Elijah lifted his hand and ran a thumb under each of my eyes, and the gesture almost made me cry more. “Don’t make them worry about you too. If you need to freak out or lose your shit, don’t do it in front of them. Do that with me. Anytime you need to talk or cry or whatever, I’m right here.”