“I’m all right.” I grab her hand when she doesn’t stop tugging. “Emilie, I’m all right.”
But Mark isn’t. The edge of that cliff—I couldn’t see the bottom it’s so far down. He may be a freak, but he’s not supernatural. He’s definitely dead now.
My elbow grinds when I scoot myself backward a couple of meters. She drops to my lap, kissing and hugging me. “Don’t be mad. I couldn’t leave you. I had my hand on the release. I knew you wanted me to get out and run. But I couldn’t leave you.”
Her words have me cringing. I could and did leave her one time. But something tells me I’m forgiven.
I cradle her like a baby while she cries. “It’s all right, love. You’re safe. It’s all right.”
###
And three weeks later, I’m still forgiven…for everything.
Apart from the plaster on her arm, since I wouldn’t cut it off for her.
“How are you liking your first award show?” Parker leans into her.
“Since ‘Wish You Were Wishing for Me’ just won song of the year.” She shrugs. “It’s pretty good.” She lifts her blue stooky-covered arm and points to stage left. “Someone’s trying to get your attention.”
I get to my feet and smooth my dark blue jacket down. “We’re on.”
We’re to perform Emilie’s song, our bonus (very, very last-minute) track. Everyone back stage is hustling and bustling around. Leona is fussing with my blue stooky that matches Emilie’s exactly. Cast, not stooky. Emilie has corrected me a hundred times, saying that my word at best sounds like a snack and at worst sounds like a sex toy. Naughty mind, that one.
“Why,” Leona tugs my jacket sleeve, “won’t it at least go to your thumb? I know I had wardrobe refit this for that heap of plaster.” She gives another tug, sending me teetering into Luke.
“Leona, leave him be,” Luke says, and we all get in place to go out after commercial break. “He’s part of the cripple couple and proud of it.”
“Ready?” Kasen meets my eyes over Luke’s head and nods.
“Ready.” For everything.
Parker puts an arm around my shoulders. “Me too.”
Your bright shining eyes on me
Feels like I’m the one and only
But why can’t you be perfect?
You pull me close whisper in my ear
Your love leaves me nothing to fear
I wish you were flawless
The problem with you
Baby you’re addictive
If you weren’t like a drug
You’d be perfect
I sing it with pride for the first time to a live audience. It’s good Parker’s solo was at the beginning because he has been crying ever since. I look out and spot Emilie sitting at our table. The sight of her stooky sends an itch down my arm. After I wouldn’t relent, she tried to get the doctor to cut hers off yesterday, saying it made her look like an ape and she had no intention of looking like an ape for her first award show. He wouldn’t bend on the issue. But there was no talking her out of coming. She hasn’t let me out of her sight in four weeks now. She says it’s because I have a bad habit of wandering around late at night. I say it’s because she never wants our moment to end.
Epilogue
Three years later…
Luke and Parker Moore have their own television show. Shiz and Giggles is a combination of singing and pranking, and it has won awards in five countries for best comedy and/or reality series. The boys celebrated their 50th episode by going live. Kasen crashed the set dressed as a werewolf. Luke had a panic attack after running into the audience and sitting beside a spiderweb full of newborn wolfspiders. Parker was fined by the FCC for multiple uses of cursewords on a live broadcast. Luke is the ambassador for a worldwide anti-bullying organization. He and Parker are volunteer hosts of the organization’s London summer camp. The summer after the live swearing incident, Parker received 283 swear jars from camp participants.
Remember Leona? She set Kasen Monreecy up with her niece, Clarissa. They married last year. After his contract with Lauren Holt was up, Kasen started his own record label, and has since released his own solo album as well as many other musicians’ albums. One of the artists he discovered is up for Breakout Artist of the Year. He doesn’t have many established artists signed to his label yet, but he has Julian McLane on his roster. Clarissa just found out she is pregnant with twins, and she and Emilie are conspiring on the best way to tell Kasen. Of course, Julian and Emilie will be named godparents.
Julian and Emilie broke up and never spoke to each other again. Just kidding. They remain happily unmarried to each other. Julian is a solo artist, signed to his best friend’s record label, but is too embarrassed to place all his solo awards and plaques for going platinum on his mantle. Emilie’s book in verse was on the New York Times Bestseller list for five weeks, and she published two companion books. Two more are on the way. She originally agreed to let the stories be made into a television series but backed out due to a lack of creative control. The members of Jagged Black cried when they sold their home in Hollywood Hills last year. Fearing more tears, they decided to keep the one in London for annual reunions. Julian and Emilie recently started construction on their cabin by the river. In Missouri.
Turn this addiction into a life
Our moment can last forever.
The End
See Lisa Terry’s Upcoming Novel
White Star
Chapter 1
A tribal drum pounds in my head—boom, boom, boom. I’d close my eyes to concentrate except the Cherokee markings on my cheeks are so heavy. I don’t think I can close them. The same blue paint cracks on my arms when I curl my fingers and hands. My arms join the dance. I weave them in front of me like two snakes.
The flames at my feet tickle the air. I step sideways, glide my legs back together and turn in circles, making pirouettes. Repeating the pattern over and over, I make my way around the propane-fed fire. I bow to it, willing my ancestors to leap out.
With my back still bowed, I run backward, my footfalls in sync with the drumbeats only I can hear.
After curling my fingers to my chest, I punch my arms out above my head and reach for the stars projected on the ceiling. A roving light whips over the crowd—a full house. Cool.
I stomp my feet to my own cadence. The only thing coming from the sound system right now is a synthesized rumble of different instruments. My instructor had been worried about the lack of beat at first. I thought it best not to mention my inner tribal drum. (A padded room would only be fun for so long.) And at the moment, it’s the only thing that keeps me focused.
Concentrate.
How can so many things float around in one person’s head? Mom just had to call and drop the bomb right before my recital. But there’s no turning back; I have to perform a freaking ghost dance—and he’s out there contemplating death. The irony is seriously choking me.
Focus!
Layout, ponche, forward roll.
Thump, thump, thump. The drums are real this time—electronic and full of bass. I pick up my arrow and leap into the air. Back on the ground, I complete a perfect Swedish fall and follow through with split falls. My body should be buzzing with pride.
The beat flies ahead, faster and faster.
Our new choreographer had been over-the-top about this year’s Panama City Summer recital. Ella said she had the perfect solo for me, a sort of modernized Native American ghost dance. People’s assumptions kill me. Everything about me screams Native American…except my eyes. But I don’t know anything about that half of me.
A dancer doesn’t refuse a solo, though.
The rhythm speeds up. The stage blurs when I fly ahead to match the beat.
Fan kick, double fan kick. The overhead lights dim and black lights pop on, turning my filmy white dress to a glowing blue. More drums join in. It’s so loud and full of bass that the floor vibrates against my bare feet. The electronic sounds are beast; Deadmau5 is perfect for
this routine.
The new drums notch up the speed even more. My thoughts try to compete. Moments with Grandpa…they flash through my mind with the beat of my drum. It’s always been this way. Tribal drums randomly intrude right inside my freaking cerebral cortex. Sometimes it gets in the way.
Separate it, Keira. Listen to the music.
Grandpa. Is. Dying. Stop it! Go faster.
Split jump—more—double fan kick. Tears leak from my eyes and race into my hair.
Double stomp, slide feet together, pirouette, double stomp, pirouette—faster—double stomp, pirouette, double stomp…
“He’ll need someone to take care of him, Keira.”—Pirouette, double stomp— “We can get nurses….”
My chest heaves.
Piroutte. Faster!
My mind swirls.
Aerial, double stomp, split jump, pirouette. Faster!
A bunch of strangers invading Grandpa’s home.
Double stomp and I fall to my knees in front of the fire, reaching to the flame. Panting like I’m on the verge of a heart attack.
Strangers. Hundreds of them stare at me while I hold my pose. The tears don’t worry me; people will just think it’s part of the act.
I stand on shaky legs and hightail it off the stage. On the way, I see my instructor hiding from the audience behind the black curtain. The former prima ballerina jumps up and down and does some kind of silent laugh thing. I guess I did okay? And I get a quick look at Grandpa in the crowd, a satisfied grin dancing around his lips. Yes, I was amazing.
Back in the dressing room, I snatch my cell from the long counter and almost wipe out a zillion other things—blush, fake eyelashes and hair spray.
My fingers tremble while I make the call. She answers right away.
“Hey, Mamma,” I say. “I’ll take care of Grandpa.”
She sighs and makes me wait six freaking beats before answering. “I’ll get the move all squared away here.”
“Okay,” I whisper and wait for a response. It doesn’t come. “I’ll talk to you later.”
I hang up and stare at myself in the long mirrors. A scared little girl looks back. Can I—yes, don’t be a baby. Sixteen-year-olds do this kind of thing all the time, right?
Soon the room fills with giggling girls, some grabbing their things and walking back out and some changing from their costumes. I sit down to see if I can make myself look a little more normal. I manage to take off most of the tribal paint, but my hair is eww. I back away from the mirrors, giving the girls a turn, and take down my braids. Long and black, my hair feels like I’ve taken a crimping iron to it. And my long bangs are gelled into the rest of my hair. This isn’t an easy fix.
The room fills with more girls. Loud girls, all talking over each other: Did you see me almost fall, You did so great, I think I saw my mom crying. Escaping the madness, I head toward the front of the opera house. The fluorescent-lit hallway is empty, but the plop of my flip flops sounds like there’s a herd of giants coming through.
I almost pee my pants when I realize I’m actually not alone. Right there at the end of the freaking hall is a Native American man. And he’s leaning against the white concrete wall. Nope, not leaning anymore. Yup, he sees me.
Hm. Cherokee Ghost dance…fierce-looking NA man appearing out of nowhere. Just a coincidence, or did I perform a little too well?
Crossing his crazy-dark arms over his chest, the man looks me up and down. His black hair swoops over each side of his head like two halves of a heart. He twitches his neck, flipping the hair back, and walks toward me. The thump of his cowboy boots ricochets off empty walls. (The sound of my flip flops didn’t sound near as creepy.)
I take a step backward, and he stops.
“I know who you are.” His rough voice sounds like he’s smoked for a hundred years.
“Wh-who?” Yeah, I’ve seriously just asked him who I am. Don’t judge.
“You shouldn’t have done that. The Ghost Dance. But you didn’t even do it right so.…” He shrugs and finally breaks his blank stare.
“I did it wrong?” I ask in a small voice.
“It’s the meaning. I…your father wouldn’t approve.”
You’ve seriously got to be kidding me. I find my backbone and my real voice too. “Oh, you mean the dead-beat dad? Who cares what he’d approve of?”
His black eyes flash down at me. “You have the dead part right.”
He turns on his heel and tosses this over his shoulder, “Come up to the clan grounds in Chipley if you wanna know the truth.”
The chatter of the audience gets louder when he leaves the hall and is muted again when the metal door clangs shut.
I slouch against the block wall. Who was that?
“Where’s my granddaughter?” Grandpa’s bellow reaches my ears.
“She did great, didn’t she?” My dance instructor’s voice is more muffled than Grandpa’s. Her back must be against the door. “I was just going to check on her—she missed curtain call. Keira’s a beautiful dancer, isn’t she? Truly gifted. Oh, a flower for me? That’s so nice, but don’t give away too many, or your bouquet won’t look as nice.”
On the way home Gramps rambles about how much everyone loved me, but I can’t get a different man out of my head. Why was he at my recital? Does mystery man know my dad? Is he dead? I know better than to bring it up to Grandpa. And even though I’m tired as crap, sleep doesn’t come easy because of the creepy guy. A crazy-bright bayside morning will be here way too soon. Way.
###
The purr of an idling boat drifts through my window, followed by the swoosh of waves lapping at the shore. I bury my head between my pillows only to lift it back up—a happy whistle pulls me from sleepytime. I grab the window sill and pull up enough to squint through the blue lace curtains. I can’t find my human alarm clock, but the tops of palm trees nod a hello to me while sun-dappled water sparkles between the palm fronds. Hi.
I roll out of bed and almost trip over my unpacked boxes.
Amid yawns and a few more half-asleep stumbles, I manage to get downstairs and find Gramps on the back deck.
Leaning against the doorframe, I stare at him for a few beats. A ghost of a smile touches my lips while I watch my Grandpa’s antics. Only the top of his head peeps over the back of the faded blue lawn chair. Wisps of his thinning, white hair flutter in the breeze while he relaxes. Every once in a while, I hear him blow into a coffee mug cradled on his chest. My breath hitches when he starts a new tune, “Moon River.”
“Gramps, you fantasizing about Audrey Hepburn again?”
He swivels around, quickly for a seventy-year-old, and his gray eyes take me in.
“Keira!” His mustache twitches, a grin spreads across his weathered face. “So what if I am? Come around here, baby, and watch these fish jump at the bugs on the bay.”
“I need a shower,” I say, looking at my rumpled shorts and tank top.
“Oh.” He casts his eyes downward.
Instead of leaving, I sit on the pink lounge chair beside his and squint at the water. My gaze drifts lazily over the panoramic view.
A breeze, heavy with humidity, rustles the oak trees and swoops down to give me a dewy kiss. My eyes flip closed, and I tilt my head back and inhale deeply. I turn to see if Grandpa felt it too, but his eyes are blank while they stare ahead. Aww! Is he thinking about dying? I reach for his hand.
An all-knowing smile spreads across his thin lips just before he gives my hand those familiar three squeezes.
“I love you too, Gramps.” I stand and give him a peck on the forehead. “And now I’m going to get that shower.”
Retracing my steps through the sunroom, I make it halfway up the stairs before I hear the crunch of gravel from our front drive.
Incoming.
I trot back downstairs and peek out the living room window. Peering through the fuchsia-bloomed azalea bushes, I barely make out two figures—boys. The first one, tall with light brown hair, makes his way to our front door with q
uick steps. The other boy, muscular and hair waving all over the place, ambles in the same direction.
They walk away from an oversized, ugly green truck with a trailer attached to it. Seconds later, they bang on the front door. And bang again.
“Geez, hold on,” I shout when I reach the heavy wooden door.
My hand slips right off the knob after giving it a hard tug. Uh-uh. No freaking way you’re going to break on me. I give it a few more yanks. Well, I guess you are.
“This stupid door is swollen from all the rain,” I yell. Wait, what could a couple of kids want here? “We don’t want what you’re selling anyway.”
Grandpa clears his throat and the deck chair creaks when he stands.
“Um, we know you have a back door,” a young male voice mutters.
“We’re here to cut the grass,” is the softer, less aggravated response.
“Come around back, boys,” Grandpa calls from the sunroom, but at about that time, the door comes open with a loud groan.
Lane Kingston walks in ahead of Phaethon White. Phaethon stops and eyes the door, rubbing his palm up and down the edge.
Whoa.
It’s been a long freaking time since I saw them last. Phaethon’s family bought the house next door right after Mom and I moved away years ago, and Lane went to my school before I transferred. The two buddied-up and were definitely aggravating when I came back to visit Grandpa. Back then they were just a couple of dirty-kneed kids who used sticks as swords and didn’t know how to sleep late some Saturday mornings.
Obviously some things never change.
And other things do. Double whoa. They’re both hot now; hotter than I want them to be. Tan and muscular, and standing there so self-assured. The boys back at my city school aren’t near as confident…or strong.
I have to make myself look away. Eyeballs, thisaway.
And I look like fried crap on a stick. I cross my arms over my chest and covertly run my fingers through my hair. I can be pretty with preparation. Mom has always said my face is a mask of contradictions with the Native American cheek bones but gray eyes. But maybe the boys in front of me like my contradicting face.