Little Battles (37 page)

On Wednesday, we had a two-hour school delay because of ice and snow. David woke us up at the regular time and he was practically salivating to get to school because he had some kind of presentation to give in his History class. He always looked forward to getting up in front of people. I thought it might be because it was a fresh chance to wow them and once again earn their acceptance and love.

So while David was impatiently going over his speech notes, Jane and I spent a little time together. Even though we didn’t talk about anything more than our English assignment and the vocabulary quiz, it was comforting just to be around her. She made me feel more like myself, and I didn’t have to worry about everything.

Jane liked me. I knew that she did with every fiber of my being. She was connected to me instantly, and I never had to struggle with her. Everything had always been so easy between us.

Just sitting in the same room as she was, listening to her talk, was so very soothing to me.

When I finally saw Sophie, she never mentioned my mini-panic attack from the night before, and we went through our day as usual.

That night, Sophie and her father were over for dinner and a session with Robin. Sophie made meatloaf and she had me make roast potatoes and Brussels sprouts. As soon as dinner was over and Sophie and her father were behind closed doors with Robin, I put on my headphones and listened to music as I worked on my math homework.

I didn’t want to find out things about Sophie by simply overhearing them. That wasn’t fair. I didn’t want to know things that she didn’t
want
me to know.

Thursday and Friday went fine as well, until Sophie and I returned to my house for therapy. She had to wait downstairs until after I met my new counselor. I sat very quietly and didn’t look at him. Robin was in the room while the introductions were made, but then stepped out, letting me know that she’d be close if I needed her. The doctor, who introduced himself as Dr. Benjamin Emmanuel, seemed like he thought Robin shouldn’t have said that.

While I assumed he would start off by asking me something important, or telling me what our time together was going to be like, he surprised me when he said, “My favorite composer is Chopin. He had music published by the time he was eight years old and is considered to be one of the most influential composers to have ever lived, but he would lock himself in a room for days, destroying things as he tried to figure out how to put what was in his head down on paper. Typically, after weeks of isolation and desperation, he reverted back to the first version.”

Composers were temperamental, like any artist or creative person, I supposed.

“Beethoven was a highly gifted child, like Chopin and Mozart, but his father would parade him around town all night long, forcing him to play at tavern after tavern, as he cried because he was so exhausted. His father was an alcoholic who made him practice over and over, punishing him each time he made a mistake.”

I didn’t want to hear anymore.

“So what do you think, Elliott?”

I looked up at him when he said my name.

“Do you think if Beethoven had a loving father, and Chopin hadn’t been so emotionally distraught while writing, that their work would be as famous as it is today? Do you think that these things helped them define themselves as creators? Would they have even gotten involved in music in the first place?”

I didn’t know, and I didn’t want to answer. I didn’t want to be in this room, and I didn’t want to think about Beethoven being beaten for making a mistake. I also didn’t want to answer Dr. Emmanuel verbally, so I shrugged.

“I understand that you weren’t exposed to music until you were twelve. Is that correct?”

I felt heavy while my mind felt light and airy and removed, even though my thoughts were dark.

It wasn’t true. I’d heard music before then, so I shook my head.

“When were you first exposed to music?”

I didn’t want to say anything, but he’d asked me a question and he’d been wrong, so I felt compelled to answer him, no matter how long it took. “Mmmmmmy m-m-m-mmm-mmm-mom ssssssang to me.”

Rebecca talked about her father during group, and in a gesture of support, David spoke about his. I drowned it all out. I didn’t want to hear about anyone’s father right now. The new counselor already had me thinking about my parents.

Sophie sat right next to me and although we didn’t touch, just the heat of her body next to mine was comforting.

When group was finally over, I was incredibly relieved to go up to my room with Sophie and just be alone with her, but Robin said she needed to speak with her, and so I found myself alone in my room with thoughts of Beethoven. I understood what Dr. Emmanuel was saying, and my rational mind agreed with him.

All of the emotion displayed within any musical work would have been altered had the composer lived a different life. Nobody knew what Chopin would have grown to be if he’d been an even-tempered man. He might’ve even been a banker.

There was a loud knock at my door after what seemed like a long time, startling me out of my thoughts. Knowing it was Sophie immediately brightened my mood. I was at the door quickly, excited to have her sharing my space again.

When I opened the door, I just knew it was all wrong. Nothing about her was as it should be. She’d grown so calm in the past few days, but right now she was so extremely agitated that I could feel it coming off of her. She didn’t look me in the eye and when she came into my room, she didn’t sit down or go over to my books. She
always
started out by looking at my books.

I was instantly nervous. This was scaring me.

“SSSSSoph-phie?”

Everything about her was fidgety except for her hands, which were fisted at her sides. Her jaw was clenched, lips pressed together, and her expression was even more agitated than usual.

“Did you tell Wallace about Chris Anderson?” Sophie’s normally mellow voice wavered, growing and shrinking almost at the same time.

My stomach dropped and I could think of nothing but that she was angry because I’d told Robin about what Chris did to her. She didn’t have to say anything else because I could feel every scrap of anger, hurt, and betrayal she was feeling. I didn’t want this. I didn’t want conflict, especially with Sophie.

My neck was stiff with tension as I struggled with my mind and body to do me a favor and work together just once so I could explain myself and let her know that I didn’t tell Robin and Stephen to give something away about
her
, but rather to explain something about
me
.

But like always, my mind, body, and soul went in three different directions, leaving me sounding like an idiot who had betrayed the only person I desperately needed.

“SSSSoph-ph-phie…”

“Don’t say my goddamn name like it’ll get you out of fucking answering the question.” Even though I was a safe distance from her, I still took a step back. Her voice was strained, and yet stronger than before, when she said, “Did you tell her about what Chris did?”

I couldn’t catch my breath, but I desperately needed to be calm so that I might be able to fix this. “Y-y-y-yes, b-b-b-b-but…”

“That’s some shit, dude.” She shook her head as she looked away.

I had to explain fast because Sophie didn’t seem like she would have as much patience for my verbal ineptitude as she usually did. “Th-they asked m-m-m-me w-w-why I hhhhhhit Ch-Ch-Ch-Chr…hhhhhim.”

She jutted her chin out and shook her head as if she were having a silent conversation with herself. Her profile was so poetically painful, and I could see tears welling in her eyes. I hated that I was the cause of those tears.

“I would
never
tell anybody
anything
you told me. Ever. Even if they
asked.
That’s fucked.”

I couldn’t respond, because she wouldn’t let me. “You’re such a hypocrite. You hide every chance you get, a hell of a lot more than I do, and then you expect me to be completely bare for you like it’s no big thing.”

Sophie came over to me. I kept telling myself to withdraw, but I was frozen. When she was about a foot away, she paused for a brief second, just long enough to say, “Fuck you, Elliott.”

I flinched as if she had threatened to hit me, but before I even had a chance to process it, she was gone.

I cursed my frozen body. I wanted to go after her and make her understand; to make her see that I
had
to tell them, not as a betrayal to her, but as a way to show them a piece of me, to help them understand. This couldn’t be happening. We had made terrific strides and I
needed
her. I
loved
her. I needed to run to her and make her see.

But I couldn’t move. My chest hurt.

I focused on breathing. In and out, as calm as I could.

I worked very hard on limiting my thoughts to only things vital to my survival. I focused on my heart rate, manipulating it like a musical composition until the thump-thump was back to a more pleasing rhythm.

Once my body was under control, I needed to tackle the task of calming my own mind.

Sophie was angry.

Sophie was angry at
me
.

But maybe she’d be online later and it’d give me a chance to explain. Or better yet, I’d write her an e-mail.

It took me an hour to be able to get up off the floor and go over to my computer. She wasn’t on, so I typed the e-mail, deleted it all, typed another one, and repeated that process one more time until I forced myself to push send.

Sophie didn’t respond all night. Friday bled into Saturday and I found myself only leaving my room for coffee. Sophie still wasn’t online and there was no new e-mail. I called her house, but there was no answer.

Saturday night at dinner I was what could only be described as a wreck. I couldn’t eat whatever was on my plate. Everyone tried to engage me, but I couldn’t see the point in responding to any one of them.

I was very upset with Robin, but when she asked me to play the piano, I didn’t refuse. I knew why she wanted me to play. She wanted to analyze the music to figure out my mood and tonight I would make it easy for her. I wanted to give her everything she’d been asking of me. I wanted to give her all of this raw emotion. She’d ruined
everything
and I wanted her to know how angry she’d made me.

I sat at the piano while Robin and Stephen watched me. I knew the others were all nearby. I started playing Chopin’s Piano Sonata No. 2: Funeral March.

Just like I knew she would, after only a few bars Robin came to sit next to me, and my first urge was to push her off of my piano bench because I didn’t want her there, but I refrained.

“Elliott, what’s wrong?”

I didn’t respond until I felt that she thoroughly got the point about this particular piece.

Robin hated depressing music, and I knew that this one would bother her.

I hated Robin right now. She had no right to tell Sophie that I had told them what Anderson did to her. I was finished keeping it all inside. Robin said that my anger was normal, that it was healthy as long as I dealt with it. I was angry at her, and I was going to let her know.

“W-w-why d-d-did you t-tell SSS-SSSSoph-phie ab-b-b-b-bout mmmmme…” I huffed in anger. It would take me all night to finish my stupid question, so I simply said, “Ch-Ch-Chr-Chris A-A-Anderson?”

I pounded angrily at the keys and she didn’t respond until the mood of the piece changed abruptly. The darkness of hard death chords were replaced by soft, reflective strains meant to induce memories of a good life.

“This one is better,” she said, obviously thinking that it was a separate piece.

Really it was just the calm before the storm.

“I didn’t tell Sophie anything you said. I asked her a vague question. I apologize if she made the connection and became angry with you. I would never tell her things you’ve told me.”

Her words did not nullify my anger. I brought back the true nature of the song in a hard, almost violent juxtaposition of the interlude. Somber, painful, passionate anger filled me as the song returned to its morbid tones. Chopin had written it so the interlude transitioned peacefully into a soft reprise of the death march, but I practically slammed my broken fingers, that had just begun to heal, against the keys. I ignored the dull ache that was rapidly transforming into searing pain.