Melt (15 page)

Excerpt from

 

Saved By The Music

 

by

Selene Castrovilla

 

 

“It is required, you do awake your faith.”

—William Shakespeare

1

Stranded

T
h
e taxi's spinning
wheels spit pebbles and dirt as it left me behind at the marina's gate. The dusty haze was a perfect fit for my state of mind.

I wobbled across the driveway and into the marina, trying to balance with my heavy suitcase. Sweat beaded under my bangs.

It was unbearably bright, like the sun was aiming right at me. But looking around, I decided that the marina needed all the brightening it could get. Damaged boats lined the gravel-filled boatyard, all of them in dry dock, up on stilts like big crutches—a nautical hospital. Their exposed insides were like my wrecked life. But at least someone cared enough to fix
them
.

The sounds of saws, drills, and hammers punctured the air as I passed the workers using them. I tried tuning out the men's jeering whistles.

One yelled out, “Nice ass.”

Another called, “Hey, Slim.”

Some people really get off on taunting strangers. I crunched though gravel, kicking up pieces as I moved toward the water. Sailboats, cruisers, and yachts were all tied with rope to the docks.

So where was my Aunt Agatha's barge? What did a barge even look like?

Aunt Agatha had told me about the barges that kings rode on centuries before, but she'd never actually described their appearance. There didn't seem to be anything worthy of royalty bobbing about in this marina, at least not anything I saw.

“Over here, Willow!” a scratchy voice called out.

There was Aunt Agatha, waving from the deck of a huge and hideous metal monstrosity.
This blows
, I thought, doubting there'd be any cable TV.

My aunt hurried off the vile green vessel, prancing along a wooden plank across the water to reach me.

“What
is
that ugly thing?” I asked.

“That barge is our future concert hall!”

She could not be serious.

“It looks like it belongs in the army.”

“Darling, it just needs some work.”

I couldn't believe my bad karma. Instead of staying in the run-down house where I lived with my mother—that is, whenever my mom actually came home—I'd be spending the summer on a steel nightmare. At least, in the house, I had my own room with all my stuff, instead of whatever I could squeeze into my suitcase.

Snatching my giant bag, Aunt Agatha galloped back up the narrow gangplank that stretched from the dock to the barge.

“What are you waiting for, dear heart?” she called. “An invitation?”

I studied the gray, decaying wood of the gangplank, which was still shaking from her running on it
.

I can't get on that
, I thought.
My aunt is nuts!

Beaming at me with her sunbaked, craggy face, Aunt Agatha looked like a happy walnut. What could she possibly be smiling about? She wore a baggy, paint-splotched sweatshirt and frayed jeans.

Why couldn't she just be normal?

“Hurry up,” she urged. “Time's ticking!”

I eyed the plank again. “You want me to cross the water on that thing? No way!”

“It's the only way, love.”

I didn't want to tell Aunt Agatha I was scared.

“Put your mind in the soles of your feet,” she said, dancing on the plank.

What did that mean?

Her voice was bursting with enthusiasm, which annoyed the hell out of me. “Don't look down.”

I looked down.
Yuk!
Could any fish survive in that murk? A piece of a tire and a crushed milk carton floated by. I shivered. I was next.

“Concentrate, darling. You can do it!”

My gaze returned to the scrawny piece of lumber. What if it snapped? I couldn't swim.

I bit my lip and shuffled mentally through my options: #1: Run. #2: Call the authorities. #3: Keep quiet and walk the plank.

If I ran away from the barge, it would be smack into the hellish slum I'd just ridden through, which waited outside the tall barbed wire fence of the boatyard.

I didn't see any pay phones around the god-forsaken marina, and I was about the only one in tenth grade without a cell phone. That meant I'd have to get on the barge, plank or not. I needed to meet Aunt Agatha's demands –for now.

She held out her hand as far as she could reach. “Come on, love,” she coaxed.

I tried to put my mind in my soles, like she said. I placed one foot on the wood. It quivered. I tried not to.

I knelt and began crawling across the creaking, sagging plank. It smelled moldy and felt rough. I held my breath. The plank bounced. My eyes focused on my aunt's insanely happy face, and I forced my body to go on.

“Okay, love!”

Aunt Agatha's outstretched hand waited, just inches away. I lurched forward. The plank shook again as our hands locked. I'd made it.

“Welcome home, darling,” she bubbled, giving me a hug.

Home? This place would never be home.

“And remember, things are only obstacles if you perceive them as such,” Aunt Agatha added.

Everything was an obstacle. Especially her and her sorry barge.

Excerpt from

 

The Girl Next Door

 

by

Selene Castrovilla

 

 

“Life begins perpetually …

Life, forever dying to be born afresh,

forever young and eager,

will presently stand upon this earth as upon a footstool,

and stretch out its realm amidst the stars.”

—H.G. Wells

 

Chapter One

 

J
esse's dying.

The doctors are 96 percent sure of it.

They even have a time-line: seven months. They give him seven months, tops. I try to hold on to hope, but 4 percent is a weak reed to cling to while you're thrashing to keep your head above water.

I caught Jesse crying one morning when he thought I was sleeping. Gwen, his mom, lets me stay over because he's afraid to be alone. He doesn't want to die alone.

I sleep in his old bed; it's on a low iron frame with wheels. Jesse sleeps in his new hospital bed; it's high from the ground, with thick silver bars on the sides and fake wood paneling on the headboard. It's ugly and depressing, but sometimes he's in a lot of pain, and he can move his bed into different positions to get more comfortable.

That morning, I woke to the whirring sound of his bed moving. Then came the slight scrape of metal as he slid the plastic bucket off the edge of his bedside table and heaved. He throws up a lot from all the chemo crap they put him through.

After, he gargled with the water Maria, the housekeeper, leaves next to the bucket every night.

All of a sudden he made this kind of wounded noise and I thought he was gonna heave again, but that wasn't it—he was sobbing.

You can't blame him. One minute he's the star baseball player in high school, class president and the first junior to be editor of the school newspaper. All down the rows of slamming lockers at Midland Prep you could always hear the name Jesse Parker. Girls wanted to date him. Guys wanted to hang with him to get the excess girls.

The next minute, he's being radiated like Hiroshima, even though the doctors said he was probably gonna die anyway.

They're torturing my best friend.

I cracked my eyes open. The sunshine poured in through his window, right on the wall of shelves with all his trophies and awards facing us. On a beautiful Saturday morning, Jesse should have been buttoning his blue and yellow pinstriped uniform, putting on his cap with the navy “M” over his curly black hair, lacing his cleats, grabbing his bat and heading into the park. Instead, the uniform and cap hung at the back of his closet, the cleats were tossed who knew where, the bat was leaning in the far corner, and Jess lay in bed, some days barely able to walk.

He probably won't make it to eighteen. He'll never even get to vote.

I didn't know whether I should open my eyes and let him know I was awake—he might get embarrassed. Or maybe he wanted me to wake up.

I opened my eyes.

The first thing I saw was the picture perched on the bedside table next to me. The photo of Jess and his friends at senior movie night last November, back when things were normal, sane. It was in one of those clear lucite frames, and cracks ran across the middle of the thick plastic, right over the faces. Jess'd smashed it to the floor when I suggested he let his friends come to see him. I didn't bring them up again, but I couldn't just stick them in a drawer, and that's how the photo wound up facing me.

I looked past it and focused on Jess in his bed. He lay with his face in his pillow—not fun for him to do. He told me once that moving after a round of chemo felt like trying to do jumping jacks when you have a stomach virus.

He was crying pretty hard—I could tell by the way his whole body shook, even though the pillow muffled the sound. All I could see of his head was the deep purple skull cap with the peace sign that he insisted on wearing, even though it must have made him too hot. He didn't need it. I didn't care if he was bald; Gwen certainly didn't care if he was bald; Maria didn't care if he was bald. But he cared. I guess I would too.

He sucked in his breath, like he was trying to stop sobbing but couldn't. He clenched the pillow, and the bedcovers were pushed down to the knees of his pajamas. He used to sleep in boxers, but wouldn't wear them with me there, even though I told him it didn't matter. We used to take baths together when we were little, so what difference did it make now?

I slid back my thick comforter and stepped onto the cold, bare wood floor. It was only April, but Maria kept the central air turned up on account of Jesse's cap. If I could've opened the window, we'd have gotten a nice fresh breeze; then he wouldn't have needed the a c. But we'd also have heard the sounds of people playing in Central Park, and whiffed the grassy smell.

Jesse never let me open the window.

Goosebumps sprang up across my body as I padded the few feet to him, past the shelves of trophies mounted against the red-striped wallpaper, and past the wheelchair, for bad days, parked beneath them.

“Jess?” I touched the soft cotton shoulder of his pajamas. He flinched.

He lifted his head and looked at me. “Samantha, I'm sorry …”

“Shhh,” I said.
What was he sorry for? Waking me up? Crying? Dying
? I stared into his eyes. Even blood red from crying, they were gorgeous. His irises were hazel, a mix of brown, blue and green. Stunning.

I climbed over the metal bar—my ankle brushed against it and a chill shot through my leg—and flopped next to him. There was a way to lower the stupid bar, but I could never figure out how. “Mom might not like this,” he said, his voice sounding clogged.

“Shhh,” I said again. I wiped a tear from his pale cheek. The chemo washed out his color besides knocking him out. He was so weak, I helped him roll on to his back. He winced.

You wouldn't know Jesse was sick by his physique. He'd lost a little weight in the three months since his diagnosis, but he hadn't wasted away.

Jesse's war was internal. The cancer and the chemo were going head-to-head; Jesse's insides were the scorched battlegrounds.

I rested my head against his chest. The fabric of his pajama top was cold, but I could feel the warmth from beneath. Jesse wrapped his arms around me and cried into my long brown hair.

BOOKS BY SELENE CASTROVILLA

 

By the Sword

Melt

Revolutionary Friends

Saved by the Music

The Girl Next Door

Upon Secrecy

 

g

 

Selene is pleased to have a piece included in the charitable book anthology

 

Travel in the Sixties,

whose proceeds fund art/music therapy for Alzheimer's patients.

 

Copyright © 2014 by Selene Castrovilla

All right reserved. Published by Last Syllable Books, 4251 New York Avenue, Island Park, NY 11558

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the publisher, except for brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews, or as provided by the United States of America copyright law.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. No portion of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any form without the written permission of the Publisher. Please purchase only authorized editions. 

 

Castrovilla, Selene

Melt / Selene Castrovilla. – 1st ed.

p. cm

Summary: Sixteen-year-old Dorothy meets seventeen-year-old Joey in a Long Island doughnut shop, and struggles to save him from alcoholism and nihilism, while Joey keeps a secret that threatens them both: his police officer father abuses and terrorizes his family.

 

ISBN-10:978-0-9916261-2-0

ISBN-13:0991626125

 

[1. Young adult – Fiction. 2. Family problems – Fiction. 3. Domestic violence – Fiction. 4. Alcoholism – Fiction. 5. Abuse – Fiction. 6. Love – Fiction. 7. Bildungsroman – Fiction. 8. New York – Fiction.]

 

Cover Design by Damonza.com

Cover photo by Sarah Delk

Interior Design by Damonza.com

Edited by Evelyn Fazio

Copyedited by Jenny Peterson

 

Printed in the USA

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

 

First Edition