Authors: Kiki Hamilton
The Last Dance (6 page)
M
ira rushed up to me in the school hallway, her eyes wide with excitement. There was a hot pink streak through the blonde hair that swept across her forehead that matched the hot pink dotted mini and black fishnet leggings she was wearing—complete with hot pink boots. I was in skinny leg jeans, black boots and a black shirt. Somebody had to balance her flamboyance.
“Ivy—” she clutched at my arm, her hands encased in hot-pink fingerless gloves— “did you hear that Kellen Peterson got out of the hospital?”
I kept walking. There was barely enough time to navigate the crowded halls of Griffin High and get to my fourth period orchestra class within the four minutes they allotted us. I definitely didn’t have time to stop and chat.
“The quarterback?” I didn’t dare make fun of him now. My crack about Q the quadriplegic still rang in my ears with an uncomfortable resonance, because from everything I’d heard, the dude was seriously messed up.
“Of course.” Mira hurried along with me. “How many Kellen Petersons do you think go to this school?”
Before Kellen’s accident I hadn’t really given the star quarterback much thought other than to listen to Mira prattle on about him. But now, it was pretty gut-wrenching what had happened to the guy.
We were both seniors. He was in my AP English class. Eight months and seventeen days and we were all out of here. I was bound for college—if my parent’s got their wish it would be either Stanford, Harvard or Yale. That is, if I survived playing Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 5 in D Major next weekend as the showcase piece of our Fall symphony concert. I wondered what the future held for him now.
“Q was in a coma for a week after the game.”
Mira knew I was not a fan of football. In my opinion, it was a stupid game where the main goal seemed to be to try and hurt the other player. I knew about Q’s condition because that was all Mira and anybody else had talked about for days after the game.
Mira adjusted the black sparkly messenger bag slung across her shoulder she used as a backpack. “They wouldn’t let anybody see him. They had to drill a hole in his head to let off the pressure. I heard they think he had a mini-stroke.”
I flicked my long bangs to one side so I could get a better look at her face. “The way you keep track of him and talk about him all the time, you’d think you were his girlfriend.” I nudged her with my elbow, trying to get her to look at me. “Don’t you think you should leave it to his real girlfriend?”
Mira averted her eyes. “His real girlfriend is a bitch.”
I frowned. Mira didn’t swear very often. She made up imaginary swear words instead, like ‘shizzle’ or ‘holy chicken head’. I cleared my throat. “Apparently he doesn’t think so.”
“That’s because he doesn’t know.” She glanced over her shoulder to see who was behind us in the hall before she continued in a whisper. “I heard that Laurel’s been seeing Josh Hendershot behind Q’s back.” Mira made a hissing noise in the back of her throat. The sound always reminded me of a vampire but it was her way of verbalizing her utmost disgust. “Cheating on someone while they’re in a coma—that is seriously cold.”
“Yeah. Downright bitchy.” I, on the other hand, had no problem with swear words. I looped my arm through hers and pulled her around the corner into the commons that led to the orchestra room. “But the good news is—it’s not our problem.”
I
had to go home in a wheelchair. It was like my brain wasn’t connected to my body anymore. The docs scheduled me for physical therapy five days a week because I need to strengthen my right arm and leg. Not to mention my fingers. My handwriting looked worse than a first grader’s.
They also gave me a journal. A going-away present, I guess. Told me to start with today and write something every day. But I started with the day of the homecoming game. That’s when everything changed.
Usually I only write a line or two because it takes forever, though it’s hardly legible. My right hand won’t work and I can’t write for crap with my left. I guess this way I don’t have to worry about anyone reading it.
Thank God I could communicate with my friends by texting. Sort of.
I kept hoping this was all a nightmare and maybe I’d wake up.
MY MOM TOOK another week off work to stay home with me and drive me to physical therapy since I couldn’t drive my truck yet. The work-outs were grueling, but I was used to it after all the years I’d trained for football, basketball and baseball. At least I could take my frustration out on the machines. But in the end, they always kicked my butt.
Then there was my homework. Ollie and CJ were taking turns bringing my assignments over to the house for me. They knew how bad things were now. How my leg and arm were messed up. How tough it was to talk clearly. They promised they wouldn’t tell.
I’d discouraged anybody else from stopping by, though it was nice to know so many people cared and wanted to help. Some of the kids from school even put up a ‘Welcome Home Kellen’ banner across our front porch.
School had always come easy for me. I had a decent grade point average—a 3.8— because I wanted to have options after football. Secretly, I’d always toyed with the idea of being a doctor one day. After my football career, that is. But I’d never killed myself to get straight A’s, though I’m pretty sure I could if I wanted. Now, I can’t seem to remember anything I’d read and trying to think my way through a simple math problem gave me a headache.
At this rate, I’d be lucky if I kept a 2.8 gpa.
LAUREL CAME BY TODAY.
I had just returned from PT so I was really tired. When I got tired, nothing seemed to work very well. My right leg dragged, my fingers wouldn’t do what I wanted and my speech was more slurred than usual.
I was flopped across the couch, watching ESPN, still in my sweats and pitted-out t-shirt. I was too tired to try and navigate a shower.
My mom answered the doorbell. I could tell when she came into the family room and cleared her throat that it wasn’t CJ or Ollie. I pushed myself up with my good arm and peered over the back of the couch.
I’d never seen Laurel look better than she did right then. Her blonde hair was brushed back away from her face as if blown by the wind. We’d had a stretch of sunny fall weather and she was wearing a pair of beige shorts and a light blue jacket. Her legs were long and tan. As she walked toward me it was like one of those slo-mo moments with the babe on the sports commercial.
“Hey.” I tried to push myself into a sitting position without looking clumsy. I was acutely aware of how perfect she was and how far from perfect I was.
“I just couldn’t wait one day more before I saw you,” she cried. Behind her I saw my mom roll her eyes before she left the room. Laurel slid onto the couch and faced me, reaching for my hands. “How are you?”
“Good.” I nodded. I kept my right hand close to my body so she couldn’t see how weak it was. My fingers curved into my palm now and my wrist was twisted in a weird way. I wondered what she really saw when she looked at me. I’d lost quite a bit of weight and I knew that my cheekbones were more pronounced than they’d been before. I had a problem with the right side of my mouth—when I smiled, my lips didn’t always match up. So I tried not to smile.
She waited for me to say something but when I didn’t she looked down and fidgeted with the zipper on her coat. “When are you coming back to school?”
I concentrated on making my words clear. “Maybe in a week or two.” I nodded again. I could do that much normally. I think. My fingers ached to touch her skin, to wrap my arms around her and bury my face in her hair. Just to be normal again. Do all the things I used to take for granted.
But I didn’t move.
“How’ve you been?” I managed to ask.
She got a weird look on her face that I couldn’t figure out. “Fine.” An awkward silence filled the space between us making the distance seem unbridgeable.
She asked a few more questions. Was I in pain? Had I been doing my homework? Did I know Mark Carter was starting quarterback now?
I gave short awkward answers. My heart pounded and ached at the same time. I wanted to ask her what she’d been doing. How cheerleading was going. Anything. Everything. Mostly I wanted to ask why she hadn’t visited me in the hospital. But I didn’t.
She looked at me for a second, then dropped her eyes.
Another long silence stretched between us.
“Well, I guess I better go.” She jumped to her feet.
I nodded. “Yeah.” I couldn’t stand up without giving away how bad my right side was. I was tired enough I wasn’t sure my right leg would support me. “Thanks for coming by.” But even to my own ears my words sounded garbled and confusing.
Her eyebrows flicked into a brief frown and then she forced a smile onto her face. “Well—” she lifted her hands up and let them drop to her sides— “take care. I’ll see you soon.” She backed away from the couch. I lifted my left hand to wave goodbye as she turned and walked out of the room. I stared at her legs as she left, long and tanned—working so effortlessly.
When the front door snapped shut behind her I closed my eyes and let my head drop back against the couch. A long sigh slipped past my lips and I squeezed my eyes shut to try to stop the tears from escaping.
What had happened to my life?
Laurel sent me a text an hour later breaking up with me.
M
y mother adjusted my hair and straightened the collar of my white shirt. Again. I was an odd mix of nerves and calm. I knew this piano piece inside and out. I had practiced until my fingers were raw nubs of flesh. Okay, that was an exaggeration, but it sounded good.
As I stood in the antechamber off the main auditorium I listened to the swell of music as the violins, cellos, and flutes crashed into a crescendo. Eight more measures and they would stop and introduce me. I flexed, then wiggled my fingers to keep them limber. I wondered if anyone had ever had a heart attack and fallen face first onto the keys whilst playing Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 5 in D Major?
“Remember to smile,” my mother instructed me. “All your hard work will pay off.”
The music came to a halt and applause echoed through the room. I began to pace, a wave of nerves trying to drown me. I heard the voice of the conductor over the microphone.
The door creaked open and a woman dressed in black stuck her head into the room. She motioned with her hand. “Ivy, you’re up now.”
I nodded and gave my mother a quick peck on the cheek. My father was seated out in the audience along with Mira, Shelby and Lily, though the girls weren’t sitting with my parents. They had come to support me, but at that second I wished the concert hall was empty.
“Make us proud,” my mother whispered to me.
I nodded and walked through the door.
“And remember to smile.”
A swell of applause started when the audience spotted me. I smiled and nodded in acknowledgement, my shoulders back, as I walked at an even pace to the grand piano centered in the middle of the orchestra. I wondered if I was going to throw up on my dress just like Q did.
The conductor in his black tails bowed to me and spoke soft words of encouragement as I stepped toward the piano bench. I took my seat and faced the familiar row of black and white keys. A calm settled in my shoulders and arms. It was like coming home. I poised my fingers over the keys and nodded my readiness to the conductor.
My fingers knew their way through the song as much from muscle memory as from conscious placement. The melody rippled from the keys and soared to the highest peaks of the room. I forgot the audience. I forgot my friends. I forgot my parents and their dream for me to be a doctor. It was just me, my piano and the musicians around me, speaking a language that flowed through my fingers rather than through my mouth.
Thirty minutes later I finished with a flourish and was greeted with deafening applause. I knew my mother would have heard the few mistakes I made, but apparently the audience hadn’t, because they gave me a standing ovation as I left the room.
Brandon Chang was first cello and caught my eye as I walked by. He raised his eyebrows and gave an approving nod. It was like ten pounds had been lifted off my shoulders. Playing piano, creating music—this was what I wanted to do with my life.
“W
elcome back, Mr. Peterson.” Our principal, Mr. Decker, sounded sincere as he walked around his desk to greet me. It had been a month since I’d been to school. I could walk on my own again, but my right foot dragged in a weird way if I tried to walk fast. Well, really, if I walked at all.
Mr. Decker started to reach for my hand to shake then thought better of it and put his hand on my shoulder instead. “Per your parent’s request I’ve taken the liberty of lining up a tutor so you won’t have any trouble getting caught up on your studies.”
I nodded.
“If you need any help with anything—” he paused to look me in the eyes— “and I mean
anything
, son—you let me know.”
“Thank you, sir.” I ducked my head as I spoke so he wouldn’t see my lips twist in that weird way they did now. I used to think I owned this school. Now I wanted to be invisible.
He motioned to a chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat. She should be along any minute.”
She? My tutor was a girl? Shit. Great.
The principal slid a hand over the few wisps of hair that covered the bald top of his head. “I’ve arranged for her to accompany you to your classes for the next few weeks so she can take notes and get you back up to speed.”
He picked up a piece of paper and glanced at it as he sat down on the edge of his desk. “It looks like you’ve already got a class together—AP English—maybe you know her?” He looked up at me. “Ivy Ly?”
The name sounded familiar but I had trouble remembering my own name lately, let alone matching faces and names with people I barely knew from classes I hadn’t attended in a month.
I shrugged and shook my head.
“Ah, well, that may be all for the best. Miss Ly is a brilliant student. She’s maintained a 4.0 all four years she’s been in high school while taking accelerated classes. She’s also a gifted musician excelling in both violin and piano.” He peered closer at the paper again. “Hmmmm…it looks like she’s going to be working with you fifth period on the piano as well.”
