Better Than This

by Tia Souders

His gaze bore into mine a moment, before he asked, “Where’ve you been?”

  I shrugged, wanting to curl inside myself. Instead, I forced myself to stand tall and said, “I was busy today. I practiced with Mr. Neely in free period and at lunch. Listen, Derek, I—”

  “Thinking about backing out on our show? I knew the other day when you agreed, you’d chicken out.” He shook his head, shifting his gaze away from me. The muscle in his jaw ticked, and had he said anything else, anything to show he cared even the tiniest bit, I might’ve retreated. But his reminder of our “comeback show” gave me renewed purpose.

  Silently thanking him, I flashed him a tight-lipped smile. “Don’t worry. I’m still on for your precious little show. I agreed to it, and I don’t go against my word. I came here to tell you that we’re over.”

  He frowned, his forehead creasing in confusion, and if my heart hadn’t been hammering so hard inside of my chest, I might’ve found his expression comical.

  “So, if you’re still doing the show, then…”

  “Us. You and me,” I said, gesturing between us. I rubbed my damp palms over my jeans and shifted, fighting the urge to wring my hands in front of me. “I’ll stay with the band, but you and I are done. I just… I have too much to concentrate on with relearning how to play, and I need to focus all my energy on the guitar,” I said, knowing how lame I sounded. “I won’t have much free time in the coming months if I’m going to be ready,” I added.

  A smirk curled the corners of his mouth. He narrowed his eyes, and an uncomfortable silence stretched between us, until he finally broke it and snickered. “Do you really think I don’t know what this is about?”

  My throat went dry, making it impossible to speak.

  “You think I don’t know you’ve been hanging around that guy? What’s his name? Laird?” he said, dragging out the name. He sneered and turned his head, drawing back and spitting on the cement beside him as if to show me what he thought of him. “You found yourself a new guitar-buddy and now you’re all high-and-mighty. You think you’re better than us? We’ve been there for you, Sam,” he said, pointing to his chest. “When you didn’t want to go home and your life was crap, we were there.”

  I winced. His words hit me like a slap in the face. He was right. Though they never really cared about me, they had been my distraction. If I had them, at least I belonged somewhere. At least someone wanted me, even if it was for their own personal gain.

  I swallowed over the lump in my throat. “This isn’t about you guys. It’s about me and—”

  “Are you sure about that? Because from where I’m standing, it’s looking pretty personal. You’re spending time with him, and then you tell me this isn’t about me? About the band? That’s crap, and you know it,” he said fisting his hands. “Do you really think he likes you?” He laughed, an incredulous sound. “I mean, come on. He’s probably just using you for the attention. Dating the infamous Samantha Becker with the missing finger. Oooh.” He waved his hands in the air, mocking, and I wanted nothing more than to punch him.

  His hypocrisy amazed me. I stared at him with wide eyes, wondering how he could be so cruel and if he actually believed the things he said. Did he not see how he was doing the very thing he accused Laird of?

  My stomach clenched with the accusation. I glanced down at the ground, my mind reeling. The thought of Laird using me made it hard to breathe. Hadn’t I questioned his intentions myself? I shook the thought away. I refused to let Derek play into my insecurities. Not now.

  I closed my eyes, remembering the soft press of Laird’s lips to mine. The way he held my hand, unashamed—proud, even. I reminded myself of how we laughed, the way my skin caught fire every time we touched, and how he flirted with me with glittering eyes, and I didn’t care what Derek said or anyone thought. I had to believe in Laird. I had to believe I was enough for someone.

  I took a deep breath and forced myself to meet Derek’s gaze. “I’m still a part of the band, and I’ll be ready for our show. But that’s all.” I took a step back. “We’re done. I’m sorry,” I said, hating those two words as they left my mouth about as much as I hated myself for not completely cutting ties.

  I turned and hurried to my truck, praying he didn’t stop me, yet knowing he wouldn’t. In the end, he never really cared. Only time would tell if Laird did.

  14

  Four months passed but not without their struggles. Anger and joy, pain and elation, frustration and contentedness all fought for precedence amongst my unwieldy emotions. I often looked back on the passing days as they turned into weeks and then months and wondered how my life changed so wholly in such a short period of time. My days were still filled with darkness and light. But somehow, the light in my life had become brighter until it held the power to take one joyous, perfect moment and drown out a dozen other crappy ones.

  The last day in February had arrived, bringing, what I hoped, was an end to the last of frigid days and the start of spring in the coming month. Yet, no promise of sunny days and blooming flowers could brighten the fear and panic flooding my veins as I stared at the content on the computer screen before me.

  My vision blurred. I squinted in the darkness, rereading the blog entry as I had done for the past hour. But no matter how many times I read it, the words never changed. Instead, the page for Juilliard’s Office of Admissions Blog stared back at me. The headline screamed, “2011 Auditions Are Here!”

  Two thoughts ran through my head when I read those words: audition letters had been sent out, and I hadn’t received one.

  I slumped back into my chair, away from the computer, not wanting to believe what I just read. Without an audition date, all my worrying about how I would play didn’t matter.

  Maybe it got lost in the mail and was being rerouted? Maybe mine was sent late? I refused to believe I wasn’t given an audition. Otherwise, what was the point?

  I glanced to the guitar case on the floor—my personal light in the dark.

  Only a week after I asked, June had managed to get my guitar back to me. She convinced my father I had confided in her about my doctors wanting me to step away from my music for a while, a truth he clung to in his argument against my playing. Being the guitar had originally been hers, it didn’t take much persuading for him to believe she wanted the guitar back for Tad. According to June, my father was more than happy to oblige, on the condition I was not to know of the guitar’s whereabouts.

  June gave me the guitar the next day, a huge smile spread across her wrinkled lips. My elation at holding it in my arms again was indescribable, and though I couldn’t practice at home, the sacrifice was a minor one since it allowed me to avoid my parents. Even now, sitting in the darkened corner of the room, the instrument was like contraband; if found, the punishment would be severe. My practice with Mr. Neely in the morning, though, made the risk worth taking. He pulled me aside in the hallway, stating he had something to discuss with me, which had to be The Davenport Foundation. Every bit as necessary as admittance, financial aid could mean the difference between Juilliard and a life of enslavement at Becker Loan & Trust.

  Yet if I didn’t get an audition, money became a nonissue. “Oh please, don’t let it be a nonissue,” I whispered in the dark.

  As much as I wanted my uneasiness to fade, I knew it wouldn’t. I pushed away from my desk, ignoring the sinking sensation in my gut and paced across my room. Outside, the full moon illuminated the yard below, casting silver on the dormant azalea bushes surrounding the back of June’s house. The darkened windows stared up at me, more welcoming than the room in which I stood. Five months ago, I had no one to turn to. But as I stared out into the clear night, the dawning that I had someone to lay my problems upon, for even just the smallest of moments, hit me. I wasn’t alone.

  “Tad,” I murmured, heading for my bedroom door.

  I hurried outside, forgetting a jacket, and trudged across the frosted lawn in sneakers, sweatpants, and the t-shirt I slept in. Though my punishment helping June had
expired long ago, I spent the majority of my free time at her place with Tad, making her house almost feel like home again.

  When I reached the back window, the one I knew led to the guest room, I stood on my toes, gripping the sill with my fingers. I peeked inside. A slumped form was sprawled on the bed, covered in mounds of blankets. I snickered at the image of a frightened Tad and the sudden desire for a really wicked mask.

  I rapped against the window, lightly at first, merely a brush of knuckles, and then hard when he didn’t so much as stir. Finally, after several minutes of me freezing in the pre-dawn, Tad rolled out of bed and lifted the window an inch.

  He squinted into the dark night, his eyes two slits below wiry eyebrows. “Hello? Someone there?”

  “Hurry up and open the window further. It’s flippin’ freezing out here!”

  “Sam?” If possible, he squinted more.

  “Yes, it’s me. Open up.” My breath came out in angry puffs.

  He slid the window open further and stepped back. I hoisted myself up with my arms and slung my left leg up to the window ledge. With a grunt, I pushed my body up until my other foot found purchase, and I fell into the room. Breathing hard, I stared at him a moment as he grappled on the nightstand for his glasses.

  He found the thick frames and slid them on. “You could’ve been a lunatic or murderer for all I knew.” His gaze penetrated me with his newfound vision.

  I rolled my eyes. “Then why’d you open the window in the first place?”

  He shrugged and plopped down on the bed with a yawn. “What time is it?”

  “Four.”

  Tad’s eyes widened. “In the morning?”

  “No, at night… Of course in the morning. Listen,” I said waving the discussion of time away. “There’s more important things to talk about.”

  I launched right into things, knowing Tad would catch on. “I had known auditions were coming up. They’re scheduled every year in March. I guess I kept thinking, Mine’s just late. I’m still gonna get it. Be patient, but there’s no more waiting. Auditions are scheduled and letters have gone out. Probably went out a while ago, but I didn’t receive one. I didn’t get one,” I repeated, sinking into the bed next to him.

  Tad remained quiet for a moment, but I recognized the sign of his wheels spinning by the crease of his brow and his downcast eyes. “As long as you meet the criteria, you usually get an audition. It doesn’t make any sense,” he said.

  “I know.” I threw my hands up in the air. “I should have gotten one.”

  “You need to call them in the morning. I’m sure something just happened to your letter. You had to have gotten one.”

  I nodded. The advice should’ve soothed me more than it did, but underneath, something simmered. “It’s weird… I mean, what are the chances of my letter getting lost? Not that it couldn’t happen, but…”

  Tad spoke next to me, but I heard nothing except the buzz of his voice in the background of my thoughts. At once, everything tilted on its axis. In one violent movement, I brought my hands to my head, fisting them in my hair and yanking at the roots.

  “My father! He found the letter. It’s the only answer. My GPA is solid, and I had great recommendations. I met all the criteria for an audition, which means I got an audition but never received the letter.”

  “You think he hid it from you?” Tad asked, concern clouding his almond eyes.

  “I know he did.” I felt it, deep in the recesses of my body. My father had laid low for the last couple months. It seemed peculiar at the time. He hardly mentioned working at the bank and spoke of my desire for a career in music even less frequently. At times, I wondered about his sudden lack of interest in my future. Now it all made sense.

  I should’ve known…

  Fury whipped into me, leaving me breathless. I tried to focus on the steady rhythm of my pulse, but the more I tried to calm myself, the more my chest constricted, leaving my heart knocking against my ribs.

  “Sam? Are you okay?” He moved into my line of vision, a blur of color and movement, but I couldn’t focus. “You can call Juilliard tomorrow and find out your audition time, tell them you lost your letter or something. It’ll be fine. No big deal.”

  I shook my head. “But it is a big deal. He almost had me convinced I didn’t get one. What if I wouldn’t have been so sure? What if I wouldn’t have thought to call Juilliard and had just accepted that I hadn’t gotten an audition?”

  “You wouldn’t have. And Laird and I wouldn’t have let you.”

  I knew he was right. I should just shake it off, call Juilliard, and pretend like nothing happened, but I couldn’t.

  I left the way I came, through the window, up the lawn, and into my front door, except this time I carried with me the heat of anger to keep me warm. When I entered the house, I moved through the darkened kitchen and sat at the table without bothering to flick on the lights. My father was anything if not habitual. In two hours, he would wake and come down for his morning oatmeal.

  I would be waiting for him.

  * * *

  I watched as he entered the kitchen with his usual quick stride, so sure of himself, and found pleasure in the slight hitch in his step at the sight of me.

  “Morning,” he said with a nod and walked over to the coffee pot. “Getting an early start?”

  “You could say that.”

  He answered with a grunt as he added grinds to the coffee maker.

  I continued. “I have something I need to talk to you about.”

  “Why don’t you wait until this afternoon and come to my office. I have something I want to show you. It’s about the classes you’re taking this summer with The American Banking Institute.”

  “I’m not taking any classes, Dad.”

  He glanced up from the cupboards. Annoyance buckled his forehead. “Yes, you are. We’ve been over this. I already signed you up.”

  “I’m going to Juilliard.”

  Shock should’ve covered his expression but never appeared. Instead, his gaze sharpened on me, a look of knowing in his ice-blue eyes. “Nonsense. We’ve been through this too, Sam. There’s no career in music.”

  “You knew about my audition, didn’t you? You took my letter.”

  “It was for the best. You don’t need these ridiculous pipe dreams clouding your vision. First, it was running off with your silly band, and now this! You should be focused on one thing. If you were smart, you’d be spending your time researching schools to earn a degree to actually help prepare you for a career at—”

  “At Becker Loan & Trust, our company. The one you built and I’m to take over. I’ve heard it a million times before.”

  “Well, then you’d think it would’ve sunk in by now.”

  “I don’t want your life.” I pushed back from the table, the chair scraping against the tile floor. “I’d rather be happy and poor with my music, than miserable with money at the bank.”

  He stepped forward, the mug in his hands forgotten. “What makes you so sure if you auditioned, you’d even get into Juilliard? The school is exclusive. They don’t just let anyone with an instrument in. You’re smart. You do well in school. Not everyone can say that, but you need a career where you can use your head, not your hands. Besides, I’m sure they don’t too often get students with only nine fingers. It makes for difficulty playing.”

  Heat rose to my face, blurring my vision. “It would kill you if I got in, wouldn’t it?” Spittle flew from my mouth, along with every ounce of emotion I had. “If I got in after you had already figured you ruined my chances with your little mishap with the knife.”

  He snickered. “Here we go… I wondered how long it would take you to accuse me of doing it on purpose.”

  “Even if I didn’t get into Juilliard, I’m out of here. I’m not sticking around. I’ll leave with my friends if I have to, anything to get away from here.” I turned to leave but my father moved, blocking my path.

  “Like it or not, you’re the only child I’ve got
. The bank is your responsibility. Just like it was mine when my father passed. Get used to it.”

  I stormed out of the house, my tennis shoes slapping across the pavement to my truck. When I got in, I drove, paying little attention to where I was going, only knowing that I needed to get away. Prior to my injury, I never doubted my abilities with the guitar. I never doubted whether I’d get into Juilliard. I was confident. But more, I was determined, which is why the uncertainty pooling inside me now hurt so much. Worse yet, I allowed my father to plant the seed of doubt there.

  What if I didn’t get into Juilliard?

  I glanced down at my hand and the filmy piece of gauze still covering my severed ring finger. The final stitches had been removed months ago, but at my insistence, the nurses wrapped it with a bandage, thin enough so the skin could breathe but enough of a visual barrier I didn’t have to look at it. I hadn’t been ready to face the reality of it then, and maybe I still wasn’t ready now.

  My chest ached, and I drove for what felt like an eternity. It wasn’t until I turned onto the small gravel path at the cemetery that I realized where I had gone. Michael’s grave.

  * * *

  I followed the makeshift road over a small hill, driving at a snail’s pace, passing headstones of the departed. When I crested the top, I put my truck in park and hopped out. I focused my gaze past the huge statue of The Blessed Mother and several simple tombstones to a thick marble one. Fresh flowers lay on the dead grass below the stone, a sign of my father’s recent presence.

  When was the last time he did anything nice for me—the child that actually lived?

  I slowly closed the distance between myself and the place where my baby brother had been laid to rest. It had been forever since I visited him. After the accident, my father drove us to his grave often. Mom had been too upset to drive, and being only eight years old, I had little say in whether I wanted to accompany them. I remembered watching from the car. Tears flooded down Mom’s face as she spoke to the boy who couldn’t hear her any more than the stone marking his resting place. She spoke of the life he should have lived. And how, if she could, she would trade places with him in a heartbeat. Usually after about twenty minutes, she would collapse, hugging the earth as if she wanted to bury herself in it. Eventually, her visits became too morose for me to witness, so my father stopped bringing me.