I rose from the chair and crept forward, glancing left and right the entire way, just to be sure no one was coming for me. The curtain was thick and silky in my fingers, and very heavy. I pulled it back ever so slightly. Then it closed abruptly and I couldn’t figure out why, until I saw my hand was still poised in the air, but with no curtain in it; only my empty fingers, splayed like chicken talons.
Breathe, I told myself, which I did, noisily.
Again, I reached for the curtain and this time managed to hang onto it. My knees were weakening, though, and I would soon need to sit—or lie—down. Looking upon the crowd where, as far as the eye could see, people thrashed and swayed together, like seaweed affixed to the bottom of the ocean floor. I realized—not being someone prone to exaggerations—this was my worst nightmare.
Fuzzy, black spots percolated in my eyes; I gripped the curtain tightly and bent my knees, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth.
The noise was palpable; among the constant and unintelligible din, the throng chanted something as the next band took center stage. A slim man with a shaved head adjusted the freestanding microphone. “How is everyone doing tonight?” he asked around a guitar pick, his English accent carried through the speakers. The crowd roared back at him like a hungry animal. “We're glad to be here.” He strummed a few times, adjusting something around his ear. The voices began to chant again, and this time I had no difficulty understanding them.
The word was Coldplay.
Something equivalent to lightning shocked the base of my spine.
I’m on after Coldplay.
As the lead singer began the first song, I stumbled back to my chair, teetering unsteadily. Glancing in the mirror framed with bright bulbs, I noticed my usual alabaster complexion had taken on an odd tint—a sea-foam green, almost the exact same color as my eyes.
You must not get sick, I warned myself.
Leaning in further, I propped my chin up in the palms of my hands, assessing myself. Gingerly, I traced the outline of my red lips—swollen and chapped from excessive licking. And though I couldn’t have been more alert, my eyes looked glazed over with fear; like two sunken walnuts. I sighed at my reflection. I could only hope Star was an expert cosmetician.
“I take it you’re Foster?”
Startled, my elbows slid out from under me, whereupon my chin dropped and whacked hard against the surface of the vanity. As I turned to meet the face belonging to the sultry female voice—soothing the chin that throbbed and burned—a hot flush erupted on my neck and cheeks.
Star granted me a moment to take in all of her, which truthfully speaking, was a lot. Not in terms of size; in fact she was quite petite, and her name was certainly befitting.
Star looked as if she had been dipped head to toe in a gelatinous pool of glitter. It was everywhere—embedded in her skin, stained into her clothes, radiating in the air around her. Even her garnet-red lips and silver eyelids had been coated in royal milieu. Her head was shaved within an inch of her scalp, also dyed silver and doused in glitter. Idly, I considered that if someone turned off all the lights, her head might look a little like a disco ball.
Under the glamorous visage and heavy makeup she was extremely lovely; with a milky complexion and deep-set brown eyes. Star possessed an innocence that even dense cosmetics couldn’t conceal. Innocence, I surmised, was likely not the message she hoped to convey.
Star had covered her curvaceous body in black spandex: small shorts, and what appeared to be a band of black fabric wrapped around her . . . middle. A miniature, sparkly barbell punctured her navel. All along her arms, stopping just shy of her throat, were colorful tattoos—like sleeves, actually.
“Hello,” I murmured, finally. I tried not to stare, but I doubted as long as I lived that I would never again see a Star. My gaze wandered, past the solid thighs, lean and shapely calves, all the way to her black boots. As expected, they had been sprayed thoroughly with a can of glitter. She stood akimbo, waiting for a reply to the question I had yet to answer.
“Yes, I’m Foster.”
Star’s eyes sparkled. “Of course you are. And I’m Star.” Her voice was smooth, like melted chocolate, and for some reason I found myself wanting to swallow. Star’s shiny lips drew upward in a smirk, then she turned toward the vanity. “When you’re finished having a look, Foster,” she said absently, “why don’t you go ahead and take a seat.”
Blinking owlishly I did, not realizing that at some point I had stood up. Star batted her eyes, and light glanced off the silver rhinestones on the ends of her lashes. “Uncross your legs, please,” she instructed. “Put your hands in your lap and sit up straight for me.”
Immediately I followed her commands. Something about Star, something I couldn’t name, elicited a strong desire to obey. She reminded me of mythical lore—of Sirens, and how they would lure lascivious sailors from the ocean, using their uncanny beauty and hypnotic voices. And only after it was too late—shipwrecked against the rocks—would the men discover they had been beguiled into their own deaths.
Caught up in a reverie, I stared with blank absorption at Star’s mouth; her lips continued to move for a moment before I realized she was speaking to me.
“Pardon me?” I said, laughing in nervousness. “Can you repeat the question, please?”
Star smiled, one eyebrow arching upward. “I didn’t ask you a question," she replied. “I asked you to face me.”
“Oh.” I hurried to swivel toward her. “Is this all right?”
“Perfect as palm trees,” she murmured abstractedly, positioning herself close enough that I could feel her warm stomach pressing against my arm. “Let’s see what we got here, shall we?” Dark, loamy eyes inspected my face. I began to move upward as Star pumped a lever on the side of my chair. “Nice thick eyebrows. Mm, but we should probably make two of them,” she commented, removing a sharp tool from what looked to be a pink suitcase. Star studied me, as though I was a blank canvas and she a painter. “You have wide, almond-shaped eyes with flecks of amber and gold in them. I’m going to use lavender and lots of mascara,” she decided, showing me a thin, black box with several circles of shimmery powder carved into it. “Rose for your lips and cantaloupe for your cheeks.”
Cantaloupe? Curious and also oblivious, I didn’t question her. I knew very little about makeup. Still, the use of flowers and fruit came as a surprise.
Star’s eyebrows came together in a furrow. “Has someone already done your hair?”
Looking at her face I would have liked to say no.
“They told me all the hairstylists were busy, and that I should do it myself,” I answered.
“Mm-hm." Star nodded slowly and began re-chewing her gum. “So I see.”
I looked in the mirror at the shoulder-length catastrophe spiraling and poking out in every direction. Never had I understood the concept of a good hair day; each morning I awoke and showered, and the entity on top of my head made its own choices.
“Okay, well,” she lifted her bare shoulders, “if we have time at the end, I’ll try and fix—I mean, touch it up.” She brushed the hair from my eyes with her knuckles, and spun me a fraction to the right where she began drawing on my eyebrows with a colored pencil. “So how’d you score this gig? This is a pretty swanky concert, lots of famous bands. You can’t be more than fifteen, right?”
“Seventeen,” I corrected her, softly.
“Really?” Star leaned back to examine me. “Hm, must be the heart-shaped face. Makes you look younger. So, what? Your dad a record producer or something?”
At that I couldn’t help but laugh a little. Dr. James Kelly, a record producer. Never in my wildest dreams could I imagine that. “No,” I replied, careful not to jostle around too much. “I . . . I placed first in a school-competition.” Even to my own ears I sounded unsure, and of course I was; unsure as to how I had arrived here.
“Really? What kind of competition?”
“A songwriting competition,” I elaborated. “At
Shorecliffs—”
“Where?”
“Shorecliffs. It’s where I go to school.”
“Uh-huh, go on,” she said in a voice that made me feel ridiculous for telling her something she already knew.
“They have a special music program. Each year the students are asked to write an original song. It’s called the Senior Piece.”
“Nice. And this piece,” she said musingly, standing back to examine my face, “it’s just you?”
Without thinking, I shook my head and Star gave me a warning look. “Sorry,” I said, contrite. “Every student is assigned a partner,” I explained. “The class is divided up into vocalists and instrumentalists, one of each in every pairing.” I opened the eye she wasn’t brushing powder on, to see if she was following.
“Uh-huh,” she said, nodding. “And?”
“Oh. Well, at the end of the year each pair performs their song for the entire school. Then the student body votes for their favorite. From there the winners go on to a final competition with all the other schools.”
“And the prize was to perform your song? Here?”
“Yes, that’s right. One of Mr. Balfy’s—my music teacher,” I added before Star could ask who. “One of his former students is affiliated with a company that promotes unsigned artists.”
“And they, what? Promise you a spot?” she asked. “Give you a record deal?”
“Yes. I was told they organized the competition around the annual BandSlam concert, hoping to attract more attention from high schools.”
Star’s mouth hung open in focus. “Huh. I never knew they did that. Pretty good deal, right? Um . . .” Star deliberated, her hand hovering in circles over the strewn out supplies. She picked up a utensil that looked like a miniature chimney-sweeping tool and swirled it around in soft-orange powder. ‘So are you the vocalist or the instrumentalist?”
“Vocalist.” For whatever reason I decided not to mention the piano.
“Soprano or alto?” she asked, stabbing my eyebrow with something sharp.
I squeaked, but managed to stay still, despite the burning hotspot. “Soprano.”
“Sorry,” she said, without much enthusiasm. “Like I said, there should be two of them. So how many schools compete?”
“About seventy-five, I believe.”
“Impressive.” I blushed furiously at her complimentary look. “That’s a lot of schools.”
“It is,” I agreed, mystified.
“Do this face for me,” Star instructed, pursing her lips. I did, and closed my mouth when she came toward me with a tiny wand covered in sticky pink goo. She dabbed me six times, then stepped back to admire her work, twisting the cap back onto the tube of lip-gloss. “Now do this,” she said, mashing her lips together. “So where’s this partner of yours?”
I stared into Star’s liquid brown eyes, pressing my lips together like she’d shown me, and suddenly I was very confused. I understood the question, but at the same time . . . I didn't. “Pardon me?”
“Didn’t you say you had a partner? An instrumentalist?”
My entire body went rigid. Like robotic fists, dread and terror pummeled me from all sides. Why didn’t I know where my partner was? A better question, why didn’t I know who my partner was? How could I not know this? By now I would have worked on the song with him or her for at least three months.
“Are you okay? What is it? Do you not like the makeup?” Star moved her hands to her hips. “I think it looks amazing.”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t answer. I was paralyzed.
Star waved her glittery hand in front of my face. “Hel-lo? Anyone there?”
“Foster Kelly. I need Foster Kelly immediately.”
Lionel. He had returned for me.
I barely noticed as he rushed toward us. “Oh, thank you, God! Your face looks much better,” he said, on an exhale.
“Um.” Star waved at Lionel. “You know I had a little something to do with that.”
“Yeah, I know, Star. But there’s no way you did all that”—Lionel flicked his fingers in my direction—“without some serious help. Let’s go, Piano Girl. Coldplay is just about done with their set. Hey! Hello?” I thought I saw him bend to the left and look from under me. “What’s wrong with you?”
“I don’t know what happened to her,” Star chimed in. “All of sudden she went blank on me. One second she was there, and then—poof!—nothing. Piano Girl? I thought she sings?”
“Both, I think. I don’t know. I don’t really care. I just need her to be more than this. I can’t work with this.” More snapping fingers in my face. “Foster! Are you daydreaming again? Why aren’t you dressed? You need to get dressed—immediately!” Lionel’s naturally ruddy complexion evolved into an even deeper shade of magenta. “Where—are—your—clothes?”
Dazed, I looked down at my green t-shirt, jeans, and sandals. “I-I-I don’t know,” I whispered. “I wasn’t given any clothes.”
“Wardrobe!” Lionel shouted into the megaphone. “I need wardrobe—immediately! And bring those Diet Cokes or I swear, every last one of you will—” Two Diet Cokes appeared at his feet. “Next time, don’t make me ask me twice,” he threatened to the man running away. To me he said, “Where’s your partner?”
There was a great pressure at the nape of my neck, like a fist. “I’m not sure,” I confessed.
“Well,” he asked through clenched teeth, “what does he look like?”
I inhaled a ragged breath, swallowing back a wave of hysteria. “I’m not sure if it’s a he.”
Lionel released something like a sigh and a growl, on the verge of combustion. Beads of sweat dotted his brow and dripped down the sides of his face. “Seriously, WARDROBE!” He whirled around and smacked someone on the back of the head with his clipboard. “You! Get me wardrobe—immediately! And you, why isn’t her hair done? Huh?”
Star raised her hands and stepped back. “Woah. I do makeup—not hair. I would think it’s pretty obvious,” she concluded, pointing at her shaved head.
I watched the Star shut her suitcase and saunter away, sparkling and sparkling. I was losing it again.
Lionel threw tiny exasperated arms in the air. “You know what? I don’t have time for this. You’re on in thirty-eight seconds. I don’t care if you can’t find your partner, if you’re dressed for bowling, and your hair looks you combed it with a tennis-racket. You get out there on that stage—right now—and sing your song! Immediately!”
I sensed Lionel was angry and that this was a very bad thing. From someplace not so close I mumbled, “Yes, Doctor.” But then Lionel’s face went blurry and he began to sway back and forth like a flickering pendulum.
“No! No, you will NOT!” he roared indignantly. “Don’t you dare faint, Foster Kelly!” Lionel’s enraged face rippled in half, distorted, and caved in on itself, like a soufflé that didn’t quite turn out. I heard him screaming at me to “Get up! Get up!” but it sounded like he called to me from inside a fish tank.
And then I was the one under water, and I had a tail; a shiny, scaly, luminously gorgeous tail. I was a mermaid. I was a singing mermaid. La-la-la-la-la. I was . . .
Oh, no. I was dreaming again.
I came awake, body rigid, clutching sheets to my chin. The alarm on my phone beeped monotonously, puncturing my skull with every beep-beep, beep-beep, beep-beep. I dove beneath my pillow and shut it off, but not before glimpsing at the reminder typed neatly across the screen in bold black letters.
It had arrived: the week I had been dreading since the school year began. Today in class we would be reminded, and tomorrow . . .
March 11th Senior Piece Partners Assigned
Between the two choices, I would have preferred to spend the day with Lionel.
Chapter Two
For many children, I think it happens early on. Even if at that point we’re completely unaware, there is that moment when everything changes: gray turns to black and white, open windows of opportunity slam shut and slogans such as
“You are the future!” and “Dream big and do great things!” are recycled and dispensed for the next generation. For me, that moment happened at age five, sitting crisscross-applesauce on Mrs. Pickleberry’s alphabet rug.
As my teacher took her rightful place at the front of the room, lowering her aging body into a creaking orthopedic chair, she gave us a smile that traveled around the room like sunshine, warmly regarding her fresh batch of kindergarteners. I was nervous and very excited. One by one she called our names, peering over the top of her bifocal glasses to acknowledge the hands that raised from laps like rocket-ships.
First Michael, then Chloe, Lin, Brandon, Andrew, and Miriam.
Sitting at Mrs. Pickleberry’s feet, I liked her immediately. Even now, twelve years later, I still remember her worn, creamy skin, the fine veins glowing blue under the rose of her cheeks.
Wiggling and squirmy, I eagerly awaited those kind blue eyes to meet my own. And wanting to be ready for this joyous moment, I pulled the hem of my dress down to cover my knees, refolded my white, ruffled socks, and licked my finger to wipe away a smudge on my shiny Mary Jane’s. Then, with a satisfied sigh, I folded my hands, resting them in the bowl of my dress.
I was ready.
Sean, Gianna, Thomas, Miguel, and Mia were called.
Any moment now Mrs. Pickleberry would call out “Foster?” and I would do as my peers had—fling my arm high and wave until she found me. It didn’t matter that she had repeated, “Welcome to the class, you and I are going to be great friends,” eleven times already. When she said these words to me, that was when I would know; know I was meant to be there and nowhere else, about to begin . . . everything.
Mrs. Pickleberry never called my name.
I should say, rather, she never addressed me by the correct name. Later I would come to find out a minor error had been made when I was assigned to the classroom; which meant when she called out, “Kelly? Is Kelly here with us today?” the air remained empty, vacant of a raised hand.
The roll call concluded and we were told to locate our seats—each desk donning a hand-made nametag. Unsure, I remained seated at Mrs. Pickleberry’s feet. And between a five-year-old and a woman in her late seventies, neither one of us were able to put two and two together.
Awakening Foster Kelly Page 2
