Awakening Foster Kelly
Page 23
Vanya caught me riveted on the clock and leaned forward to whisper, “Tick-tock, tick-tock.”
The adrenaline flooding my veins for the last hour had left me feeling fleshy—a snail with no shell. For a while I was without a reason to believe he wouldn’t be coming in the door any second; then I realized what had happened. He wasn’t coming. As minute ten turned into fifteen, fifteen into twenty, and so on and so forth, I became even more certain of this. Still I watched.
Mr. Balfy. Clock. Door.
“Foster?”
I jerked upright as another powerful surge of adrenaline washed over me. As I realized it was only Mr. Balfy, I calmed slightly and blinked my eyes back into my head. “Would you mind coming up here for a minute?”
I nodded and scooted from my seat, wobbling toward him. My knees buckled as I took my second step; auspiciously, there were empty desks on either side of me. My palms slapped against the solid surface just before I slumped to the floor. I reached Mr. Balfy’s desk safely, though suddenly nervous for some reason, and began wringing my hands at my midsection. Mr. Balfy smiled wanly, whirling in his swivel chair to face me. I waited for him to speak, the muscles in my body hardening instinctively.
“Foster,” he said into his lap with some regret. He took the pencil from behind his ear and began twirling it one handed. He opened his mouth, then immediately shut it after looking up at me. Angling his head solicitously, he asked discreetly, “How are you feeling today?”
I shifted uncomfortably. “I’m fine, thank you,” I answered automatically, “How are you?”
He nodded meditatively, running a hand through the disheveled hair, pulled back in a loose ponytail. “Well, I’m—I’ll be honest . . . I feel terrible about what happened in class yesterday.” He sighed, leaning back in the chair so that the hinges gave a strident squeal. “You should never have been treated that way, and I’m sorry I was too distracted to notice what was going on.”
“It’s not your fault,” I whispered.
He smiled wanly with a slow blink of the eyes. “Thank you, I appreciate your kindness, Foster, and truth be told, I’ve given it a lot of thought. Casting blame really doesn’t ever do any good in the way of reconciling an issue; much better to focus on the solution.” He raised his wide brows thoughtfully.“But I’m wondering if I made a mistake. I just don’t know . . .” Rocking forward, he continued to twirl the pencil absently, lifting a bare foot off the ground and resting the heel on the edge of his chair. “I received a note this morning from the principal letting me know Dominic may or may not be coming to class today.”
I glanced down to make sure, that despite the pressure pounding below and to the left of my throat, my heart was in fact still beating on the inside of my body.
“Truthfully, Foster, I had hoped he would come to class today and apologize to you for the way he behaved,” he admitted ruefully, the admission tumbling out of his mouth in a guilty torrent. “Of course, I wasn’t going to force you to work with him if he couldn’t control his temper, but if he seemed genuinely sorry for—” His grave face pinched with perplexity, clouding up the clear gray eyes as he spoke through me. “For the life of me, I just can’t figure it out. Did I misread him? Maybe I should have waited until I could meet him in person before putting you two together—but, I’ve never been wrong about a partnership, not like this anyway,” he muttered half to himself, bafflement parading up and down his face.
“I want you to know I did speak to him several times . . . through e-mail, on the phone—even once on Skype so I could watch him audition. He’s incredibly talented, there’s no question about that; I knew he would do well in the class. But, really . . . it was how polite and humble he was that impressed me most.” He shook his head, as if to clear away the confusion. “Exceptionality breeds arrogance,” he stated pithily. “I can count on one hand the number of students I’ve had with talent such as his, without the ego to match. The combination very rarely exists in the same person. I think the reason I’m having such a hard time making peace with what’s happened is—” A solemn look passed over his eyes as he regarded me closely. “Is because this year I would have had two of those rarities, not only in the same class, but working together.”
This was clearly a compliment; the urge to say thank you pressed urgently at my tongue, but the woe delivered in both expression and tone prevented me from doing anything but blush and wring my sweaty hands together.
“So humble and respectful,” he repeated, rife with disbelief that the person he thought he knew, and the one that had shown up to class yesterday, were one in the same. “Everything was ‘Yes, Sir, No, Sir, Thank you very much, Sir.’ Beyond that, I just had this feeling about the two of you. I can’t explain it. I only know that it’s the most excited I’ve been about a Senior Piece pairing in a long time.” He paused, meeting my eyes with despondency. Picking up a thin piece of paper from his desk, he unfolded it, frowned, and refolded it carefully. “I don’t know if you saw . . . a few moments ago an office aide came in and delivered this to me.”
As I learned about Dominic through the perspective of Mr. Balfy, I struggled too.
I noticed the look on Mr. Balfy’s face; it was like what happened when you spilt milk on a newspaper—how you could see everything revealed.
I already knew what he was about to say.
Mr. Balfy unfolded the paper and sighed. He raised his eyes and they were full of apologies. “Foster, Dominic is no longer enrolled at Shorecliffs.”
I nodded. This is what I had expected. But what Mr. Balfy said and what I heard were two different things.
I heard, “Foster, Dominic left because of you.”
“Foster?” Mr. Balfy leaned forward, brows knit together. He placed the note on his desk. “Are you—”
“Yes.” I nodded vigorously, smiling brightly. “I’m fine.”
For the last twenty-four hours I had lived in torment, worrying endlessly over how I might endure the next three months of school. Now I wouldn’t have to, would I? With him gone—never coming back—everything would return to the way it was before. Never mind the fact that these were the greatest lengths a person had ever taken to rid themselves of my presence. What mattered was that it was over. That was it. I would never see him again. I couldn’t be happier . . . obviously this was best for everyone . . . we could both go on with our lives and pretend like it never happened. I wanted that. Of course I wanted that.
I waited for the sweet relief to consume me, to soothe every nerve shooting off like Fourth of July sparklers. And while I did begin to feel something, it wasn’t relief.
If I was being completely honest with myself . . . it was relief’s opposite.
~
Standing on my balcony barefooted and robed, I embraced the delicate mist that hugged each wild tendril, and clung possessively to my eyelashes. I stepped out further, avoiding the ankle-deep puddle draining slowly near the center of the deck. Overnight, the blue tarp I used to protect my recliner on dewy evenings had blown up at one side. The gray corduroy fabric was speckled with dark, wet spots, but undamaged. I pulled the tarp tight, tucking my books safely beneath it.
A chill ran through me when a large raindrop fell from the trellising above. It slid down my neck, rolling down the front of my robe until absorbed by the plushy microfiber. I moved back into the mist, raising my head and blinking into the gray and white marbled sky. I hung my head behind me, closed my eyes, and opened my mouth. Tiny pin pricks fell upon my tongue, not enough for a swallow, but still refreshing.
The rain tasted different here.
Leaning over the ledge, I smiled at the smoky white fog mingling with vaporous gray clouds. Soon it would be pouring. I looked down our street, where the lamps still glowed orange. They flickered occasionally, when the dark retreated enough to let morning have its say. This weather had me aching for snow.
I began to breathe deeply, hearing the sounds the rain made as it fell on a tin watering can, leaves, the pit-pit-pit on the
lattice. If I listened closely, I could almost hear a song in those noises.
At the word song he entered my mind and the morning’s softness retreated.
It was the music; it summoned him every time. The two seemed to go hand in hand, refusing to give me one moment of restorative peace. I couldn’t think about writing a song, or playing the piano without the concurrent flashes of his face forcing themselves upon me. There was no escaping to music or sleep—he resided in both.
Eleven days. Eleven days since he left Shorecliffs because of me. And despite Mr. Balfy’s assurances that I couldn’t have anything to do with that decision, I did know it was because of me. I understood his genuine certainty, erroneous as it was. He couldn’t know because he never saw the way Dominic had looked at me; first, as though I had scraped away any happiness that had ever existed within him, and next, the unbridled rage at my appearance in his life. Though I never managed to brush against even the hem of clarity, plenty of time trying had been devoted over the last week and half. Hours upon hours I tried to comprehend the events of that day, and why so foolishly I thought anything would go back to the way it was before?
In many ways, I suppose it had. I couldn’t have asked for more in terms of regaining my anonymity. Just as Jake expected, Emily was able to charm her way out of a suspension. But the relief was short lived, expiring at the same time every day, walking the hallway that would take me to Music class. For those few minutes, before and after the bell rang, I would hold my breath in anticipation. And when day after day the chair beside me remained empty, I was reminded most forcefully that something had changed. The anticipation, I thought, was in the fear of seeing him again; coming face to face with an exorbitant hatred. Only in the moments after, sitting at my desk in utter confusion, did I realize the only thing worse than Dominic showing up . . . was when he didn’t.
I moved into the warmth of my room, unnerved, and with a throbbing chill in my bones having little to do with the weather. Not today, I warned myself. Today doesn’t belong to you. I smoothed down my robe, feathery like the coat of a fuzzy duckling, and glanced at the picture frame on my dresser. Today belongs to them.
A whole Sunday at The House of Hope: I could hardly wait.
Dressed in comfortable jeans and a heavy red sweater, I stopped off at the garage to pick up the supplies I would need to get through today sanitarily. When the time came, I was positive wrapping a rubber band around each gloved wrist would keep the pestiferous gutter water from seeping into my skin or clothing. If not, well then, I had the Purell.
My rain boots and matching purple slicker were hanging in the storage closest. They both fit me a little small, but as it rarely rained here, I had yet to purchase a new pair.
Approaching the kitchen, the smell of strong coffee stained the air with a pleasant redolence.
“Can I get you some breakfast?” My mom dried her hands with the towel draped over her shoulder, and picked up one of the plates by the sink. On the island and in a rectangular Pyrex dish, I regrettably found breakfast—tofu burritos. I quickly disguised my sour face before she turned around. Most of the vegan meals my mom cooked were actually very good; however, there were a few I didn’t consider entirely edible.
I smiled, taking the plate from her, “I’ll get it, thank you,” and hurled myself toward the amorphous yellow-brown mush.
Being a vegan was no different to me than being a brunette. I was born into this, raised in a home in which my parents had long ago espoused this lifestyle, and I had never thought to question. This wasn’t a problem until the day Emily introduced me to In-N-Out.
That day I committed the worst crime imaginable, broke the cardinal rule: no eating meat. And while it was the first and last time I had a taste of meat that wasn’t tofu-, tempeh-, or seitan-based, the guilt remained. The mistreatment of raised livestock—namely the truly heinous and barbaric living conditions—continued to be the number one influence behind my decision to remain a vegan. I believed in it. But I had messed up terribly, and on occasion I was forced to beat down cravings. I couldn’t even look at my mother the day I ate the hamburger. And when I thought about how angry, how betrayed she would feel if she ever knew . . .
Likely sensing my gaze fixed on her, she turned, drying her hands with the towel on her shoulder. “You want me to heat up a tortilla for you?” Foster?” My mother came forward, taking me by the elbows. She tucked my curls behind my ear. “Something on your mind? You look . . . tense.”
“I’m sorry, Mom,” I laughed, “I was just thinking about today . . . about my kids. I should probably take the burrito to-go. There might be traffic with the rain.” I spotted my dad through the kitchen window, curls and white t-shirt plastered to his skin as he scurried alongside the pool.
“What’s Dad doing outside in the rain?”
She turned, mouth turning down at the corners, and shook her head. “You know, he just flew out of here a minute before you came in. I didn’t catch it all; something about the solar cover malfunctioning. Said it seemed to be coming on all by itself.”
I gasped, remembering all my reckless button-pushing.
“What’s the matter?”
“I think I’m responsible for that,” I confessed. “I couldn’t figure out which button opened the garage door. So I sort of pushed . . . all of them.”
My mother grimaced. “Oops.” She walked over to the casement windows and pushed the glass outward. “James! James, false alarm! Foster was just trying to open the garage and hit the wrong button.”
Not one to be angry, I still felt wretched when he appeared in the doorway soaked to the bone and looking like he was melting. I hurried over to him and handed him a small white dish towel with a yellow peony on it.
“Oh, Dad, I’m so sorry,” I said earnestly as he rubbed brash hands over his sodden head. “I should have come and got you instead of trying to open the garage myself.”
He removed the towel from his head, curls instantly frizzing and poofing out like a clown wig. “Oh, no big deal,” he assured me. “I”—he sneezed before getting any further. Smiling wanly, he removed his glasses—“I think I’ll go take a hot shower now.” He set the towel on the bar and started toward the hallway with a squashy sound. The rubber soled slippers squeaked with each step, leaving watery prints on the dark wooden panels.
“James?” My mother called out, watching him go with a smirk on her lips.
“Mm?” He turned around, already deep in thought and holding up the spotted glasses. “What’s that?”
Grabbing a marigold mug from a standing cup holder on the counter, my mother poured a fresh cup of coffee and placed it in his hands carefully. “Why don’t you take this with you and leave those with me,” she suggested, with a nod at his feet.
~
“Love you, too,” I said, kissing my mom’s cheek and stepping out the door and into the misty gray morning.
I shimmied myself out of the raincoat, momentarily forgetting the foil wrapped burrito inside my pocket. I removed it, examining the rectangular, lumpy tube caved in at one side, and smoothed it out as best I could. Still salvageable, I ascertained with some regret. With the rain coming down in steady beads, I hastened for the shelter of Hattie. The back of my boot began to hydroplane over a puddle trapped between two wide stones. I floundered, but caught the edge of the slick door handle just in time, curling my fingers around the metal so hard it hurt. Looming inches above the shimmery puddle, I offered myself wise counsel. It’s too early to be cold, wet, and injured, Foster. You have the whole day to get through, so you better take it slow—very slow.
Hanging onto the handle for dear life, I grabbed a hold with my other for extra support and carefully hoisted myself upright. The car was unlocked. I lunged inside before fate took me, or the rain could do too much damage to my vulnerably exposed curls.
The heater would take a while to warm the car and remove the chill stored up from a night outside the garage. I glanced at the dash where the clock told me I still
had over forty minutes to make the routine fifteen minute drive. I sat a moment catching my breath, idling in the roundabout and listening to the soothing sound of rain pelting the car. I would never tire of this.
Relaxing into the soft leather seat, I felt the pull of my surroundings take hold of my heart, gently applying pressure so it began to beat at a comfortable rhythm. At the same moment, a burdensome weight on my chest lifted. My stunted breaths from startled nerves grew deeper and deeper, until I noticed they exhaled with the sleepy steam releasing from the street in foggy puffs. Outside the car window, heat trapped and absorbed from yesterday’s warmth evaporated in languid plumes, swaying as it was carried away by an assertive wind. It swept in through the cracks and vents, filling up my attuned senses. Allowed to observe for a moment, I reflected that it fragranced the air with a sort of rusted, metallic tang I could almost taste. Smiling, I reached out. The water on my windshield lurched to the right, then to the left, clearing for me a view of the picturesque mountainside. With a sigh reaching deep into my stomach, I came loose and completely undone. The last of my anxiety melted downward and disappeared, as the rivulets on my windshield did the same.
Warm, and wearing a relaxed grin in anticipation of today, I released the emergency break. I plucked my iPod from the passenger seat, scrolling through the list until I came to the N’s. Just past Needtobreathe, I found what I was looking for and tapped the screen once, followed by eight more taps. I let out a sigh of contentment as I fed the cassette to the tape player and uncoiled the wire looped around the gear shift. Perfect. While I could enjoy most music whether the sun was shining or not, there was something intrinsically right about listening to certain songs on a rainy day. I waited a moment before lifting a hand into the air, following along with the preambling piano notes trickling even more delicately than the drops falling from the sky. I wondered then if Norah Jones had intentionally written the perfect album to be listened to while taking a Sunday drive in the rain.