Copyright 2013 by Crystal Serowka.
Cover Design by Angie Fields.
Photography by Sandra Strazdaité.
Editing by Lori Sabin.
Interior design by Angela McLaurin of Fictional Formats.
All rights reserved. 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 permission in writing.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owner.
All rights reserved.
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
The Light in the Wound
To my dad. I know you’re looking down on me and celebrating. I hope I’ve made you proud.
“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do
to hear your voice again.”
I'd been here before. Too many times to count. I knew every crack in the linoleum floor, the water stain in the center of the ceiling in room 515. It was unfortunate that I knew these things. I shouldn't know where everything was in this place, but lately it seemed like it was my home away from home. I looked down at my new boots that I got for my birthday. They left scuff marks on the tile, and the nurses gave me dirty looks when I paced the waiting rooms. I sat, alone, mostly twiddling my thumbs, waiting, waiting for what seemed like forever. The waiting I had been doing for the past few years had taken a toll on me, but more so, it had taken a toll on my father. He was the one who was suffering.
Cancer invaded his body, it started in his lungs, and spread to his liver. I never had enemies in my life until cancer came along. I hated the tumors, but no matter how many times I'd wish for them to go away, they never did. The prognosis was bad. I would have 6-12 more months with my father. We were now four months into treatment, yet the tumors continued to grow. Four months of coming into this hospital almost every day. I'd study the nurses' station, watched them work, answering the phones continuously. I knew their names, where they were from, what they had for lunch each day. It wasn't uncommon for me to be here alone. My mother had a business to run. I put dance on the back burner. I didn't need to dance when my father laid there in his hospital bed. I couldn't leave him alone for fear of him dying with no one by his side. So, most days, I sat alone, my backside aching from the cheap chairs I was forced to sit in day in and day out.
It was the day I was told to prepare my last words. How do you say goodbye to someone who brought you into the world? I sat, the notepad resting on my lap, my pen tapping against the paper lightly. The pen I held so tightly in my fingers refused to mark on the empty page. The words, "I love you," left an indent in the paper, but the ink did not transfer. It's almost as if my words were once there, but disappeared, much like how I would feel when my father was gone. When my father was gone. The thought I hated most kept ricocheting in my mind. I grabbed hold of the pen tighter this time, pressing harder onto the blank page. "I love you," were the only words I could write out. If I wrote I love you over and over until I ran out of space on the page, do you think my father would understand just how much I loved him? Would ink on a piece of yellow legal paper be enough to prove it? I concluded that writing the same statement over and over would be useless, because no matter how many times I wrote it, it would never be enough.
I folded the yellow paper once, twice, three times, making it as small as can be, not wanting it to be opened. I didn't want my father to read my goodbye words. I didn't want there to ever be a goodbye. The letter fell onto the linoleum floor, and I was tempted to kick it under the chair, hoping it would get swept up into the janitors' dirt catcher and thrown into the garbage, never to be seen again. But my father needed to read those words, or so the therapist had told me. I picked up the letter, fiddling with it between my fingers. I would place it on his nightstand tonight. He would wake up in the morning, the cancer no longer affecting his body, tell me how great of a day it was because I was his daughter, and we would live happily ever after.
Four months was how much time it took before the cancer won. My letter was never opened and I realized, happily ever afters only existed in stories. Starting that night, the nightmares began, and the only time I didn't feel alone is when I was left searching for my father in an abandoned hospital.
Nothing could spoil this euphoric moment. My stomach flipped in excitement. If it wasn't for the noise erupting from the city, I could have heard my heart pounding in my ears. The New York air was humid, leaving my skin sticky. With each step I took, the sounds of crunching leaves and newspaper blowing across the busy sidewalks overloaded my senses.
Hopping off the curb and dodging the oncoming cars, I finally arrived at my destination. I strained my neck to read the bold text written on the glass windows.
Juilliard was finally my reality.
From this day forward, my life would change. No longer would I be in my mother's shadow, striving to fulfill her high expectations. I stared down at my feet, the things I cherished most in the world. The cracked sidewalk beneath them exhibited the wear and tear from students entering and exiting the building through the years. Smiling, I arched my foot, tapping my toes on the cement.
"Are you lost? Do you need some help?"
I heard a low-pitched voice from behind and felt a tap on my right shoulder. Turning around, I was met by light blue eyes and a crooked smile. He wore a white button-up shirt with black Ray-Bans hanging from the neckline, khakis devoid of wrinkles, and a pair of brown oxfords without a scuff in sight. His face, much like his clothing, was annoyingly pristine. His dirty-blonde hair was combed back, each strand in place. Perfect, pouty lips jutted out as he waited for my response. He was the ultimate pretty boy. The kind of guy I never imagined dating.
"No, I'm not lost," I stated. Did I stand out that much from the typical New Yorker?
"Oh, I suspected that was the reason you were staring up at the building in a daze."
The arrogance in his voice bothered me.
"Well, I'm not. I just happened to be admiring my new school," I said proudly. Why did I just tell him that? He most likely didn't care that this was my new school. The look on his face showed my speculations were correct.
"You go to Juilliard?" he asked, his tone hinting at surprise. He laughed while running his long fingers through his hair. "I assumed you were the kid I'm supposed to be mentoring."
I snorted at his ignorance and pointed my finger to the left of the building. "I believe you're looking for one of them."
He turned a
nd noticed the group of children huddled together on the steps. They were all wearing bright orange T-shirts with black, bold lettering that said Big Brothers, Big Sisters. You could spot them from a mile away.
"Looks like we're both lost. See you around, doll." He nodded his head as he turned toward the children and walked in their direction.
Doll? I hate pet names and that is one of the worst.
"You're welcome!" I yelled, unable to control my frustration.
Since I was now a resident of New York City, I would have to become accustomed to bad manners. My family members had warned me that people from New York were rude and full of themselves. Since Preppy Boy and the people bumping into my shoulders every five seconds were the only examples thus far, I had a feeling my family was right.
As I regained my composure, I peered up at the building, effectively dismissing the jerk from my thoughts. The white lettering on the massive slab of glass stood out. I silently read the text over and over, hoping the repetition would be what I'd need to prove this wasn't just a dream.
My life had always been consumed by lifts, leaps, and pirouettes. Immersed in dance my whole life, the decision to become a ballerina was made for me. It wasn't until I was nine that I actually started to enjoy it.
My mother, Frances, was a ballerina until she severely tore her ACL. After months of physical therapy, she realized she would never be able to dance with the same grace. She gave it all up and bought a rehearsal studio. She's been teaching ballet ever since.
When she had me, she believed that she'd created a dancer. Since her own dreams of becoming a prima ballerina were out of the question, her dearest hope was that I would become one someday; that someday was now.
Pointe shoes held me high in the world. When I stood on the tips of my toes, my body spoke what my mouth could not. Dancing defined who I was. It was my own personal language, and between these walls, everyone was fluent.
When I entered the Rose Building, I walked confidently through the expansive room, my eyes roaming over the modern space. I wandered past the hardwood steps that were filled with students interacting with one another then rushing off to their own destinations. Observing the faces, I could tell everyone was excited to be here. Their smiles were infectious.
Arriving at the elevator, I stared at my reflection on the metal doors. Outwardly, I appeared confident. No one would ever assume that I grew up constantly scrutinized by an overbearing mother. Her voice popped into my thoughts. Try harder, Natalia. Look how good she is. Why can't you extend your leg like that? You need to try harder.
There was never a day that passed when I hadn't pushed myself to become better. My mother would never admit it, but I succeeded far beyond what she was able to achieve in her own dance career.
The elevator doors opened and I walked through them, pressing the button for the eleventh floor. From there, I would take another set of elevators to the residence hall. Anxiety moved through me, and I was surprised that I had yet to get lost in the maze of the building.
In an attempt to calm my nerves, I took a deep breath, pulling down on my dark denim shorts and smoothing out the polka-dot shirt I had tucked into them. My personal style fit well in New York. It was a huge city, filled with so much diversity. I could dress how I wanted. My legs were covered in tights, and I wore my favorite pair of black combat boots that my father had gotten me for my birthday. Every time I wore them I was reminded of how they'd been on my feet for some of my most life-changing moments.
I transferred to the last set of elevators and hit the button for the twenty-seventh floor. It was pure luck that I was able to get a room so high up. I looked forward to staring out my window, admiring the busy streets and high-rise buildings. After the final elevator ding, I followed the signs on the walls until room 2725 came into view.
Standing outside the door, I heard muffled noises coming from inside. It was hard to pick up on the conversation, but I detected an English accent.
As I opened the door and stepped inside, the voices immediately halted. There were two women in the room. One, who looked to be my age, leaned against the window, while the older woman rushed forward with a smile on her face.
I would have assumed they were mother and daughter, except they looked nothing alike. The older woman was short in stature with small features while the younger girl towered over both of us. She had a smug look on her face, as if she thought the sun didn't shine until she woke up. Her wild black hair curled in every direction and her caramel skin was flawless. Her lips were the kind you only saw in lipstick ads while her nose was so perfect; it had to paid for. She wore a black mini-dress paired with black over-the-knee leather boots.
Awesome. Living with a supermodel is going to be great for my self-esteem.
"It's so nice to meet you. You must be Natalia Brooks."
The English accent resonated in my ears, dismissing me from the staring contest with my new roommate.
"I'm Trish Hynes and this is Kingsley, your new flatmate." She waved her hand in Kingsley's direction.
"Nice to meet you. I'm Natalia."
"We know your name," Kingsley spat out. She put her earbuds in and turned toward her closet.
I could already tell she wasn't going to be the easiest person to live with.
"Oh, right," I said quietly.
I walked to my bare bed and unloaded the heavy bags from my aching arms. The room wasn't small, but it wasn't big either. The beds were on separate sides of the room with two desks at each end. The white walls were clean, with no nail marks in sight, as if they'd just recently been painted. The carpet beneath my feet had various shades of blue and green. It looked cheap, reminding me to pick up a throw rug to make the room more cozy.
"She's just really excited to be here."
My survey of the room ended when I heard Trish's voice.
"She'll warm up to you." Trish gave me an encouraging smile and walked back over to Kingsley's bed, which was piled with clothing.
If Kingsley acts like that when she's excited, I'd hate to see how she behaves when she's mad.
Trish worked on the pile, putting clothes on hangers and then neatly folding the undergarments, or knickers, as she would most likely call them.
"Where are you from, Natalia?" Trish asked curiously.
"I'm from Mount Prospect. It's a suburb of Chicago, Illinois."
I looked over at Kingsley, who was in her own little world. She was bobbing along to the music while her hips moved to the beat. I was a bit taken aback by Kingsley's choice of attire. She had the body for it, but I could never bare that much skin for the general public. Plus, it wasn't 90 degrees outside.
"I'm not sure I've ever heard of that town. Kingsley and I are New Yorkers–Brooklyn to be exact. Obviously, I'm not a native, but Kingsley has lived in New York her whole life. She's been dreaming about attending this school for years now."
I could tell Trish was trying to make up for Kingsley's rudeness by getting to know me better. I had high hopes I'd get a roommate that was eager to learn about me and see if we had anything in common, but Kingsley's demeanor had confirmed I'd been a bit presumptuous.
As I made up my side of the room, unpacking my clothes and hanging them in the spacious closet, I listened to Trish provide Kingsley with safety lessons and emergency contact numbers. I found myself smiling, knowing that if my mother were here, she would skip the safety talk and go right into preparing me for my first dance rehearsal.
By the time I was unfolding my comforter, Trish was hugging Kingsley and walking out the door. I waved goodbye to her and continued making my bed. I wasn't expecting Kingsley to strike up a conversation with me, but then she sighed and took her earbuds out. I turned and looked at her in anticipation.
"So, you're my roommate, huh?" She raised her right eyebrow while looking me up and down.
"No, I just thought I'd unpack all of my stuff in here and then move on to my real room." I can easily play the bitch card, too.
She smiled appr
ovingly. "You're from the Midwest, right? Do you, like, live next to a cornfield?"
"I live in a big city. There's no corn in sight."
The presumptions that most people had about the Midwest were always amusing. They thought that if you lived anywhere near the center of the U.S., it immediately meant your backyard was a cornfield.
"You don't look like a big city kind of girl," she said as she took in my outfit. "You look more like someone who doesn't have many options when it comes to clothing stores."
This girl is seriously getting on my nerves, and I've only been alone with her for five minutes.
"How about we just skip the whole get-to-know-your-roommate thing?" I retorted.
I was aggravated by her lack of humility. It was going to be difficult for me to live with someone who acted like everyone in the world should bow before her.
"Did I hurt your feelings? Trish told me to go easy on whoever I move in with, but I just can't help myself around timid people." She laughed loudly.
"Are you this rude all of the time, or is it just something special you saved for me?"
With my comeback, the laughing stopped, but her smile lingered. I felt like she was testing me, seeing how far she could push me until I pushed back. I think I made it pretty clear that I wasn't a doormat.
"I'm this rude all of the time," she answered honestly.
She's honest and mean. I'm looking forward to being around that combination everyday.
"Well, aren't I lucky?" I replied sarcastically.
"Now that we have that tidbit out of the way," Kingsley said, sitting back against her headboard while propping a pillow behind her back, "we need to go over a few room rules."
I laughed at her obvious joke. "Yes, let's go over the 'room rules.'" I raised my fingers in air quotes.
"I'm actually being serious." Her face was void of all emotion.
I sighed and sat down on the edge of my bed. This might take awhile.
"Don't ever eat any of my food. I'm a stickler about my protein bars. I will do inventory of them every day and if I ever see one missing, I'll cut every single pair of your frilly tights. Number two," she continued, holding up two fingers in case I forgot which number we were on, "if I ever have my eyes set on a guy and you step in before me, I'll tell everyone in this school that you tried to touch me inappropriately in the middle of the night. Last rule, don't ever come into this room if you see a scrunchie on the door."
In the Air (The City #1) Page 1
