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Hoping none of them tried to follow me, I dodged into the crowd and lost myself in it, blending in. After a few minutes and when I was sure they weren’t around, I fixed my course and went to Stage Three, pushing thoughts of Calvin and those three boys out of my head while trying to come up with songs to play.
When I got there, I was early enough to meet with the organizer.
“I thought you weren’t going to make it,” the older woman said with an impatient look.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, knowing better than to argue with her. I was early enough.
“What songs are you going to sing?”
I listed my three choices off, knowing they would go well with the bubbling excitement that filled the air. The older woman nodded her approval before looking behind me, a huge fake smile forming on her face.
“Jeremy,” she called out and ran off to hug an older looking man with a head full of white hair. He smiled back warmly, and I walked away, ignoring them. It was better than standing around and waiting for the scolding the woman wanted to give me. From past experiences, I knew in her perfect world, people showed up three hours early to showtime.
Finding the stairs by the stage, I stood and smiled politely at the emcee there. He smiled back and we introduced ourselves. He was a chill guy, trying to make enough money to get himself through community college. Knowing I was going on soon, he left me to do my own vocal warm-ups as the stagehands prepared to set up for me.
Once the performer finished with the violin, the emcee ran up the stairs, clapping and smiling. He went through the normal routine of thanking the performer and then introducing me to the crowd as they fixed the stage for me.
I blew out a slow breath, settling my nerves. Years ago, I had no choice but to get over my anxiety and nerves when it came to performing, but it didn’t mean I didn’t get them.
The moment I heard my name, I ran up the steps, pretending to have an extra little pep in my walk. I paused long enough to put my guitar case by the microphone for when I needed it. The round of applause was loud as I plastered on a smile that I learned to make when I was a little girl and strolled over to the large piano they had set up for me. Turning toward the crowd, I curtsied before settling down on the bench.
My favorite part of a performance was that moment of silence before the music began. My fingers hovered over the keys, my foot in position, my posture perfect. The audience fell silent, waiting to hear the first music note. I dragged out that moment just a second longer, enjoying that absolute silence. Then I began and I fell deep into another world, the only sound being the music I created. Not even my thoughts could destroy this little piece of heaven that I created for myself. Not even the haunting whispers of my mother or the questioning stares from strangers, or the snickers of classmates who only saw me as a recluse. None of that reached me when I played music.
I played with my very soul.
And smiled.
My heart soared with the music. I felt free, as if everything was just right with me. It felt as though if I could reach my arm out far enough, my dad would grab it. Music had always been his thing with me. The moment I could press down the key of a piano, my dad had been there every step of the way with me, teaching me, finding others to help me grow, believing in me. He’d sign up for every competition he could, and when I won, he’d lift me up high and spin us around, and then pepper my face with kisses.
I missed that and music became my way to reach out to him. I kept hoping if I played more, played loud enough, pushed harder, I’d reach him. I desperately wanted him to hear me and it showed as I played. Each performance was the one, every song the ticket to my father. Even at the end, when it was still only just me on stage, I would send out a prayer that he heard me and maybe he desperately wanted to see me as much as I did him.
I missed him.
So I played and I played hard.
Chapter Five
With the performance over yesterday, I only had today to relax before I was expected to go to school tomorrow. Senior year. I’d have to deal with students in a rush to end their childhood and enter the real world, whether that be college or right into a job. Or maybe they’d hang around home for a few more months until they found themselves. Either way, everyone was in too much of a rush to leave school—me included.
My high school was the only public one for the three towns. There were two private schools, but I never thought it was worth the money to go to one of those. Lindie had agreed with me, wanting to use that extra money to fund her expensive habits instead.
So I did public school. And I liked it. I was a no one there, someone who melted into the background. Sure, there were a few people who noticed me and decided I was easy pickings, but they quickly moved on when they realized they couldn’t get the reaction they wanted from me.
But that was tomorrow’s problem. One more day of quiet, of peace, of just me, myself, and I. Then back to the chaos of school.
Throwing myself onto the couch, I stretched out and smiled. School used to be a safe zone. I didn’t need to worry about Lindie there. But that wasn’t the case anymore. With Lindie in a psychiatric hospital, anywhere I went could be considered a safe zone. My home could feel like a home, and I didn’t need to come up with excuses to stay at school so I wasn’t around anymore.
That knowledge threw me off. My expectations shifted, and I wasn’t sure what to make of that. I didn’t know how to adjust. My abuser was out of my house. For the first time, I felt it all. The relief. The freedom. The hope.
The abuse was over.
I bit my lip and swallowed the cry trying to break free.
The abuse was over.
I was safe.
My body shook.
