Page 37 of The Breakaway

I thought I would only play one section, but I couldn’t stop. The music dragged me along, its hand fisted in my shirt, drowning me in memories. As I launched into the frenetic, emotional second movement, something cracked open inside me.

This song. I’d forgotten. I’d started it beforethat summer.The emotions I’d stuffed down at Maddie’s the night before resurfaced with a vengeance. Hot tears pricked my eyes, then blurred my vision so completely, I couldn’t see the notes.

Fragments of those awful nights at my Grandma's house flickered through my mind—the sound of the door creaking open, the shadow crossing the floor, my cousin's heavy breathing. His hand sliding into my underwear. I squeezed my eyes shut out of habit, trying to block it out, but the music wouldn’t let me. It opened a door I refused to, and suddenly I was caught in the torrent of memory.

How I’d tried to tell my doctor what happened weeks afterward when the nightmares and panic attacks got too bad to hide. She referred me to a therapist who insisted on looping in my parents.

That excruciating conversation was seared into my brain. Stuttering out the terrible details to my mom and dad. Their shocked faces. The way doubt and pity crept into their expressions.

I did my best to package it away, throw myself into violin and school and pretend to be the old Sharla. But there were cracks then. Just like there were now. After all my patching, they still showed.

Logan being gone exposed them more than usual. I hated sleeping alone. Hated how insecure I felt, always wondering if he was thinking about me. Or if he wished he had a girlfriend who was more . . . free. Who could be one of those women in Cosmopolitan. More go with the flow. More like him.

I couldn't hold it in any longer. Any of it. The fear, the worry, the guilt, the aching loneliness, the shame of being so pathetically attached, and the overwhelm of keeping up appearances like everything was fine. Would I ever feel whole? Or at least less broken?

I played something brand new. Notes that made no musical sense, that didn’t follow a melody. I let the grief and anger pour out through my fingers and bow, filling the small room with heartwrenching strains and the sound of my own choked breaths and sniffles.

When my arms ached, and the tears ran dry, I ended in an inelegant screech as I lifted the bow with a shaking hand. I took a few deep breaths, trying to regain my composure.

Well. That was . . . something I’d never done before. I wiped my face with my sleeve. Maybe that was what it meant to be a true artist. To have something inside of you that was so massive, the only way to let it out, to describe it or communicate it, was through music.

I laughed at myself. How melodramatic. If the orchestra thing didn’t work out, maybe I had a future doing poetry readings or posing on MySpace. I carefully packed up my instrument, feeling raw and wrung out but lighter. Like I'd released a pressure valve, just a little.

As I emerged from the practice room, I nearly collided with Caleb.

"Whoa, girl!" He grinned, then eyed my blotchy face with concern. "You okay?"

"Yeah, no, I'm good," I lied, averting my gaze.

Caleb held up a hand for a high five. “Music, amiright?”

I laughed. And this was what it was like to have artist friends. They understood parts of your brain that nobody else did. I gave him a one-armed hug instead of a hand slap. “You practicing?”

He glanced down the hall. “Nope. Just picking up chicks.”

I snorted. “Sorry, I’m probably ruining your opportunities.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything, but . . .” He gave me a look, then smiled. “You could be my wingwoman.”

“What would that look like?”

“Uh, basically asking me pre-approved questions so I can answer loudly and impress anyone who walks by.”

“Hmm. As fun as that sounds . . . ”

He ran a hand through his red hair. “You don’t happen to have a kitten or a baby I could borrow?”

I nudged his arm. “See you tomorrow?”

“Yup.” He tried to ruffle my hair, but I stepped away too quickly. What was it with guys wanting to touch my hair now that it was short?

“Bye!” I waved and walked down the hall, my mind already hovering over the worries I'd tried to exorcise through music. The best way I could describe it was that I was higher up. Not drowning, but not fully escaping them either.

As I walked across the chilly campus back to the house, I wondered about him. Not Logan. Him. My cousin who was two years older than me. Who I had to see at family reunions in the summer.

I never stayed overnight where he was, but his family only lived a few hours away. Thank the heavens he wasn’t at home anymore. I didn’t actually give a shit where he was or what he was doing, but I did wonder sometimes. Wishing I would’ve done more. Said more. Forced my parents to do something other than tell me it would be okay.

The walk home seemed to take forever, my mind replaying the devastating memories on a sickening loop. When I finally reached the house, Rob's door was firmly shut. A huge relief. I couldn't even imagine trying to act normal around him right now. Hopefully he’d already used the washroom.When was that part coming in?

---