Beatless
Authors: Amber L. Johnson
Copyright Amber L. Johnson 2013
Cover design by Annie Rockwell
Cover Image courtesy of Four Smiles Photography
Cover Model Brianna Accinelli
Pencil Sketch by Marty Keely
Book design by Lindsey Gray
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the author.
Table of Contents
To Aaron
“This heart, it beats
Beats for only you
My heart is yours”
- Paramore
Summary
Mallory Durham has been left behind and it is making her feel less like an adult and more like an afterthought. Divorce, sickness, educational aspirations being shattered, and her Aunt Sam recently moving into her home, have made Mal's life nearly unrecognizable to her.
When Tucker Scott re-enters her life along with his band, will they offer what she needs to once again find her voice and self confidence or will it strip her of it even more?
Told through the dual voices of Mallory as she navigates her new world, and Aunt Sam’s letters to her niece, Beatless tells the story of two women at very different points in their life, fighting the same battles. Proving that, no matter what age we are, there are always lessons to be learned.
Prologue
Dear Mal,
From the moment that we are born, we want our voice to be heard.
With that first scream announcing our presence; through the struggle to form thoughts and words. It’s in the shape of incessant questions throughout childhood and the burgeoning need to be understood in our teen years.
It never ends as we age. We fight to be heard in life, in relationships, in jobs. And in the end, when we’ve lost our ability to speak, we are relegated to hoping that someone, anyone can hear us as we lie on our backs in a bed waiting for the end.
We all want to be heard.
My wish for you is that you find a way to use your voice in the loudest way possible.
Sam
~*~1~*~
The sun was finally starting to set, casting shadows in the corners of my room and disappearing against the dark walls. Lying on the carpet, I watched blue skies break down to pinks and oranges through my open window; shredded ribbons of colors melting into the trees until darkness began to settle.
It was possibly The Worst Day of My Entire Freaking Existence and I was left with the certainty that my life was essentially over.
It was The Absolute Worst. Worse than the day my parents said they were getting divorced. Worse than the time I got mono my senior year and had to repeat twelfth grade by myself, while all of my friends were starting new lives at college. Even worse than the day my mom told me she was leaving for a work project that would last
at least
nine months.
No,
this
had to be the worst day of my life. Because my two closest friends left for their respective accredited universities, and instead of going to Vanderbilt like I’d been planning since sixth grade . . . I was going to community college. Both my mom and my aunt assured me that there was no shame in going to Perimeter. That I could stay home and save the family money, get my Associates before moving on to bigger and better things.
It blew.
I stared at my closet door, filled from top to bottom with four years of high school pictures chronicling every event, dance, and party I’d attended with my best friend. Her face smiled back at me through the glossy finish and I sighed.
Lassiter: Blonde hair, dark eyes, tall and thin.
Me: straight brown hair, a face full of freckles, eyes too dark to be considered a true brown, and limbs that went on for miles.
I wasn’t exactly on her level and she’d never shied away from letting me know it, either. I had no idea how we’d become friends in the first place, given how unremarkable I’d always felt in her presence. But we’d met in freshman chorus and she’d tilted her head in my direction asking if I knew how to read music and if she could follow along on the alto parts. There was no way I could say no.
We tried out for plays and musicals together, and the day our drama teacher, Mr. Hanks, told me, “There’s nothing wrong with being the funny friend or the side-kick. You’re just not lead material . . .” Lassiter nodded her head sadly and squeezed my shoulder in agreement. “Not everyone is cut out to be center stage.”
Her other best friend, Brooke, had agreed. She was more of Lassiter’s friend than mine, and there were times that I felt like she just tolerated me. But I didn’t mind. I was part of a group. I felt like I belonged somewhere. I could be the third wheel as long as I was invited.
They spent the remainder of their high school career (I couldn’t call it
our high school career
because I was, sadly, a Super Senior) trying out for all of the leads in South Gwinnett’s plays and musicals. It took Brooke until senior year to get her chance, but Lassiter was given the role of Sandy in Grease her junior year, which was almost unheard of. She was just that good. And I’d been one of the girls at the carnival. Where I belonged.
I would always be the B girl - the understudy. Accepting that had been easier than I’d anticipated.
Then they both went off to college, and I was stuck at home, but at least they called or emailed. At first, anyway. When they returned for the summer, I felt like things were back to normal, even if a little strained. They talked about school and new people and rushing sororities and I just sat back and waited for the conversation to turn to which movie we’d be seeing that night.
Tonight was the first time I felt that things might not be the same after all.
Lying on my side, I held my breath and counted to twenty, letting pressure build up in my ears, my heartbeat drowning out the sounds around me. My favorite album was playing in the background and I could make out the beat of the bass line through the carpet, the long notes helping me to count the seconds in meter.
“Mal.”
The sound of my aunt’s voice made me groan and I curled even smaller, reaching above my head to turn up the music on my laptop. The doorknob rattled and I sighed, wondering just how resourceful she’d get if I didn’t respond. My answer came exactly two choruses later when I heard the screws on the side of the door being jimmied, and watched from my cheek-down position on the floor, as the room flooded with light from the hallway, and the door fell away, propped against the wall as my aunt leaned into the . . . hole.
“Well, aren’t you just the picture of emo-teenage angst?” Her gaze scoured the room like she was afraid that I’d completely gone off the deep end.
Maybe I had.
She crossed her arms and let out a long breath, the air catching the ends of her light hair that had fallen from her ponytail. “Are you gonna do this much longer? I’m hungry and your mom didn’t buy any food before she left.”
“I’m not surprised,” I mumbled into the carpet, closing my eyes again and blocking her out.
Aunt Sam stepped into my room, over my wilted body, turned down my music, and touched her toe to the back of my thigh. Pausing just long enough to make sure I was actually okay, she stepped back over and squatted next to my head. Her hands were cool against my forehead as she rolled my face upward to look me over. “Eh, you’ll live. Is it a boy?” I shook my head no. Her forehead creased. “A girl?”
I nodded. “Technically, girls. Plural . . .”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Well . . .”
“Not like that.” I groaned
“Oh. In that case, get up and wash your face. I need sustenance. And no ho-mance will stand between me and my hash browns tonight, young lady. You can spill your guts over some stuff my doctor advised against today. But tonight we dine in Hell.”