Now That You're Here (Duplexity, Part I) (30 page)

Writing is a strange matter. Sometimes I wonder if it doesn't look like a form of mental illness: the time alone, the staring off into space, the pacing, the talking to oneself. This makes me all the more grateful to those who helped me during the writing and publishing of
Now That You're Here.

Thank you to Katherine Harrison for your incredible vision, guidance, humor, and appreciation of science. Thank you to Isabel Warren-Lynch for your stunning cover design. Thank you to the entire team at Knopf for saying yes to my manuscript and transforming it into something far greater than I ever imagined.

Thank you to Quinlan Lee for your endless enthusiasm and encouragement, and to the Adams Literary family for welcoming me into the fold.

Thank you to James Sallis, my mentor and friend, for sharing your wisdom and teaching me the fine art of people watching. The next cup is on me.

Thank you to the Parking Lot Confessional (S. C. Green and Amy McLane) for years of camaraderie and for enduring all of those dreadful early drafts.

Thank you to Dana Hinesly, Karen North, Nannette White, Natalie Veidmark, and Heather Wiest for your friendship and constant support.

Thank you to Lin Oliver, Steve Mooser, and the selfless champions of SCBWI. Thank you to the SCBWI gang, including Sara and Tony Etienne, Kimberly Sabatini, Allan Mouw, Jeff Cox, Amy Sundberg, Jodi Moore, Ryan Dalton, Greg Pincus, and Mike Jung.

Thank you to my fellow authors in the debut Class of 2k14.

Thank you to the Thursday-night group past and present, including Michael Greenwald, Marty Murphy, Kate Cross, Kim Miles, Nanor Tabrizi, Jonathan (the Younger) Bond, Jonathan (the Elder) Levy, Kurt Reichenbaugh, Brent Ghelfi, Hirsch Handmaker, Joe Weidinger, Ray Carns, and Pat Rudnyk.

Thank you to The Ghuls (Trish, Nancy, Kavita, Irene, Angie, Frango, Chelle, DeeeeDs, and Anna) for the adventures, the laughter, the appreciation of good music and pretty shooooz.

Thank you to my parents and my family for your love and prayers, and for accepting me for the quirky girl I am. Thank you to Zoe and Cooper, for being an endless source of joy and inspiration. And thank you to my husband, Jim, for believing in me long before I believed in myself.

Finally, thank you, Readers. We live in a world of distraction, where time has become a precious commodity. Thank you for spending yours reading this book.

The slamming door sends a thousand sound-shards through my brain. Hello, hangover. I grit my teeth and lean against the garbage can. When the ringing stops, I scuff across the front yard, shoes kicking up clouds of dirt. The sun's too damn bright. Each step feels like metal scraping the bones of my neck.

Brent's work truck growls behind me. He revs the engine a couple of times before pulling out of the driveway. I keep walking down the sidewalk, eyes forward, putting one foot in front of the other. This is the game we play. Who will blink first? When the engine's so loud my head feels like it'll split in two, I turn to face him.

A wall of sound rushes at me as tires take over the sidewalk. He lays on the horn.

Come on. Hit me. Mow me down.

But the truck swerves, bounces as it lumbers back into the street. The loose muffler swings, belching out blue exhaust. Brent flips me off, gunning the engine and speeding away. At the corner he turns. I watch until he's out of sight, listen until the engine is gone, too.

One day he'll do it. But not today.

At the end of the block, I go the opposite direction, and the sun hits me full in the face. I check my jacket pockets, but my sunglasses are back at the house. No way I'm going back there. Not until I have to. I find some shade, pull the pack of smokes from my pocket and light one up. My head rushes with the first drag. The block wall holds me up while I wait for the nicotine to chase away the pain.

So now the big question is: put up with school, or find some better way to spend the day?

Suzy's words echo in my head: If you ditch again, they're gonna suspend you. And don't think for a second he won't find out.

The last time the school called, he pinned me down, pressed that damn cigar into the back of my arm, told me he better never hear about me stepping out of line again. Later, Benny wouldn't come near me. He said he was scared because when Brent was on me, I sounded like an angry dog. It took two whole days for Benny to trust me again, even though I told him I wasn't angry. Not with him, at least.

It's bad enough us older fosters have to live in that place, but a little guy like Benny? It's not fair.

I suck down the last of the cigarette and flick it into the gravel at the side of the road. If I'm going to school, I better get walking.

By the time I get there, English is in full swing. Ms. Fischbach stops talking when I open the door and a sea of faces stare at me.

Don't look at them. Don't think about their perfect, crap-happy lives.

My stupid shoes squeak against the floor. I walk to the empty desk near the back corner. Fischbach says, “Turn to page 774 in your anthology.”

Her mouth is wide like a frog's and her voice makes my ears bleed. The only way to survive her class is to sleep. With my head on the desk and my arms folded around, I can block out most of the sound. There's still the shuffle of backpacks, the dull thud of books landing on desks. Obedient lemmings. Kissing ass in exchange for grades. Need to make Mommy and Daddy happy. Someone starts reading—that kid with the stutter. He's like a car engine that won't turn. I pull my arms tighter around my head and wait for sleep. Breathe in and out. My breathing sounds like ocean waves.

Out of nowhere, cold rips through me. Like freezing water filling my lungs. I try to lift my head, but I'm pinned down, paralyzed. A freight train roars through my head. Stars swirl behind my eyes. The desk is gone, the floor. I can't fight the force, pulling. I'm falling, kicking. There's no end to the emptiness.

So this is dying.

I let go. Give myself over to the dark.

The doors close and the elevator begins its slow climb to the top. I smooth my hair, watching my reflection in the metal.

V
ivian's words followed me all the way from school.
Did you hear? Bosca thinks I should apply to Bellingham. Isn't that great?

Great? Great would be Vivian's dad getting transferred to Washington and taking her with him. Great would be having some room to breathe.

What if we both end up at Bellingham? What if she gets in and I don't?

It's not that I don't like Vivian. I mean, we've been friends for a long time. Our dads were both elected to the Senate the same year. We pretty much grew up together attending state dinners, special sessions, press events. There just aren't many girls who know what it's like being the daughter of a government official.

But after Dad was elected governor, suddenly there was this unspoken thing between us. My family took the spotlight. I sat at the head table instead of on the main floor. I was interviewed for magazines and television, at first for being the governor's daughter, but then for being an artist. It was at my first gallery showing that she told me she'd decided to be an artist, too. Like it was as simple as choosing which pair of shoes to wear. She got approval from the education panel to switch from humanities to fine arts at Biltmore Elite. She's in all of my art classes, attends the same studio, interns with Bosca. It's like I can't paint anymore without her right there, looking over my shoulder.

And now she's trying to hijack Bellingham, my ticket out of here.

I close my eyes, take a deep breath and let it out. Focus on what I can control. Next week is my second gallery exhibit. Circumspect will blow people away. Everyone will rave about my paintings. Bellingham will beg me to apply. By this time next year, I'll be so far ahead of Vivian Barnes, she'll never catch up.

The elevator chimes the fourteenth floor and my reflection slides away with the doors. My steps softened by the plush carpet, I pass paintings depicting Arizona's past. Arrival of the first settlers in wagons. Migrant farmers in citrus fields. Trade with Native American tribes. The battle of Cabeza Prieta that led to the fabled Outbound lands. Did those artists hope to leave their mark, too? Most of the paintings aren't even signed.

I slip through the East Room's double doors. The curtains are open. The dull light of a gray morning filters through the windows. A vase of spider mums casts a soft shadow across the top of the baby grand. Lucinda's touch, no doubt.

Jonas drove here way too fast, even though I told him to take his time. As usual, he barely acknowledged me, aside from opening the car door and getting my bags from the trunk.

My heels click on the marble floor, echoing into the high ceilings. Sweet, sad piano. I sweep my fingers across the glossy finish before sitting on the bench and resting them lower on the keys. Mom used to play in college, but that was a long time ago. As far as I know, I'm the only person who ever touches this beauty. And that's only on visiting weekends.

Winston's
February Sea
begins with soft, slow arpeggios and the repeating low G. I always start too quiet, afraid of breaking the silence. As if anyone will hear me. The bedrooms are over on the opposite side of the executive tower, with too many boardrooms between to count. Seven measures in, I press the keys harder, letting the melody fill the room. The notes run through my brain like miles of too-familiar road. Scenery my eyes no longer see.

It used to be songs would percolate up from deep within, an act of turning myself inside out; but now it's different. Now I can only reach that deep space with paints and brushes and the blackest of charcoal.
February Sea
, beautiful as it is, rings cold. Music has become a means of passing time. It's sad, but that's how life goes. Things change. We adapt.

My fingers send shivers through the piano, running patterns in the upper registers while my brain runs through the day ahead. Richard will retrieve me and scurry me off—not a minute to waste—to Conference Room B for debrief. Then, fashionably late, the Governor will barge into the room with all the bluster of a tornado. Christina will follow, tablet and stylus at the ready. The Governor will bark orders at Richard, who will jump and cough and apologize. The boss will sit and place both hands on the table before moving his gaze over to where I stand behind the second chair to his left. Then he'll smile—I'll see it in his eyes first—and I'll kiss him on the cheek and say, “Hello, Daddy.”

The bridge races beneath my fingers, punctuated by accents and trills.

It's always the same. He'll ask about school and I'll tell him what he wants to hear. I'll ask about Mom and he'll do the same. Later, after business is all taken care of, the three of us will travel together over to the stadium and make our appearance at the Patriots' Day celebration. We'll wave, and we'll smile, and we'll leave.

My shoulders slump. I hope Vivian isn't going to be there, too.

Approaching the coda, the music slows, and my fingers press the keys with care, each note growing quieter than the one before. The G arpeggios slow, then stop. My mind hangs blank. I stare at the vase's long shadow, then start again, six measures back, playing low arpeggios into the transition. At the same spot, my fingers stop again.

I stare at my hands, like it's their fault I've forgotten the ending.

How many times have I played this song? I can't remember the next chord, let alone the next note. Suspended sixth? No. Repeat of the bridge? That isn't right either.

The last, wrong chord hangs in the air as my fingers pin the keys in place. The room is so still, even dust motes hang weightless in the window's light.

The floor trembles and the water in the vase ripples. The hanging lights sway. I lift my hands and listen, fingers hovering just above the keyboard.

The floor trembles again and the piano strings whisper a ghostly moan. My foot slips from the sustain pedal. Far across the city, I hear sirens.

Then footsteps. Not Richard's long strides, but hurried, staccato steps. Both doors bang open and two security guys in suits sweep into the room.

“Miss Solomon,” the big one says, taking my elbow. The other speaks into his wrist, “Sparrow in the East Room.” In a rush of movement, I'm out the door, half carried down fourteen flights of stairs. Fluorescent lights and floor numbers blur past. Twelve. Ten. Seven. Four. By the time the basement bunker doors open, I'm dizzy and my heart pounds a fierce rhythm in my ears.