Prelude (The Rhapsody Quartet) (2 page)

It was a bit of a dead-end town— small, a hiccup on the highway, extending about two miles along the Long Beach Peninsula before stopping abruptly. Most of the people who lived here had been in town their whole lives. It was quiet this time of year, but in the summertime, when the tourists flocked in, the town boomed. Right now it was September, after Labor Day. The final hurrah was over, leaving the town almost completely closed down.

Through a miracle of paperwork and appeals, Susan managed to convince the state to let me stay in Whitecrest with the Caseys until I turned eighteen. The most substantial argument that she had for keeping me around was that high school was bad enough without being shuttled back and forth. Mercifully, the state agreed, pending visits biannually to determine that I was happy and that the home was sound and fit.

I think my foster parents had volunteered with different expectations— they wanted to care for a child, probably even an infant, but somehow they ended up with me instead. It was probably desperation on the state’s part— no one really wanted me. I was just lucky that Susan and Rick had agreed to take me in.

When we pulled up to their little house, she placed a firm hand on my shoulder, stopping me before I left the car.

“I have to get back to the office,” she said, “but it’s been an… interesting morning for you. You can stay home if you’d like. Or we can just grab lunch, and I can take you back to school. Your choice.”

I shrugged, “I’m fine, really.”

Susan’s eyes narrowed as she regarded me skeptically, “Yeah. Sure.”

“Um…” I paused, trying to find the right words, “It was weird. Really weird. Maybe I
should
just stay home.”

She wordlessly flipped open her organizer, a thick mess of papers jumbled together with her tiny, perfect handwriting all over it. She had yet to convert to a digital format, and claimed that this was a better system for her. She stared at the day. There was ink covering every inch of the page, post-its reminding her of other small appointments, and the largest block of text was the three hours she’d set aside for the meeting with Mr Baker. “I could move things around…” she started to say, sounding doubtful.

“That would be silly. Besides,” I added, “your clients need you more than I do right now.”

She closed it softly, then brought her eyes up to mine. “I think you’ll be fine at home. Kick back, watch some stupid daytime TV…” she smiled a little, “raid the emergency chocolate stash?”

I nodded, “Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

She hesitated, then came in for a quick hug. Susan was never sure how to read me, and I wasn’t much better at reading her, either, but the gesture was a nice one.

I hopped out of the car and waved for her to go, letting myself get soaked through. My inheritance was closed up in the box it came in originally, the rain pooling on top. I swiped at it with my free hand, wiping the water from the lid, and sprinted to the house.

I kicked my shoes off at the door and headed up the stairs to my bedroom.

It wasn’t much of anything. My room was small, a twin bed huddled against one wall, a desk with a lamp, pencils, an ancient computer for schoolwork, and a tiny chest of drawers. In one of the corners sat a small bookcase with my collection of classic novels. I set the box on my desk and changed my clothes, flinging the wet ones into the hamper in my closet.

I opened the box again, double-checking that the rain hadn’t soaked through. Everything was dry. I pulled out the contents and folded the box into itself, placing it inside the waste basket next to my desk.

I sighed.
Magnetic, charismatic people, huh?

It wasn’t what I’d expected to hear. I was the opposite of that: introverted, withdrawn. I usually did the best I could to remain as invisible as possible at school and home, and was proud that I managed it fairly well. Even Sue and Rick left me alone most of the time.

On the other hand, it wasn’t exactly a difficult feat— I was depressingly average. Aside from being so lackluster in looks, I wasn’t a great student, nor much of an athlete, and didn’t really have anything that made me special. Generally, I did well at blending into the background.

At school the only real attention I received was from Stacie Robinson, captain of the girl’s swimming team, prom queen, and bitch extraordinare. I didn’t flatter myself that I was anything special to receive the bullying that Stacie doled out. She didn’t discriminate who she picked on, and unless you were
literally
invisible, she’d find and terrorize you. Sadly, she got away with it because she was gorgeous, and talented, and inexplicably popular.

Pulling the dulcimer out of the case, I strummed it again. Beautiful harmony floated from the instrument. I didn’t have the foggiest idea of how to play it, but every touch of the strings produced something beautiful, though nothing structured.

Before I was sixteen. Not exceeding ten days. So weird.

I sighed and flopped backwards onto my bed. I didn’t learn much today about my parents, but what I did learn wasn’t what I was expecting. But then again, what
was
I expecting? I couldn’t really remember them. I was almost three when they died, but the only memories I had were foggy.

Sometimes I thought I remembered music. Sometimes that seemed like it must have been in a dream. Sometimes I’d remember laughter, or strange voices, speaking in languages I couldn’t recognize, or maybe it was just words a toddler wouldn’t know yet. I thought I remembered soft blue lights, and water. Sometimes I’d remember comforting nightly rituals, soft hands stroking my hair as I fell asleep. As much as I tried to cling to these thoughts, I wasn’t even sure if they were real memories or fabrications.

I re-read the letter. It still didn’t make any sense. “If I’m supposed to be an adult at sixteen,” I mumbled, suddenly feeling tired from the day, “I guess I’ll know what they meant in a week.”

It was supposed to be a joke. How could I have known?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Six days later, my morning started off typically. I headed to school, managing to meet my goal of remaining invisible to my peers and teachers until around 11:30. That’s when things started to get strange.

I was in Algebra class, which on a good day was bad enough. Math was never something that held much interest to me. As concrete as everyone said it was, I’ve never found my Algebra equations anything other than abstract and foreign. I was about fifteen minutes into our lecture when it hit me like being doused with ice water.

I had the jitters— intense jitters, the kind that would have to be achieved by downing fifteen energy drinks with an espresso chaser. My heart went from beating steadily to suddenly tearing around my ribcage like a frightened rabbit. My hands started shaking, and sitting still in class seemed utterly impossible. I wiped my sweating palms on my pants and glanced at the clock. There was over half an hour of class left.

I tapped my foot, rapped my pencil across my desk, and fidgeted far more than I’d have felt remotely comfortable doing given any other scenario. But it wasn’t enough. I felt like I needed to go outside and run a marathon, compete in the Olympics, do
anything
but sit in class and try to solve for x.

I’m not sure how I survived the ordeal, but I do know that the last ten minutes of class— the longest ten minutes of my life— I spent staring at the second hand of the clock ticking away and praying for the bell to ring. By this point, completely out of my usual character, I’d already determined that the second half of the day would be skipped. When the minute hand finally tumbled over to the hour and the bell rang, I was up like a shot and running out the door.

Somewhere down the hallway, Stacie Robinson was leaving class. I slammed into her, tripping in the process and falling to the ground in a heap.

“Ugh,” she said, giving me a look of sheer disgust.

That was when the jitters stopped. Abruptly stopped, and I felt my shoulders sagging in relief. My heart began to slow down. Maybe I wouldn’t need to skip my last couple of classes, after all.

Stacie peered a little closer, “What’s wrong with you, freak?” Her eyes narrowed, “
Wait a minute..
.”

As she scrutinized my face, a sudden wave of nausea flooded me. And with that, I threw up on her Jimmy Choos.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I spent the rest of the day and night in my room, intermittently doing jumping jacks and lying down, my stomach turning. At one point, I attempted to use the internet to self-diagnose but didn’t find anything that matched my symptoms. Around one in the morning, I felt the strangeness lift from my body. My hands were no longer shaking, and to my intense relief I was no longer nauseated.

Eased, I settled into a dreamless sleep.

CHAPTER THREE

Transition

I was officially sixteen when I woke up. I quickly slipped some clothes over my head and noticed with a start that they seemed to fit differently. I glanced into the mirror on my closet door, cocking my head to the side.

It did look as though I wasn’t swimming in my sweater quite as much as normal. My pants weren’t dragging as much on the floor, either, and my skin was a little brighter than usual, my complexion less sallow.

I smiled. “Sixteen looks good on you,” I said aloud. I was certainly still bony, but maybe this was the beginning of a growth spurt. Perhaps soon I’d actually grow into my clothes.

I shoved my books into my backpack. Rick had already left for work, he had an early contract to start, but Susan was in the kitchen.

“Good morning, birthday girl!” she greeted me enthusiastically. “What can I get you for breakfast?”

“Hmm…” I thought about it. Susan was a terrible cook— I’d once witnessed her fail at boiling water. There wasn’t much she could make without burning it. I chose something relatively safe, “Maybe some oatmeal?”

“Perfect!”

Susan managed to microwave it without incident, and handed me a glass of orange juice. “Did you sleep well?”

I chewed my oatmeal and nodded. No sense in bringing it up. Susan would only feel obligated to interrogate me, and she might even feel the need to stay home from work. It was too crazy, and besides, I was feeling fine now.

“So do you feel any different, being sixteen?”

I pondered the question, “Now that you mention it, I
do
feel a bit different. More mature maybe?”

Susan grinned and nodded her head, “I suppose you’ll be wanting your driver’s license?”

I laughed, “This town is hardly big enough for a car. My legs work fine to get me around.” I glanced at the clock, “Speaking of which, if I want enough time to get to school on these bad boys,” I slapped my thighs to emphasize the point, “I’d better get going.”

I dropped the bowl off in the sink, rinsing it so the oatmeal didn’t stick, and raced out. I quickly pulled my tennis shoes on and bounded outside.

I threw some headphones on, clicking on my outdated mp3 player. Susan purchased it for me as a welcome home gift when I’d arrived in Whitecrest. The walk wasn’t far, but it was long enough that I could listen to a few tunes on the way. The song started up, and I frowned. I stopped moving abruptly. It sounded
wrong.

The guitar was flawed, the music off. I wondered if the track was corrupted, and I hit the skip button. The next song was one of my favorites. I smiled as the display flashed the name of my current idol. The vocals began, and I cringed. Normally she sounded so good, so perfect, but today CubicU didn’t hold the same appeal. The beat felt off, too. It was all done electronically, should have been 100% perfect background— but that seemed to make it worse. It felt artificial.

I turned the player over in my hands, staring at it. Maybe the whole thing had busted. I tried another track.

It sounded… clumsy. Wrong. Terrible. It was just off, universally, profoundly off. It was like watching someone add two and two and somehow end up with seventeen. There wasn’t even a
reason
that it should sound like this. I sighed and pulled my headphones off, shoving the whole thing into my ratty backpack. I guessed it was time for a new player.

I made it to school and slid into my seat just before the bell rang for my first class, history. Mr McGregor was already starting the lesson on the Greek city-states before everyone quieted down.

I sat in my seat and tugged at my shirt uncomfortably. It seemed like it was too small. I looked down and was surprised to see my belly exposed. My pants looked a little shorter, too. I wondered if I’d accidentally shrunk them the last time I did a load of laundry.
So probably not a growth spurt, after all,
I thought with a frown.

I pulled the shirt down as far as it would go, and noticed, dissatisfied, that my midriff was still slightly exposed.

I took a deep breath in and felt it catch about halfway. I had zero doubt in my mind now that I’d shrunk the last load. My sports bra was killing me, digging into my armpits and chest uncomfortably. I wondered if I could go to the bathroom and ditch it, if I really even needed a bra with this shirt at all.

Like any good teacher, Mr McGregor had a radar for when a student wasn’t paying attention. Since I was preoccupied with my clothing issues, he immediately called on me, “Sarah!”

I tried my best to stop fidgeting, sputtering out, “Yes?”

“Can you tell me which god was the patron of Athens?”

It was an easy question, “Athena… a god
dess
, Mr McGregor.” The tone of voice was a little bit rude, but truthfully I was hoping to be sent to the office or at least told to go outside so I could change my clothes. Mr McGregor didn’t seem to notice or care about the attitude, however, and beamed back at me, making me wonder if his mistake was intentional.

Jeremy Wilson, who sat in the seat next to mine, whispered to me, “Wow, you’re really smart, Sarah.”

I smiled back at him, nodding. Jeremy never gave me the time of day before. Receiving his attention now felt awkward and strange. I hunched down in my seat, letting my hair fall over my shoulder, trying to create a barrier between us.