Don't Kiss the Messenger (Edgelake High School, #1)(10)
She opened an organic chemistry binder and I studied her, bent over the binder, her hair spilling over the handouts and falling across the paper like music notes.
…
CECE
Emmett’s comments from the coffee shop came back to me and left an involuntary smile on my face while I walked to practice. I hardly got any studying accomplished. With Emmett sitting right next to me, his hands merely inches away, and the music igniting the air around us like an electric charge, concentrating on organic chemistry was an impossible feat.
I hadn’t really minded the distraction. Usually guys didn’t just invite themselves to sit down at my table and stay all evening long. It would look like we were on a date and most guys, in my experience, couldn’t stomach that kind of public display of affection.
I had spent most of my time glancing at his sheet music, scribbled messily with notes, some crossed out, others underlined. I was fascinated by its secret language. I wanted to ask him to translate the notes into words.
My phone buzzed and when I looked at the screen a tinge of panic balled up in my stomach, like a tightening fist. My dad always checked in after volleyball games. It was our routine to discuss game highlights. But when he called out of the blue, it was usually about one thing.
“Dad?” I answered.
“Hey, CeCe.” I tried to read his voice for signs of distress, but then I reminded myself it was Dad. His emotions fluctuated between two levels: positive and mindful. The Buddha would be impressed.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
“I’m taking a few days off of work. Your mom and I are headed to Duluth.”
I saw red flags in my head. It was still tourist season. My dad wouldn’t miss an opportunity for a charter fishing trip, a business he started fifteen years ago in Northern Wisconsin. My mom rarely drove more than thirty miles from home, and Duluth was across the state line, in Northern Minnesota. This wasn’t a vacation.
“What happened to mom?”
“She’s fine. You know your mom.”
No, I thought. I really don’t.
“She tends to overdo things,” he said. This much I could agree on. After the car accident, doctors were skeptical she would walk again, with broken bones in her back and leg. Between my mom’s surgeries and my treatments, we had to borrow money from friends and family and our church to get by. When I was in middle school, my mom worked two jobs so my parents could pay for club sports, school tutors, and extracurriculars. It’s not that I didn’t appreciate it. But, it also burdened me with the pressure to never let them down.
Edmonds didn’t complain. They persevered.
We didn’t talk about the accident. We overcame it.
“Her back has been bothering her again,” my dad said. “We’re meeting with a specialist. I’m sure the doctor’s advice is going to be to take it easy.” He laughed, trying to make light of it. Sometimes my dad’s eternal optimism was like emotional armor. I was never quite sure what his thoughts looked like underneath, if he was a little more bruised than he let on.
I smirked into the phone. We both knew that relaxing was my mom’s arch enemy.
“I wanted you to know we’ll be gone a few days, in case anything comes up.” His voice picked up speed. “I’ve gotta go. You don’t have to mention this to your mom. She doesn’t like to make things all about her.”
We tiptoed around what he really meant. Edmonds didn’t show weakness.
“I’ll talk to you soon,” I said. “Drive safe.”
I hung up the phone and slid it in my pocket. I wasn’t happy with the way my relationship with Mom had deteriorated over the years. She was there for me, in a sense, the way a rock is there and will never budge from its grounded place. But we couldn’t sit down and have hour-long conversations. I couldn’t pour out my heart to her. We didn’t cry together, but we rarely laughed.
Watching my family drift apart made my world feel as unstable as if the ground was shifting under my feet. I had just gotten used to ignoring the tremors.
...
In the weight room, I scrolled through my playlists, looking for warm-up music. I pressed play on the iPod dock and “One Way Trigger” by The Strokes flooded through the room. Lately, I always had this song on repeat. The indecipherable lyrics could mean anything, or could just blend into the background like a synthesized instrument. The tempo and energy changed without a warning. It had surprising, unexpected turns. So true to life.
I opened up my weight lifting file and sat down on the black vinyl bench cushion that lined the walls of the weight room. I scanned the spreadsheet for my daily workout plan. We each had our own lifting schedule and weekly goals, based on our height, weight, and BMI. I looked over the chart as other players trickled in.
Bryn walked over to the stereo.
“What is this?” she asked me over her shoulder. She laughed and tried to dance to the unorthodox rhythm. It wasn’t a typical dance song, more like a song you needed to savor, slowly, beat by beat. I caught movement behind me and I noticed Emmett pass by the glass partition outside the weight room. He stopped when he saw Bryn, taking in her long mane of wild hair that swept the air to her movements. His foot hesitated, half in and half out of the door. Bryn didn’t notice him. Her back was turned to the door while she danced. He looked between her and the stereo. In that brief moment, it was clear the pull she had on him. I leaned back and imagined what it would be like to have someone look at me that way, like shooting sparks followed my movements.