Don't Kiss the Messenger (Edgelake High School, #1)(61)

I could feel my cheeks flush.

“Emmett. I get it,” I said and slid off the bar stool. From the way his eyes were narrowed I could tell he wasn’t convinced, but the self-esteem boost was making me dizzy. “We need to get going.”

We walked outside and snowflakes fell slowly to the ground. Some of them swirled and twisted inside tiny funnels of wind. I watched them descending back and forth in the light of street lamps and car headlights, as if they were moving to music, in soft waves and sweet crescendos.

I almost shared these thoughts out loud. I was starting to believe Emmett could see me. That I could be Bryn.





Chapter Twenty-Three


Emmett


“Define comedy,” Watford said at the start of class. She stood poised behind her podium and waved her arm out, giving us the floor. It was a rare opportunity.

Students spoke up, firing out answers. Definitions rang through the air. Satire. Funny. Parody. Humor. Jokes. Sketches. Something created to make people laugh.

I drew figure eights in the margin of my notebook, waiting to hear an interesting response.

Watford’s mouth was fringed in disappointed at the textbook answers. I continued with my doodling.

“CeCe, how would you define comedy?” she asked.

“Comedy and tragedy are basically the same thing,” she said.

I lifted my head up.

Watford’s mouth turned up at the corner. “Go on.”

I looked over at CeCe. The entire class all turned to look at her.

“Comedy is just the art of making light of life’s sufferings,” she said. “Turning all your pain into a joke.”

She was met with skeptical expressions.

“Think about it,” she said. “In a comedy, instead of crying at how pathetic and awful your life gets, you laugh,” I said. “You make fun of yourself. You turn awkward situations into a joke. Or you deny your hardships completely, which is sad but also ironically funny. Ben Stiller made an acting career out of it.”

I thought about her words. How true they were. Suddenly the problem with my song was starting to make sense. It wasn’t honest. All this time I had been fighting the frustration in my music. The doubt. The possible tragedy that could play out. I was playing what I wanted to hear, not what I was feeling.

Watford offered CeCe one of her hard-earned smiles. It was her way of telling her she was impressed. CeCe grinned and looked down at her notebook. It was probably hard not to look around at all the English majors and gloat.

“The only major difference is the ending,” CeCe added. “Is it going to end well for the characters, or will it end badly?”

Watford nodded and looked around the room. “And do you think we have control over these endings?” she asked, introspectively.

…

Two days later, I had finished my song. I finally found the inspiration I needed. I just hadn’t expected it to come from CeCe. Now I just needed validation.

I swung the door open to the music shop and headed toward the back of the store. I passed Josh and turned down the hallway.

“Employee’s only,” Josh yelled after me. I ignored him and he caught up to me, blocking the hallway.

“I need to talk to Frank,” I said.

He shook his head. “You don’t just drop in on Frank. He doesn’t like surprises.”

I shrugged off the warning. “I need him to listen to my song. I need someone who will be brutally honest.”

Josh took a step back and dropped his arm. He waved me through. “He’s been known to make people cry,” he warned me.

A side office door suddenly clicked open. It opened and closed a few times, like the hinges weren’t working. I stared at the door, confused.

“It’s his OCD,” Josh whispered to me.

I nodded slowly. That explained the black gloves he always wore.

The door opened wide and Frank loomed in the entrance. He crossed his arms over his chest, glaring at me through narrowed eyes. I looked over his shoulder, into the closet sized room where he worked. I was surprised a guy as big as Frank could fit in such a confined space.

“The football player,” he stated. His eyes were level with mine. “You finished your song?” he said.

I nodded.

“How did it go?”

“Somewhere between torture and relief,” I said. “I need you to hear it.”

He considered this. I probably looked desperate. Or terrified. On the football field I never buckled, but Frank was right. It was linear. There was only one goal. Music was the opposite. The point wasn’t to put on pads or helmets to protect yourself from the hits. The point was to take off all of that protection and expose your bruises and scars.

He nodded once. “Meet me in the auditorium in five minutes.”

My stomach balled into nerves. “You want me to perform on the stage?” I asked. I thought we would use a practice room. Someplace quiet. Safe.

He raised his eyebrows. “Is there a problem?” He raised his eyebrows and dared me to argue.

I shook my head. “No problem.”



Ten minutes later, I pounded out the final notes of my piece. My fingers hovered for an instant above the keys. I waited and chanced a look in Frank’s direction. He sat in the third row of the auditorium, center seat.

I was waiting for a look of disgust. Boredom. A verbal bashing. But he looked thoughtful.