SCHWING AWAKENING (A PROM MUSICAL FANFIC)
Alyssa wants to do more than kiss...but does Emma feel the same?
Pairing: Emma/Alyssa (with Barry sub-plot)
Romance
Disclaimer: Not mine
Rating: "M"
CHAPTER 1
February 17th
7:23 AM
"Mom, please! Just this one time!"
"Alyssa, you're really annoying me. I've said 'no' twice, and I'm not going to change my mind. Don't ask me again."
"B-but it's on a Saturday! And it's rated PG! And you know Shelby's p-parents! And I promise I'll come straight home afterward! And her dad said he'd give me a r-ride to and from the theate-"
Any remaining trace of patience now gone, she shouted, "You're not going, and that's final!"
And then, with an icy glare, my mother walked out of my bedroom, slamming the door behind her.
And I slammed my face into my pillow and screamed.
8:31 AM
"Alyssa?"
"What?!" I snapped.
"Excuse me?!" Mrs. Cole, my First Period Lit teacher exclaimed, the razor-sharp edge in her voice yanking me out of my internal rage and back into my desk chair.
Aghast that I'd been dwelling on my mother's earlier, cruel decision rather than paying attention in class, I quickly said, "Uh, sorry. I meant...what?"
"I was wondering if you would care to join the rest of us in this discussion?"
"Of course," I replied without hesitation.
Mrs. Cole nodded. "Very well, then, what did I just ask you?"
"Uh, um, hm, ah, er..."
Speaking more slowly, she said, "Alright, I'll repeat my question, and please pay attention this time. What is the perfect crime?"
Having no idea how she expected me to answer, I settled for the best (well, only) alternative available to me: inventing wildly.
"Well, uh, the perfect crime is jaywalking. You get the thrill of having broken the law, with none of its repercussions...unless, of course, you get blindsided by a bus."
Now struggling to keep her voice even, my teacher replied, "No, Miss Greene, I was referring to Warren Yate's quote, the one he said to his band of thieves before they decided to tunnel their way into the bank vault."
"Oh," I replied, but was still unable to give her an answer.
She was not pleased.
"You have been reading this semester's novel: A Twist Of Yate."
It was not a question.
"Yes, ma'am," I assured her. (What I didn't mention is that, thanks to workload-induced exhaustion, I'd fallen asleep while reading last night's assigned chapter and didn't have time this morning to catch up before class. Thus, I hadn't yet seen the quote to which she was referring.)
Mrs. Cole looked like she was contemplating sitting me down later for a serious one-on-one discussion or, a far more terrifying prospect, calling my mother.
"I'm really sorry," I said, and meant it, but by the end of class it was obvious that she still hadn't decided whether or not to let me off the hook, and I walked out of the room filled with an overwhelming sense of dread. This was completely unfair. I mean, yes, I had been rude, and (in her mind) had blown off last night's assignment, but she was also well aware that I'm a good student.
Second Period History was worse.
"Ms. Greene?"
Still seething from my earlier battle with Mom, I nonetheless managed to answer with surprising calmness, "Yes?"
"Why is Elizabeth the First known as 'The Virgin Queen?'"
...but, still only half-paying attention, I replied, "Because she couldn't get laid?"
And the classroom erupted in laughter.
Quickly realizing my grievous error, I added, "Ha-ha, just joking!"
"Well, I'm not joking when I tell you to focus."
"Yes, sir."
"It's not like you to be anything less than completely attentive."
"I'm really sorry, Mr. Davis."
My apology seemed to satisfy him. Regardless, I couldn't wait to get out of there, and the instant the bell rang, I sprinted toward the door. Unfortunately, several of my classmates were right behind me, and deliberately followed me down the hall while bombarding me with...
Pointed Questions: "It must really suck not being able to get laid, huh?"
Bad Poetry: "Now I laid me down to sleep - but he blew me off, that fucking creep!"
and Worse Song: "A'lay in a manger my crib he has fled, so I laid here frustrated I can't get no head!"
At last, sanctuary was in sight, and I darted gratefully into the (relative) quiet of the school library; but soon realized that my morning's ordeal was far from over. The only books I could find on my assigned research project were huge, hefty tomes.
And I needed five of them!
Thirty minutes later, with my fully-loaded backpack's seams threatening to burst, I lurched, Quasimodo-like, down to the end of the second floor's west wing, and then turned the corner...
...and there it was!
And, for the moment, the crushing weight(s) on my shoulders felt at least somewhat lighter.
Hurrying as best I could, I finally reached the band closet. With a deep sigh of relief, I turned the knob and yanked the door open. However, my eager anticipation soon turned to confusion as I found myself gazing, not at her smiling face, but into inky blackness.
Instinctively reaching inside the doorway and groping along the wall for the light switch, I called out, "Emma?"
"No one here by that name!" was the gruff reply; but I distinctly heard the smile in her voice.
Eventually my palm made contact with the light switch. Turning it on, I looked around, and soon found Emma - at the left-hand end of the room - flat against the wall on the far side of the musical instruments cabinet.
"You suck at hide-and-seek," I informed her.
"Only because you turned the lights on," she retorted.
"Why are you waiting in the dark?" I asked, closing the door behind me. "You've never done that before."
"Well," she began, "I left the door unlocked for you, like I always do."
"Yes?"
"And I heard footsteps approaching, but they sounded a lot heavier than yours, and I didn't want to get busted, so I decided to hide."
"I sounded like that because my backpack is full," I answered, struggling – and failing - to shrug it off.
She had to help me.
"Wow, what do you have in here...bricks?"
"Worse,"I replied. "Library books."
With an overly-dramatic sigh, and wearing an expression of grim resignation, Emma started moving toward the door, saying, "Well, with all that studying to do, you're going to be far too busy the next few weeks for anything else, so I'll just be on my wa-"
I pinned her to the wall easily.
"Oh, no you won't!" I informed her.
She opened her mouth to 'protest', but what she would have said is anyone's guess, because I cut her off with a kiss.
A minute or twelve later, I leaned back and looked into her eyes. "Well, Emma, how's your day going so far?"
She smiled broadly. "It just improved considerably. And yours?" she asked...
...and suddenly the full impact of all the morning's injustices came rushing back, hitting me like several fists in the face. Not wanting to talk about it, for any number of reasons, I shrugged.
"That bad, huh?"
Instead of replying, I dropped my gaze to the floor.
A long moment passed, and then I heard her say, tentatively, "Alyssa?"
With difficulty, I raised my eyes to hers and, when I saw the sympathetic way she was looking at me, I bit my lower lip and threw my arms around her neck.
"Come here," she said in a low voice, pulling me closer. A moment later, I felt her right hand caressing my back.
"It's gonna be okay. It's gonna be."
I knew she meant well but, based on overwhelming past evidence, I just didn't believe it. While Emma had first-hand experience with the insanity that is my mother, she still didn't know even 10% of what I personally endure, and so I shook my head.
"It's gonna be. Okay, Alyssa?"
When I didn't respond, she leaned back and asked, "Will you tell me about it? What happened?"
Unable to reply, I looked back at the floor and shook my head again, now wishing I'd answered her question by saying things were fine.
Moments later, she took my face in her hands and lifted it gently, and once more I found myself looking into her eyes.
"Please?"
I knew I owed her some sort of explanation, however short, but I was equally sure that if I even attempted to speak, I'd start crying, so instead I leaned forward, just wanting her to hold me again.
Without hesitation, she pulled me close, and moments later I felt her lips on my neck and her her fingers in my hair.
I'm not sure how long we stood like this, but eventually she took a half-step back and asked, "Now will you tell me?"
Still unwilling/unable to get into it, I shook my head and took a half-step toward her, wanting to close the gap between us and to have her arms around me again; but as I did, was surprised to feel her hands on the front of my shoulders. Confused, I looked up, but before I could ask why she'd stopped me, she smiled warmly.
Moving her hands up onto my shoulders and carefully leaning me to the right, she said, "No, wait; over this way. I want to feel your heart."
Leaning to her own right, she then pressed the left side of her chest against the left side of mine and pulled me close.
Automatically, I wrapped my arms around her. Despite the fact that I was standing a little off-balance, it felt so wonderful that, momentarily, I forgot everything that had been plaguing me all morning.
"Oh, Emma" I breathed. "This is such a nice way to hug someone...to connect at the heart!"
She nodded.
As she stood me back upright, I tried to figure out what to say next, but before I could, she pulled me back into her arms, hugging me again in the usual way. As I settled against her, she reached up and moved my head down to rest on her right shoulder.
"How's that?" she asked.
After a long pause, I answered, in a shaky voice, "Can we just stay like this for a little while?"
"Yes," she whispered and, moments later, she began caressing my back with both hands saying, "If you don't want to talk about it, that's okay. I just want you to know that, whatever it is, I'm right here."
In response, I pressed myself closer to her and nodded.
After a few minutes of her hands moving rhythmically up and down my back, I managed to relax a little. I love the way it feels to be in Emma's arms. I mean, it would be even nicer if we didn't have to sneak around and could be affectionate in an actual house, rather than a band closet. Still, there are far worse places we could meet. I mean, compared to a dark alley or an abandoned dockside warehouse, these surroundings weren't so bad:
On the wall behind me was a neat row of honor guard flags, their poles secured in tarnished metal brackets. Next to them was a floor-to-ceiling partitioned cabinet full of hard-sided cases which contained smaller instruments (flutes, clarinets, etc.). Next to that was a blank area of wall (where Emma had been hiding).
Adjacent to that, running along the left-hand wall, was an open, deep wooden bin made of cedar. It contained the band's wool, military-style uniforms, each in it's own linen garment bag, stacked in a pile, (probably lying flat because there was no space in here to install hanging rods). Atop the uniforms were several large, zippered duffel bags full of pom poms (the band had its own separate cheer squad). All of this was covered by an old, faded green canvas tarp. Marching Band season had ended back in November with our Thanksgiving varsity football game, so the uniforms and pom poms were no longer needed and had been put into storage.
Above the bin was a long shelf containing a row of french horns, several of them so dented that, if you studied your reflection in their bells, your face appeared so badly distorted that it looked like you needed to be rushed to the nearest Emergency Room.
Against the adjacent wall, behind where Emma was standing, were the larger instrument cases (trombones, etc.), and next to those were several stacks of plastic milk crates, each full of sheet music, much of it slightly yellowed and with curled edges.
Across the right-hand wall was a collection of drums with well-worn heads.
All in all, the room, while not exactly romantic, was still a safe haven where I could be myself...at least for a little while.
As Emma's hands continued to caress my back, I suddenly felt guilty for not making a single positive contribution to this meeting; and in an attempt to make amends, I said, "Emma, I'm sorry. I'll tell you about it - all of it - but can we please make it later?"
"Of course," she said.
Taking a deep breath, I continued, "I-I'm afraid I haven't been very good company."
"There's no such thing as a bad time with you," she replied giving me a long, reassuring squeeze, and I actually smiled.
Leaning back, I looked at her, and opened my mouth to reply but, since I had no idea what to say, I kissed her instead.
Emma glanced down at her watch. "Um, I hate to be a spoilsport, but we only have four minutes left."
"I wish we could stay," I sighed.
After a moment's consideration, she suggested tentatively/hopefully, "Well, would you want to skip lunch?"
I shook my head.
"As much as I'd like to, I can't. My mother said something about stopping by around lunchtime today, and if I'm not there..." my voice trailed off.
"I understand." She hesitated and then asked, "Will she be coming tomorrow, too?
"No. I'm sure she won't, because she has to meet a client around that time."
Emma pondered this for a moment and then asked, "Well, could we skip lunch then?"
I smiled. "Of course we can-hey, wait a minute! What's in the deal for me?" I demanded.
"I'll bring non-nutritious snacks!" she answered.
That settled it.
"What are your plans for this evening?" I asked her.
"I'll be home, if you want to call me."
I paused to consider. "Well, it's not exactly what I had in mind, but..."
"What did you have in mind?" she asked.
"Something more along the lines of..."
I finished my sentence non-verbally.
Peeking out of the band closet's door, Emma declared that the coast was clear and we left the room. With my usual twinge of sadness, I watched her head down the hall and then around a corner. Once she disappeared from sight, I turned, and with a sigh, walked off in the opposite direction, arriving two minutes later at the cafeteria.
Grabbing a tray, I made my way to the back of the line...
...which wasn't moving...
...because I found myself standing directly behind Barry Glickman and Dee Dee Allen.
Barry and Dee Dee (along with Angie and Trent) are Broadway celebrities who'd heard about the school's decision to cancel our spring prom and had taken it upon themselves to right the situation. They had already been here for nearly a week (and with no end in sight(!), but all they'd managed to do during that time was to (further) infuriate my mother, who referred to them as (among other things) "thoroughly obnoxious."
Apparently the two of them spent the morning meeting with our principal and had then decided to have lunch here.
Unfortunately this was going to be easier said than done, because they and Stella (our resident lunch lady) were in the middle of a looooong altercation, part of which I've transcribed below:
Stella: "For the last time, sir, it's not that we're out of arugula, it's that we don't serve it in the first place."
Barry: "This is completely unacceptable!"
Dee Dee: "Barry, it's not worth getting upset about! Just choose something els-"
Barry: "But they also don't have duck confit or lobster ravioli; so don't tell me not to get ups-"
Dee Dee: "It's not the end of the world."
Barry: (To Dee Dee) "Okay, fine!" (To Stella) "Very well; please try to select something decent for us from your meager offerings."
Dee Dee: (Staring at the plate she'd just been handed) "What did this used to be when it was alive?"
Stella: "That's boneless chicken."
Dee Dee: "No bones? How did it walk?"
I'll spare you the rest. Looooong story short: by the time I finally got through the lunch line and into my chair, I had about five minutes left to chow down before running/lurching - at lightning speed and with queasy stomach - to my next class.
Still, as rotten as my day had been thus far, there was one tiny glimmer of hope: the anticipation of spending an entire lunch period (plus twenty minutes before(!) with Emma tomorrow helped me to endure the rest of the afternoon.
When I arrived home, I noticed that Mom's car wasn't parked in the driveway...
...which was awesome...
...because it meant that I could watch my favorite (forbidden) TV show: Backstabbers!
Sprinting/lurching into the house, I flipped the TV on and flung myself onto the couch.
Backstabbers, a trashy drama, features four incredibly catty women who work for a huge design firm and who spend most of every episode trying to destroy each others' careers/lives in the most underhanded ways imaginable. Lying? Stealing? Cheating? Ratting each other out? Cutting brake cables? All in a days work!
Near the end of today's episode, their boss, Mr. Lovejoy, called the four of them into his office, and a thrill of anticipation shot through me. We were about to find out who planted that blood-stained switchblade in Valerie's desk!
Eagerly, I leaned forward, elbows on knees...
...but at that moment, Mr. Lovejoy's dramatic reveal was drowned out by the sound of someone shouting, "What is that filthy show doing on our TV?!"
I hadn't heard her come in.
As two uniformed police officers rushed through Lovejoy's office door to arrest the culprit, my mother planted herself squarely in front of me, blocking my view of the screen.
Damn!
When I didn't answer, Mom reached down toward the remote lying on the coffee table and, extending her right index finger, jabbed the mute button.
The ensuing silence was deafening, but it (finally) occurred to me that she expected some sort of answer, and the best one I could come up with was, "This show's not that violent."
"Violence is not the problem," she retorted, "language is."
Pretty sure I was in trouble (but unsure how much), I decided that the best course of action was to continue to (attempt to) defend myself.
"But there was only one bad word," I insisted, "and I already heard it on that show you and I watched last week!"
"What show?" she demanded.
"The Wonderful World of Dogs."
Although momentarily taken aback, Mom was far from finished with me. "Didn't you know that this program is on the List of Offensive Shows published by our church?"
Without waiting for a reply, she turned and walked toward the TV. "I can't believe this program made it past my Sin Sentry filter!" she fumed, turning it off while I, exasperated, got to my feet.
She noticed.
"Young lady, did you just roll your eyes?"
"Uh, I, uh...was trying to remember where I left my Sharpo marker. It's not in my backpack."
"Alyssa, what have I said about being careless?"
I wanted to reply, "I can't believe you don't remember; you must have told me eleventy-million times!"
But I knew better.
So I nodded instead.
My mother stared at me for a long moment, and then said, "Now go wash up; it's time for dinner."
Obediently I headed for the bathroom.
Ten minutes later, I sat down in my dining room chair and watched my mother set dinner in the center of the table. As she lifted the lid, the most amazing aroma filled the air: Chicken chasseur, with tomatoes, garlic, and mushrooms; an earthy, warm, wonderful entree; perfect for a cold winter evening. Even though things between Mom and me are, well, difficult at best, I have to give credit where it's due: she's an absolutely incredible cook! Especially considering the schedule she has now. Before Dad left, Mom worked in real estate only part-time and was able to spend hours messing around in our kitchen (which she loves to do). Now that she's so busy, most of our meals are made in her crock pot, but they're every bit as delicious as before. Honestly, I don't know how she does it, only that every morning she throws a bunch of ingredients into it and, when we get home, the most amazing meals come out of it.
Although Mom and I often eat in silence (which, believe me, is not necessarily a bad thing(!), tonight things seemed, well, silent-er (is that a word(?) than usual, and I wondered what was on her mind, finally concluding that she was still stressed out about her two real estate clients from hell:
The Vanamans.
A synopsis: For the last three months, Fred and Marla Vanaman had been running Mom ragged, demanding that she arrange/accompany them to endless showings. Apparently the two of them couldn't agree on a house, which Mom found infuriating, but considering the price range of the homes they were looking at, and the fact that they'd been pre-qualified for a very substantial mortgage, she kept soldiering on with them.
"Guess who called me this afternoon?" she asked.
"Mr. Vanaman?"
"No," she replied, "Mr. Rapp."
And my heart plummeted.
"Wh-why?" I asked, cringing inwardly.
"To tell me your grade on last week's Science project," she replied shortly.
I didn't answer.
"He said he gave you an A-...which you somehow failed to mention."
"I, uh, didn't think it was a big deal," I replied, not quite meeting her piercing gaze.
"An A-, Alyssa?"
"That's almost an A."
"It's almost a B," she countered.
"It's almost an A!"
"No, it's almost a B!" she insisted, and then, leaning forward and with a very serious expression, she added, "Look at me."
Obediently I raised my eyes to hers.
She stared at me for a long moment and then began, "Missy, your grades are slipping and that's unacceptable. You need to buckle down and apply yourself. Maybe you should start studying more, like during your free time."
I wanted to yell, "What free time?!" but I knew that would make things way worse, so I kept my mouth shut and nodded; hoping my mother was done haranguing me for the evening.
No such luck.
"Alyssa, I was emptying the wastebaskets this morning."
With my full attention focused, laser-like, on seeing/seizing the first opportunity to escape, I replied, "Yeah?" in an off-handed way.
"And look what I found in yours."
I cringed as she slapped four Chocolate Scrunch bar wrappers on the table.
When I didn't reply, she gave me The Look, and I felt my defenses go up.
"Come on, what's the big deal?"
"Four, Alyssa? And don't tell me they've accumulated over time, because I last emptied the trash just two days ago."
Just wanting the conversation to end, I nodded, but it was far from over.
"Four?" she repeated.
"Aw, Jeez, Mom, that's only chocolate; it's not like I'm snorting cocai-"
She cut me off with a look.
Sinking down (even farther) in my chair, I added, meekly, "I like it; so why can't I eat it when I want to?"
"And ruin that flawless complexion? Absolutely not."
A random thought suddenly occurred to me. "B-but, I read in one of your issues of Aggressive Parenting magazine that chocolate is good for you! It has antioxidants, and can help prevent heart disease, and has a whole lot of other benefits!"
Mom nodded curtly. "Yes, I remember that article. But those candy bars were dark chocolate and didn't have all these crunchy, uh, substances in them."
When I didn't reply, she continued, "There's always a bowl of fruit on the kitchen counter. Anytime you want a snack, you can help yoursel-oh, and while we're on subject of meals, I was passing through your cafeteria today and decided to see what was on the menu. I was shocked to find that all they're serving is processed garbage!"
When I didn't reply, she added, "For example, turkey tetra chloride."
"Tetrazzini," I corrected her.
Mom gave me a look. "I know that's what it's called. I was joking."
"And it was so funny that I forgot to laugh," I thought.
"And so," Mom continued, "after looking into the situation more closely, I've decided to have you start taking your lunch to school every day."
"Yeah?" I answered, not really caring one way or the other.
"Yes," she answered, "And when I was in the basement this morning, I found just the thing!"
A moment later, she slapped it onto the table...
...and looking down, I stared, horrified...
...at my old Christy the Christian lunchbox, which I hadn't seen/used since grade school!
For the record, Christy the Christian is a dumb kiddie show that appears every afternoon on Mom's favorite TV channel: Christian Revival-Approved Programming (C.R.A.P.).
Anyway, this goody-two-shoes Christy thinks she's God appointed policeman and patrols her entire city, looking for wrong-doers and steering them into church.
With a 100% success rate!
No matter how much of an unruly heathen you are, after a few eye-opening remarks from Christy, which include thinly-veiled references to spending eternity in hell, your ass is in the pew.
By the end of the episode, you're on your knees at the alter, accepting Jesus, while Christy smiles down on you piously. This is always followed by a hard-hitting sales pitch to buy (heaps of) Christy-themed merchandise.
But that's not the worst of it.
Six months after the show launched, they were sued...for blatant copyright infringement of another show: Cathy the Catholic.
Cathy's the Catholic's lawyers alleged (correctly) that Christy's character and show were an obvious ripoff of their own, and an ugly, protracted legal battle ensued.
Once the dust (finally) settled, Christy the Christian was still allowed to air, provided that certain conditions were met.
Among other things, the Christy lunchbox was deemed too similar to Cathy's and changes had to be made; one of which was switching the box's color from pale pink to another shade of pink...one which can only be described as howling fuchsia.
And the one my mother bought for me was the latter version.
And now she expected me to carry the garish thing to school every day?
In short, a fuchsia lunchbox (not to mention a Christy one(!), would be glaringly visible to every single student in the cafeteria, making me the guaranteed target of relentless social ridicule.
As I continued staring at it, in slack-jawed horror, my brain sent me a stern message:
You've suffered enough for one day!
I agreed silently, realizing that I needed to get the hell out of there. Fortunately there was a way; one that Mom never argued about.
"I have a lot of homework," I announced (a blatant lie).
It always worked.
Two minutes later, I was sprinting (well, as quickly as my overstuffed backpack would allow) up the stairs to my bedroom.
As the last rays of late afternoon sunlight slid horizontally through my window, I kicked my shoes off and fell backwards onto the bed; and suddenly, I desperately needed to hear Emma's voice. (Oh, for the record, I always make sure to call, not text, people (no written record for Mom to read, duh.) Anyway, even though this call was to be purely social, I wasn't worried. I often call my classmates to discuss homework; so as long as I had a notebook, pen, and open textbook on the bed next to me, Mom would suspect nothing.
Realizing that my phone was still in my backpack, which I'd left on my desk over by the bedroom door, I began to sit up, but then lay back down.
What an absolutely brutal day.
So I'll just lie here and vegetate.
For a minute.
I opened my eyes to complete darkness.
Shit!
Whipping my head to the right, I looked over at my bedside alarm clock.
11:03 pm.
Shit-Shit-Shit!
I hadn't meant to conk out, and now it was way too late to call Emma (Mom had made it very clear to me that I was to make/take Absolutely No phone calls past ten-thirty, a rule I didn't dare defy, knowing that if I did, she'd confiscate my phone for an entire month). But as maddening as this law was, I was even more furious with myself since, before leaving the closet, Emma told me she'd be home and had invited me to call.
And now I'd blown the chance.
Lifting my head from the pillow, I listened carefully. The house was completely quiet, which meant that Mom had gone to bed. Thank God; at least I'd be able to study in peace.
I managed to finish catching up on my Lit reading, my only pressing assignment, in about thirty minutes; and then, with a combination sigh/groan, I rolled off the bed and headed to the bathroom.
Without exception, I shower twice per day; not just because of the cleanliness = Godliness thing, but because I love it everything else about it: the solitude; the water beating down on my shoulders like a massage, its sound (sort of) distracting me from the endless cacophony in my brain; and then finally emerging feeling like I'd managed to get rid of at least some of the day's trash.
Forty minutes later, I walked out of the bathroom, wearing my 'heavenly blue' Sherman the Sheep pajamas.
For those not familiar, Sherman the Sheep is an idiotic, Christian-themed cartoon for young children. Like most sheep (I suppose), Sherman wears a collar, but instead of a bell, there's a huge cross hanging from it. Since I haven't watched the show for more than a decade, I don't really remember any of the plots, only that Sherman spent most of every episode pointing out the glaring faults of the "b-a-a-a-dly-behaved goats" (see Matthew 25:31-33) who showed up regularly in Sherman's pasture sporting their exaggerated 'devil' horns, sin-red baseball caps, and the occasional cigarette dangling from their front hooves; while chewing tin cans...that had beer labels on them!
I looked down at my pajamas, which featured a repeating pattern of Sherman's dumb face, and sighed.
My mother had actually given me these.
Last Christmas.
She still thinks I'm a child, further evidenced by the fact that these jammies are size XL, which means that she must have bought them in the store's Kiddie department.
Wearily I pulled my covers down and climbed into bed but, thanks to my earlier three-and-a-half-hour nap, I wasn't the least bit sleepy. After a valiant attempt to nod off, I finally gave up and lay staring at the ceiling, its wide expanse of black occasionally interrupted by the headlights of cars driving past our house.
Wondering who the drivers were and where they were going.
Imagining that they were heading home and into the arms of someone they adore.
Wishing that Emma was lying here beside me.
However, she wasn't, so I was forced to settle for looking back on the times we spend together in the band closet.
Recalling the way her eyes light up every single time I walk through the door.
Remembering that, no matter how awful a day I might be having, she always manages to make it more bearable.
Wishing that I could reach over right now and hold her.
Wishing, however, wasn't enough and I couldn't, so instead I did what I do every night: Rolling onto my left side, I grabbed my spare pillow. Curling up with it, I pulled Emmapillow back against my chest and sighed.
It was bad enough that Emma and I only saw each other for such a short time each day and that we got to do so little during that ti- I mean, the hugs and kisses are very enjoyable, but I wish that we could be together like this, lying with our bodies entwined, the warmth of hers helping to shield mine from the cold, damp loneliness that always seems to permeate my bedroom, no matter what the season.
For the first thing I see each morning when I open my eyes to be her sleepy smile.
Hugging Emmapillow more tightly, I pulled the covers up over us both.
It's so unfair!
All of it!
I'd gladly endure ten times the stress and browbeating I'm currently subjected to if I could spend at least a small part of every day lying with her like this.
But, I realized with a sigh, it just isn't possible.
XXXXX
I'm not sure when I fell asleep, but I woke up before the alarm, my arms still holding Emmapillow. I had no idea why I'd awakened at that particular moment, but as I lay there without moving, and with eyes still closed, I suddenly became aware of a very unusual phenomenon:
My mind was completely empty.
Somehow, the countless, soul-crushing problems that pervade my brain non-stop had disappeared, at least temporarily, leaving me alone with a wide, dense, gray sea of fog.
And I loved it.
And welcomed it.
And let myself get lost in it.
I didn't dare move or open my eyes, terrified that if I did, the spell would be broken and the echos of other peoples' endless criticisms would come rushing back...and so I lay there, breathing slowly and deeply, reveling in the stillness, letting the hazy, misty silence swirl around me - and through me - thinking of nothing except my mind's calming numbness, and wishing it would last forever.
However, as all good things must come to an end, this one did...
...but not at all in the awful manner I'd expected.
Instead, the vast expanse of lovely, gray nothingness was interrupted in a very different way:
With a single, extraordinary idea.
Not a perfect one, to be sure, but one so inspired that in that moment I couldn't believe I had actually conjured it.
At first I thought that my groggy mind must be mistaken and, from force of habit, began second-guessing myself. But even after the harsh scrutiny of close examination on all sides, I had to admit that it was a solid...no, an incredible...idea!
It also meant that credit was due and, with a proud sense of accomplishment, I rolled over onto my back with a wide smile, re-examining my idea, while realizing that the more I thought about it, the more appealing it became.
It's amazing what you can come up with when the rest of the world, which constantly conspires to force crap upon you, leaves you alone to think for yourself for a frickin' minute!
My silent celebration ended abruptly with Mom on the other side of my bedroom door, yelling at me not to dawdle.
But I didn't care.
Because it was gonna be a great day!
Less than ten minutes later, I was in the shower and grinning broadly.
Forty-five minutes later, I was cheerfully enduring a breakfast table lecture about how I had completely screwed up sorting last week's recyclable items.
Ninety minutes later, I was looking out the school bus window, oblivious (for once) to the roar of noise all around me.
Getting through my Lit and History classes was harder but I did my best since, after what happened in them the day before, I didn't want to let my mind wander again and make things worse.
Still, I kept one eye on the wall clock, which was crawling forward at a maddeningly-slow pace; and the instant third period Study Hall ended, I jumped up from the library table and hurried out the door.
I couldn't wait to share my revelation with Emma!
But, as I turned into the second floor's west wing corridor, I deliberately slowed my steps.
How should I tell her?
And when?
Would she think of my idea was it really a good one after all?
What if she didn't even like...what if she hated it?
I wished that I'd tackled these questions during this morning's quiet solitude, because now my brain was full, and I was pretty much out of time. The best plan I could come up with on the fly: to evaluate her/the situation carefully, hoping I pick a good moment, and that upon hearing my idea, she won't flatly reject it.
Having decided on a course of action (albeit, not a perfect one), I realized that I was now less than a minute from seeing Emma(!), and so I broke into a run, skidding to a halt in front of the band closet.
With a fast glance up and down the corridor (there was no one in sight), I turned the knob and yanked the door open; and a familiar thrill shot through me as I found myself gazing at...
...a King-sized Chocolate Scrunch bar...
...its unwrapped end pointed directly at my face...
...only two inches from my mouth.
Leaning forward, I took a huge, enthusiastic bite.
"Ow! My fingers!" Emma exclaimed as I, mouth too full to reply, hurried into the room, shutting the door behind me.
Once my initial bite (of chocolate, not Emma's fingers(!) went down the hatch, I took a step toward Emma and leaned forward but, instead of letting me kiss her, she leaned back and shook her head.
Looking into my eyes, and with a very serious expression, she said, "No, Alyssa. Business before pleasure," and then, taking my arm, she led me across the room, over to the chest-high stacked sheet music crates.
She had draped her jacket across three of them, and on top of it was spread an impressive array of junk food.
Enough for at least six people.
But meant for only two.
She gestured toward it with a broad sweep of her hand; and I needed no further invitation.
Conversation was impossible for a long time.
Finally, as I polished off the last peanut butter cup (hey, she insisted(!), Emma unfolded a plastic trash bag and shook it open. I watched as she collected the empty potato chip bags, candy and snack cake wrappers, and iced tea bottles. Tying a knot in the bag, she stuffed it (with difficulty), into her backpack for later disposal.
Such an organized, thoughtful, tidy girl.
At last, turning in my direction and with a puzzled expression on her face, she asked, "Now, where were we?"
"Well," I began, "as I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted-"
Suddenly, a thought occurred to me.
"By the way, what do I owe you for the snacks?" I asked, shoving my hand into the right front pocket of my jeans.
"A polite thank you will suffice," she answered...
...and, with an understanding nod, I leaned toward her.
Once I'd finished expressing my appreciation, she observed, "Well, it seems you're feeling a little better than yesterday."
"Yes," I said decisively, "very!"
Emma's eyes lit up.
"I'm so glad!" she exclaimed, reaching out with both hands and pulling me forward.
With a smile, she dipped me low and, ignoring my squeal of surprise, gave me a hearty kiss. Before I could recover from that, she actually picked me up off my feet and hugged me tightly, declaring, "I've missed you, Alyssa! I've been thinking about you all day!"
"R-really?"
"In-deed I did!" she said earnestly
Once my feet were back on the floor, I looked at her wide smile and quickly assessed the situation.
And my heart began to pound.
I had been planning to take my time and play all of this by ear, trying to find the right moment to talk to her about my morning's epiphany but, based on her current mood, this seemed to be as good a moment as any-no, even better!
"Okay," I told myself, "you know that, even though you're not sure where this idea came from, it's absolutely inspired. Why wouldn't she like it?"
I took a deep breath, yet still hesitated.
"Come on, say it...NOW!" I ordered myself silently and then, not allowing myself the chance to screw up by second-guessing, I instead screwed up my courage, took another deep breath and asked, "Emma, would you please do something for me?"
Without hesitation, she replied, "I'll try...what is it?"
Looking slightly past her (I was waaay too nervous to make direct eye contact), and with my heart now hammering, I asked, "Could we, uh...could we lie down together for a few minutes?"
Looking to her left, Emma glanced down at the floor next to our feet.
I shook my head.
"No, that's not what I meant. I m-meant over th-there," I said, pointing to my left...
...over at the wooden storage bin.
And then I closed my mouth and, trying to ignore how badly I was shaking, awaited her answer.
During the silence that ensued, I studied her face closely. I wasn't sure what she was thinking but, based on her expression, she seemed to be trying to decide if there was any good reason not to.
Finally, after nearly a half minute's deliberation, and to my absolute relief, she nodded.
The two of us approached the bin tentatively and looked down at it. I couldn't tell what she was thinking, but she wasn't moving, so I promptly climbed up and over its nearly four-foot high front wall and then lay on my back, sinking far down inside.
While not exactly roomy, it wasn't uncomfortable at all – with no hard spots - and I stretched out my full length with satisfaction.
I expected the green canvas tarp to be musty, but instead it smelled like the bin's cedar walls, (which had probably been a deliberate choice of wood to deter moths from devouring the wool band uniforms).
I smiled encouragingly up at Emma and, after a moment or two's hesitation, she climbed up, over, and in, and tried to lie down on top of me.
Due to space limitations, however, this was somewhat challenging. The bin, while certainly long enough, was fairly narrow, and she struggled a bit trying to settle in, before finally hitting on a solution. A moment later, I felt her palm slide sideways between my knees. Knowing what she meant, I nodded and then, with a nervous flutter in my stomach, I opened my legs.
Emma, with some difficulty, maneuvered her left knee between both of my own and then wedged her right one between my left knee and the bin's front wall.
Looking up at her, balanced above me on her knees and hands, I asked, "Will you keep an eye on the time?"
"I promise."
Knowing that Emma is never late for anything, I considered the matter settled and turned my attention to the next order of business.
Leaning up, I tilted my head forward and kissed her.
As she tentatively kissed me back, I distinctly felt a tiny shiver ripple through her body.
Excellent.
With a smile, I held out my arms, and then felt an incredible thrill run through my own body as Emma lay down on top of me.
As I pulled her close, she nodded (or maybe she was rubbing her cheek against mine(?); anyway, encouraged, I turned my face toward hers and kissed her again.
And then again.
As I was moving in for the next one, she suddenly tilted her face downward, so I kissed her forehead instead, and then, reaching up, I moved her head down to rest on my upper chest, just below my chin.
And then, I looked down at Emma (finally(!) lying in my arms, and my stomach gave an incredible swoop.
Did I really manage to do this...and all by myself?
Realizing that, yes, I did, I allowed myself a short interval to celebrate/reflect. It's difficult to explain how being with Emma like this made me feel. I mean, when your father leaves without a word and your mother, who hasn't hugged you in forever, is nothing but critical of everything you say/do/are, you are absolutely starved for affection. And then when you finally meet someone who accepts you exactly as you are, you want and need to be reassured that...
...that...
Suddenly, I realized something: I was so busy thinking about myself that I was ignoring Emma completely.
How unbelievably selfish of me.
At that moment, something else occurred to me. During the entire time my attention had been turned almost completely inward, she hadn't moved at all.
I looked down at her, lying completely still, and kissed the top of her head.
She didn't respond.
"Are you asleep?" I asked softly.
She shook her head.
Nearly a minute passed, but she still didn't move, so I lifted her face to mine and kissed her.
She did kiss me back, followed by a weak smile. Smiling back, I ran my hands gently up and down her upper arms, silently encouraging her, letting her know that it's okay to show affection.
But she didn't.
Instead, without a word, she lay back down on my upper chest.
Tilting my head forward, I looked down at her lying in my arms, but I couldn't see her face.
"Emma?"
No answer.
"Is this okay?" I asked.
She nodded.
"Are...are you okay?"
I felt her body tremble slightly and then saw another tiny nod.
"Are you sure?"
Another nod.
"What are you thinking?"
She hesitated for a long moment and then shook her head...
...and I began to worry. This is not like her at all. Emma has always been a very enthusiastic participant in our hugs-and-kisses sessions.
And now...nothing?
What's going on?
I pondered this question at length, but no answer presented itself, and suddenly I started to, well, not panic, but to feel apprehensive.
"No, Alyssa," I silently admonished myself, "do not start imagining problems where none might exist!"
But, still, something about this situation seemed "off", especially considering the incredibly affectionate way she'd been acting toward me less than ten minutes ago.
Did her lack of participation mean that she was scared?
But...scared of what?
My inability to understand what was going on was quite unnerving and so, against my better judgment - and while trying to keep the growing dread I now felt out of my voice - I asked, "Please Emma...what are you thinking?"
Several long seconds of silence followed, and then she answered, in a very small voice, "Th-that I love you."
Feeling equally surprised and relieved, I hugged her tightly.
She had never said it before.
To be honest, I wasn't expecting to hear it at this particular moment. I mean, the sentiment certainly wasn't unwelcome, it's just that...well, this is not exactly what I thought our first "I love yous" would be like.
Instead, I had kind of envisioned a wind-swept beach, on a morning in early September, when the sun's rays hit the earth at a lower angle and the quality of the light is absolutely beautiful. With her bare feet in the surf and the sun in her hair, Emma would turn to me and...
...or...
...or maybe while standing on a jetty, in early April, far out over the sea, with waves spraying their mist upwards around us, as we held onto each other tightly, bracing ourselves against the wind and steadying ourselves on the wet rocks. Emma, with the collar of her long, gray overcoat flipped up against the brisk morning breeze, would look into my eyes and...
...and...
...and...
...and, anyway, this venue is an acceptable substitute! Emma just told me she loves me!
Since her declaration at this moment was so unexpected, the best response I could come up with on such short notice was, "Well that's good, Emma, because I love you, too."
Reaching down, I lifted her face to mine. As I kissed her, there was a series of major swoops in my stomach, and I wondered if she felt the same, hoping that she did. However, nearly a minute later, I opened my eyes and gazed into hers...and my kisses slowed...
...because something about her earlier expression had changed but, try as I might, I couldn't figure out exactly what. "Then again," I reasoned silently, "you might be imagining this," and so, instead of asking her about it, I tilted my head forward and began kissing her again.
Since she was returning them, I parted my lips, but soon found, to my confusion, that she wasn't opening her mouth against mine. Nonetheless, I continued, as gently and encouragingly as I could, but suddenly - and without a word - she lay back down, resting her head once again on top of my chest.
"Still," I told myself, "you might be misreading the entire situation, so just relax." Reaching up with my left hand, I tangled my fingers in her hair and then spent the next minute or two memorizing everything about this moment, so I could accurately reference it again tonight when I was in bed.
In bed all alone.
Reaching down with my right hand, I began to caress her back, on top of her shirt; but, even after several minutes of this I saw, to my disappointment, that she still wasn't responding at all.
"Does that feel nice?" I whispered.
She nodded, which should have reassured me...
...but why wasn't she hugging me back? Well, then again, because of our position and how narrow the bin is, she couldn't really have got her arms around me, so was I actually overthinking all of this?
But then again, if that's the case, then why wasn't she at least talking to me? Instead of lying completely still and silent? She's always been very, very animated and affectionate with me...and now nothing?
Suddenly, I desperately needed to know what was going on because, clearly, something was...well, different. But what could I possibly say: "Emma, your contributions to this love fest are not to my satisfaction?"
Of course I couldn't.
I wracked my brain for an alternative, but couldn't come up with something that didn't sound like criticism...and I did NOT want to ruin the moment; knowing that if I did she might never want to do this again.
Still, something about all of this seemed very, very off. I valiantly tried to push that thought from my mind, but it wouldn't leave; and so I lay there beneath her, struggling with myself in silence; desperately wanting to understand what was going on, but afraid of coming across as pushy and intrusive by asking.
Finally, however, the the right side of my brain won out and, now actually scared that something was very wrong, I was about to beg, "Emma, please! Please talk to me!" but before I could, she finally spoke.
"We, uh, we have to go," she announced...
...and, struggling to hide my fear/disappointment, I nodded and, tilting my face downward, I kissed her forehead.
Without a word, she clambered out of the bin.
When I joined Emma on the other side of the room, I tried to look into her eyes, but she was looking at her backpack, holding it in one hand while wrestling with its front zipper with the other. Without a word, she reached inside and then pressed two additional Chocolate Scrunch bars into my hand.
She did participate in our obligatory last kiss but, based on her lack of eye contact, her mind seemed to be elsewhere.
Even though we never bothered telling each other to enjoy rest of the day (since we were well aware that it would be sheer hell for both of us), we did always talk to each other before leaving the band closet, but this time she didn't say a word.
At this point I was rapidly approaching panic, but had no idea what to say, so instead I watched in silence as she walked out of the room and down the hallway, like always, but to my dismay, far more quickly than she ever had before.
And suddenly, I felt the desperate necessity to be somewhere - anywhere – else, where I could sit in solitude and try to decipher what had just happened.
What she'd been thinking.
And feeling.
But no such luck. I had to get to Phys. Ed (where it's far too noisy to reflect), then Algebra (where you let your attention wander at your peril), followed by Science, followed by cheer practice.
So I did my best to not think about it at all, although without much success.
The rest of the school day passed with excruciating slowness, while I struggled – and failed – to keep Emma off my mind. Unfortunately, despite my endless snatches of unwanted reflection, I made absolutely no progress in sorting things out.
During the ride home, I did my best to ignore the roar of the school bus's ancient muffler, instead turning my attention inward and silently attempting to strategize:
"Okay, Alyssa, here we go. Your main objective is to figure all this out...and as soon as possible! When you get home, if Mom's not there, start thinking about it, then endure dinner, then beg off to study, and then continue tying to figure it out.
"If she is home, endure dinner, beg off to study, then start trying to figure it out. Don't complicate/drag things out by arguing with Mom about anything she says...no matter what it is. Eat quickly, then beg off...and then figure it out!"
I reviewed my strategy several times.
It was satisfactory.
A few minutes later, I was walking home from the bus stop; and, turning the corner onto our street, was annoyed to see Mom's car parked outside our house. Still, the day's end was now in sight, and I gratefully/wearily ascended my front steps, just wanting to get through dinner and then up to my bedroom.
So I could finally think!
But, of course, first things first: Mom was waiting for me as I walked in the front door.
I expected her to launch into a lengthy tirade about some glaring fault or other of mine, as usual, but instead, and to my complete surprise, she said, "Alyssa, run upstairs and put a clean shirt on. We're going out for dinner."
"Huh?" I replied, stunned. "Where did you make reservations?"
Mom shook her head. "We're not having dinner at a restaurant. We're going to the Roger Flynn's house. You remember the Flynns?"
My heart sank.
Of course I remembered them.
Roger Flynn was a real estate colleague of Mom's, although they didn't work directly together (he specialized in commercial real estate; she in residential). I'd had dinner at his home on several occasions, and every single time I'd been bored to death. He and Mom would discuss business endlessly (a subject in which I had zero interest), leaving me with the responsibility of entertaining his wife, Jane, who seemed to think she was my personal lifestyle director and gave extensive, unsolicited advice while pelting me with endless personal questions.
We usually didn't leave there until hours later...even on a school night!
Crap!
Mom snapped me out of my reflection.
"Are you going to stand there all day?" she asked. "Roger wants me to be his partner in a commercial project, that new healthcare plaza and it's a very big and potentially-lucrative deal. We have to be there in twenty minutes, so get moving!"
Seven minutes later, during the (thankfully) silent car ride to their place, I forced myself to do some fast thinking. My original plans were officially shot to hell, and now I had to contend with the added complication of being at some else's home, where I might be trapped for most of the night...and I could not allow that to happen! I had to get into my bedroom and try to figure out what the hell was going on with Emma! My inability to reflect on it properly thus far was starting to take its toll; and my head was spinning as I tried to rationally assess my current options.
After studying the situation at length, there seemed to be only one:
"Okay," I told myself, "eventually, Mrs. Flynn is going to ask you how school is going. When she does, tell her how stressed you are about your huge, upcoming History test and how it's worth 25% of the semester's grade, and how much more you want/need to study for it. Say this just loudly enough to cut across whatever Mom and Mr. Flynn are discussing. As soon as Mom hears that, she'll start wrapping things up and hurrying you out the door and into the car."
I reviewed this strategy several times, looking for potential points of failure, but it seemed very solid, and so I committed to it.
When we arrived, the appetizer was already on the table, which I took to be an encouraging sign. A large platter of chilled lobster tail medallions (the Flynns are loaded), with a Dijon mustard-based cream sauce.
Yum.
Within two minutes, Mom and Mr. Flynn were deep in discussion about the new complex and twenty minutes later, when he officially invited her to to partner with him on the project, she agreed enthusiastically. There were, however, some items that needed to be sorted out, and while they grappled with these, I turned my attention to my entree, eating without interruption, grateful that Mrs. Flynn seemed to be waiting until after the meal to engage me in (not so) small talk.
I smirked openly when dessert hit the table: four plates, each with a huge wedge of chocolate pie on it.
Despite my current mental turmoil, it was incredibly entertaining to watch Mom's internal struggle; wanting to forbid me to have mine, yet not wanting to offend our hosts. Finally, after an extended silent battle, she relented with a curt, grudgingly-permissive nod, and then returned to her discussion with Mr. Flynn.
As soon as dessert was over and the table had been cleared, I prepared to make my move, although unsure when Mrs. Flynn would provide the catalyst.
As it turns out, I didn't have long to wait.
"So, tell me, Alyssa, how are things at school?" she asked promptly.
Taking a deep breath, I pitched right in. "Well, actually I'm kind of-"
"Oh, Roger, if we can finalize this deal...!" Mom cut me off.
"I'm pretty sure we can," he replied with a smile. "We just need to have the variance approved, and then to settle things with Code Enforcement."
"It would be wonderful!" Mom continued. "This commission will help so much! Alyssa starts college in September, and I want her to have the very best education, well, the very best of everything in life, or else I'll feel like I failed her," she concluded, with unmistakable sincerity...
...and with a tiny catch in her voice...
...and with a long, doting glance in my direction...
...and my heart sank...
...and my gaze dropped to the tablecloth, as I was forced to confront/acknowledge the truth:
She's doing this for me.
All of it.
Not for personal gain, nor for recognition, but for me.
Mom works so hard and has made so many sacrifices on my behalf, I realized...
...and then promptly buckled under the crushing weight of guilt.
There was no way I could pull the plug on this meeting now, not because I would benefit from it financially, but because (despite all of our problems), I mean so much to Mom.
And so, with weary resignation and while mentally bracing myself for a loooong night ahead, I turned back to face Mrs. Flynn who eagerly asked, "So, Alyssa, do you have a boyfriend?"
At 9:43 (actually earlier than I'd expected), we walked through our front door.
Immediately I said, "Huge history test in two weeks; gotta study!" and tore up the stairs to my room.
Fortunately, Mom didn't protest.
Unfortunately, however, it had been such a long, difficult day that, by the time I closed the bedroom door behind me, my last gay nerve was completely shot; and so, instead of first calmly reflecting/thinking/planning what to say to Emma I, now in full panic mode, snatched my phone and hastily dialed her number.
She didn't answer.
Oh, my God...why not?
"Stop, it, Alyssa!" I admonished (as loudly as I dared). "Get a hold of yourself! Calm down, and let's do this the right way: First, list every single facet of the situation, in chronological order. Next, evaluate each one carefully. From there, you can draw your best conclusions and then decide on the most logical course of action!"
Taking a deep breath, I sat down on the edge of my bed and attempted to do all of that...
...and failed utterly. I was so physically and mentally drained from the day's events, and so confused/distressed about what had happened in the band closet, that my mind refused to cooperate, instead rapidly spewing out endless, jumbled, random thoughts:
Why hadn't she answered her phone? I mean, it's a school night, so she should be at hom-no, wait! She and her grandmom sometimes go out on school nights.
But did they tonight?
Looking back to the moment we left the music room, I realized that, for once, she didn't tell me of her evening's plans like she always did.
In fact, it seemed like she couldn't wait to get out of there...and she had barely looked at me...and then she practically ran down the hall!
So, would she even show up tomorrow?
Another sobering thought occurred to me: why had I insisted that she tell me what she was thinking? I mentally kicked myself, realizing how incredibly intrusive it is to ask someone to reveal their private thoughts! Had I pushed her into admitting that she loves me...before she was ready to say it?
But still, she DID say it...but was she now second-guessing herself?
Have I scared her off?
Heart pounding, I called again.
Still no answer.
Oh-God-oh-God-oh-God!
Why the hell was she so unresponsive in the bin...was she afraid of us getting busted? Okay, now that's a possibility. If someone walked in while we were standing, we could always say that Emma was looking for some sheet music to play on her guitar.
But getting caught while lying down was another matter entirely; one that could completely ruin my life if we were found out.
And I Could Not Be Found Out!
It could ruin Emma's life, too, I suddenly realized. Did her paralyzing fear of that possibility make her decide to pull the plug on the band room?
And on us?
Forever?
Now a wreck, I jumped up off my bed and started to pace the room.
During my thirtieth(?) trip across it, another awful realization hit me: she hadn't said, "See you tomorrow," which she always tells me when we're leaving.
Every. Single. Time.
Oh, shit!
Struggling to breathe evenly, I forced myself to stand still and then tried to apply logic, like I'd learned in my classes, but every single facet of the entire situation was infuriatingly ambiguous, and no amount of tortured analysis yielded a single insight.
I thought back to her telling me she loves me. Did she only say it because she believes I expected it of her?
Did she now regret it?
Why did she hesitate before telling me? Maybe because she's unsure of it?
I turned and looked at my bedside clock. If I didn't call her in the next ten minutes, I would miss my chance, due to curfew.
I was completely terrified, but I had to know; and so, doing my best to ignore the fact that I still had absolutely no idea what to say, I dialed her number one last time.
She didn't pick up.
At this point, I was so distressed that, for the first time ever, I skipped my evening shower. Kicking my shoes off, I crawled, fully-dressed, under the covers and switched off my bedside lamp.
Rolling over onto my left side, I reached out and grabbed Emmapillow, pulling it to me as tightly as I could and resting my forehead against it.
"Please," I whispered to it. "Please, Emma. Please, tell me what's happened!"
No reply.
"Please!" I begged.
But she didn't answer.
Just like she didn't answer her phone.
XXXXX
Needless to say, I got zero sleep that night.
I somehow managed to make it through my morning classes solely on autopilot, well, that and due to the fact that (for a change) my teachers didn't call on me. I couldn't have paid attention if I'd tried, because my sleep-starved mind held only one thought: that I was terrified to walk into the band closet.
Because of the very real possibility that she wouldn't show up.
Third period Study Hall was a blur, although I vaguely remember struggling to stay awake. Forty-five minutes later, I stumbled out the door, groggy and blissfully unaware that my dragging feet, also on autopilot, were steering me down the hall and into the second floor's west wing.
But suddenly, I was jolted violently awake, as I realized that I was standing in front of the band closet.
The shock felt like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over my head, and I wanted to turn and run. But, as terrified as I was, I knew that I had only option.
With my heart slamming violently against my rib cage, I approached the door and then, with a badly-shaking hand, reached for the knob...
A/N: Well, shall I continue?