The next Monday, Amy stepped into Andrew's room after school. All the students were gone, and practice didn't start for another fifteen minutes. "Andrew? Can I talk to you for a minute?"
Andrew looked up, a funny look on his face. He was afraid this was coming. Lord, help me to get this right… "Amy. Have a seat." She sat on one of the desktops and he stood before her, arms crossed. "What's up?"
"You understand about me not being able to play anymore, right?"
"Yeah." He said, pretending he'd heard it from someone.
"You don't sound all that surprised."
"I—uh, I am, but… I just want to fix this."
"You can't." She said dejectedly. "It's just a medical problem and there's really nothing that can be done about it. That's it. I just wanted to make sure you understood. So I'll see you at practice?" She got up.
"Sit." She did. "Amy, you are in pain. I don't see why you're always denying it to everyone."
"What good does spreading it around do?" She asked, raising her eyes to meet his. "People have their own problems. There are people out there who are starving, beaten, people with no parents, people who are blind or deaf… what right do I have to complain? What right do I have to think I suffer?" She looked down at the desk. "I was lucky to have what I did. Now it's gone. I suppose I should be grateful."
"Amy." Andrew knelt in front of her. "It's ok to be upset. It's ok to feel out of control once and a while. And if you ever need someone to talk to, you know I'm always here, right?"
The girl sighed again. "I don't know if I—how I'm going to do this." She admitted. Andrew wanted to leap for joy. "But I'm sure I can handle it myself." And down he came.
"Amy."
"Look, Andrew, I promised I'd go over the reports for the next game with Sara right now, ok? I gotta go."
Amy jumped to her feet, hissing in pain. "Dang, dang, dang… stupid…" Andrew pulled her arm around his neck and wrapped his arm around her waist.
"I'll take you into the gym. There you will sit on the bleachers for the entire practice, and Monica will tell you the many evils of trying to over-do it."
Amy groaned as Andrew slowly steered her down the hallways. Out of the corner of her eye she could see a few students whispering at their precarious positioning, but there could be no help for it. Even she was getting worried.
"How am I supposed to climb the stairs every day?"
"Elevator." He answered, his breath tickling her ear. "They'll give you a key with a pass from the doctor."
"Oh yeah."
Finally they made it to the field house and Andrew helped her up to the second row. "I'll go get Monica, then we'll get practice started."
"Great." Amy let her head fall back, closing her eyes to the tears. God, why? Why me? Andrew heard her silent prayer from his point in the door on his way out, and started to turn back. But it wasn't his place. So he went to Monica's office and retrieved her, then started the rest of the girls through their drills.
"Hey, baby." Tess said, setting Christopher in his swing. "Feel up to some music?"
"I need it." She said, limping over to the piano.
"You want a chair?"
"No. Isn't it better to stand?"
"Only when you're not injured."
"Ah, I'll be fine." She waved her hand.
"Ok." Tess played a practice scale. "Straighten your torso, breathe deep, and sing from—that's it." The lesson lasted two hours, until Christopher began to cry from hunger and the two musicians realized they'd forgotten to eat.
Andrew looked up, a funny look on his face. He was afraid this was coming. Lord, help me to get this right… "Amy. Have a seat." She sat on one of the desktops and he stood before her, arms crossed. "What's up?"
"You understand about me not being able to play anymore, right?"
"Yeah." He said, pretending he'd heard it from someone.
"You don't sound all that surprised."
"I—uh, I am, but… I just want to fix this."
"You can't." She said dejectedly. "It's just a medical problem and there's really nothing that can be done about it. That's it. I just wanted to make sure you understood. So I'll see you at practice?" She got up.
"Sit." She did. "Amy, you are in pain. I don't see why you're always denying it to everyone."
"What good does spreading it around do?" She asked, raising her eyes to meet his. "People have their own problems. There are people out there who are starving, beaten, people with no parents, people who are blind or deaf… what right do I have to complain? What right do I have to think I suffer?" She looked down at the desk. "I was lucky to have what I did. Now it's gone. I suppose I should be grateful."
"Amy." Andrew knelt in front of her. "It's ok to be upset. It's ok to feel out of control once and a while. And if you ever need someone to talk to, you know I'm always here, right?"
The girl sighed again. "I don't know if I—how I'm going to do this." She admitted. Andrew wanted to leap for joy. "But I'm sure I can handle it myself." And down he came.
"Amy."
"Look, Andrew, I promised I'd go over the reports for the next game with Sara right now, ok? I gotta go."
Amy jumped to her feet, hissing in pain. "Dang, dang, dang… stupid…" Andrew pulled her arm around his neck and wrapped his arm around her waist.
"I'll take you into the gym. There you will sit on the bleachers for the entire practice, and Monica will tell you the many evils of trying to over-do it."
Amy groaned as Andrew slowly steered her down the hallways. Out of the corner of her eye she could see a few students whispering at their precarious positioning, but there could be no help for it. Even she was getting worried.
"How am I supposed to climb the stairs every day?"
"Elevator." He answered, his breath tickling her ear. "They'll give you a key with a pass from the doctor."
"Oh yeah."
Finally they made it to the field house and Andrew helped her up to the second row. "I'll go get Monica, then we'll get practice started."
"Great." Amy let her head fall back, closing her eyes to the tears. God, why? Why me? Andrew heard her silent prayer from his point in the door on his way out, and started to turn back. But it wasn't his place. So he went to Monica's office and retrieved her, then started the rest of the girls through their drills.
"Hey, baby." Tess said, setting Christopher in his swing. "Feel up to some music?"
"I need it." She said, limping over to the piano.
"You want a chair?"
"No. Isn't it better to stand?"
"Only when you're not injured."
"Ah, I'll be fine." She waved her hand.
"Ok." Tess played a practice scale. "Straighten your torso, breathe deep, and sing from—that's it." The lesson lasted two hours, until Christopher began to cry from hunger and the two musicians realized they'd forgotten to eat.