The Girl from the Bus
Chapter Five

The music piece accompanying this chapter is Diana Krall - Fly Me to the Moon (youtube com (slash) watch?v=qVCgf6_M7i4 )

The trip back home was sort of a nightmare. Grant survived it, exhausted but with his pride relatively intact. He didn't throw up, didn't pass out and didn't embarrass himself more than by rapidly escaping at a random bus-stop and not answering people's concerned questions. Then he fled. And then he didn't know where he was but it was better than being in the crowd. He found his way home after a couple of hours.

Melinda sent him a message the next day that the "cello twins" as she called them, ganged up with Antoine and the three of them were trying to make her life miserable. Grant didn't reply. The next day she told him that they made some changes to 'Sky' and it was beginning to sound happy now. Giggly. This time Grant wrote back, that he thought that was what it needed. On Wednesday morning he went to the book store and requested anything by Phil Coulson. He went back home with three large books

He cried over the first one till three a.m. when his eyes closed on their own accord – and he woke up late for the first time since primary school. It was a story of a young painter who, right before her first big exhibition, witnessed a brutal assault. She stood up to the oppressors, like the cavalry coming to the rescue, and... they raped her along with their earlier victim. That's where the story started and Grant followed her struggles. First the police accused her of endangering the life of one of the attackers – she'd carried a knife and, in self defense, thrust it into his stomach. Then he hated the boyfriend who blamed the girl for what happened, as if her body was his property. At least after the initial shock the boy understood his mistake and later tried to make it up to her but the damage had already been done. She pushed everyone away, friends and family, it took her years of living in hell before, eventually, she rose like a phoenix from the ashes. She became an activist in an institute for women rights and, shortly after, she started painting again. At that point Grant's attention waned and he fell asleep, but he picked the book up again the moment he opened his eyes in the morning. He learned about how the boyfriend supported her fight for recognizing rights of the survivors, how she tried to rebuild the relationship between them and that it never quite happened. At least, at the very end of the novel, they agreed that they would always have friendship.

The next story – and Grant started reading it immediately after finishing the first one – was about a kid from a rough neighborhood. Small and skinny, Chris was mocked and ridiculed by everyone but he didn't let it wear him down. It was his strength of spirit and goodness – and one loyal friend – that got him through the rough youth and let him emerge as a hero when he became a psychologist and helped those who didn't believe they could be helped.

Grant understood why Coulson was so revered. He could see the best in characters who might otherwise be labeled as meek and uninteresting. He uncovered their strengths, where the world saw none. He gave them a chance, believed they'd get through the worst ordeal and emerge stronger for it, on the other side. He wished Coulson would write the rest of his life.

On Friday Grant texted Maria Hill to tell her that he was going to skip this practice at the Community Center, took the last of the books – the award winning "Heart of Iron", about a soldier who returned from the war damaged and turned his life around to become a doctor and begun to save lives in the middle of the war zone, instead of taking them – and he knocked on Melinda's door.

She opened almost immediately, her face astounded but hopeful.

Grant handed her the pad with a prepared message: I want to meet this guy. He knocked the book he held in his hand.

The small twist of Melinda's lips brightened her whole face; the true smile was in her eyes.

"Oh, you will." She grabbed his arm. "You will, but not before the reception. I can't spoil the surprise."

She pulled him inside the house and straight to the music room, where Antoine and Fitz were in contest over who yelled louder and Jemma sat with her chin on her palm and a bored expression on her face.

"Guys, look who's back," Melinda announced as if he was their long lost relative whom they had all missed for years.

The men stopped arguing abruptly and spun to look at him, while Jemma stood up and clasped her hands.

"Oh, that's wonderful!" She carefully rested her cello against the side of the chair and, with much less caution, ran up to Grant. Only when he instinctively took a step back, she stopped. "I'm... sorry. Did you leave, back then, because of me? I hope it wasn't because of me, Melinda said it was something else, but she wouldn't say what and I worried. I really want to apologize for my impoliteness." She would have continued talking like this, because Grant didn't even know how to cut in, had her friend not intervened.

"Jemma." He put a hand on her arm. "You're doing it again."

Grant shook his head but they ignored his attempt at non verbally stating that it was alright.

"Am I?" Jemma asked, saddened. "I am, I totally am."

"Then stop."

Grant reached for his pad.

"Both of you, stop." Melinda shook her head exasperated. "See what I have to deal with?" she turned to Grant.

At least they play well, Grant wrote.

"That they do."

Jemma wanted to know what he said and he showed her. Then she wanted to know why he couldn't speak and Leo rebuked her that she was being insensitive. Grant wanted to tell them. He genuinely wanted to explain, to let them understand, but he felt something block him. He felt his throat tighten painfully. It was not the right moment and Melinda, along with Antoine saved him from having to bare his soul, by reminding they were here to play the music.

Instead of 'Sky', though, she made them practice other pieces.

"We have a whole reception to fill and I already confirmed with Phil's agent that I'm going to provide all music. He's planning the whole thing around this theme. He says it's a great idea and I can't back out now, even if we don't have the pianist."

Over the next couple of weeks Grant and Melinda practiced allegro from Debussy's Sonata. It wasn't easy to find classical chamber composition for two cellos but Melinda found Ravel's Sonata for violin and cello and Leo and Jemma somehow made it work between the two of them, with Antoine on the violin. The melody was disturbing and Melinda said it fit with her idea of the theme. So did Grieg's String Quartet in G minor, but Jemma needed to switch her cello for viola. She and Leo were indeed good on every instrument, Grant even commended Leo for randomly playing a fragment of Brahms's String Quartet in A minor on violin, but Leo said he was not going to play on that instrument publically. Melinda finally settled on Debussy, Ravel and Grieg and Schubert's Trio in B flat to open the reception, as a pleasant-to-ear piece that would set the tone at the beginning. Finally, she chose one of her own compositions for violin, cello and bass. She hesitated between Antoine and Grant and eventually, by Grant's advice, decided to give Jemma a chance on a violin. Jemma didn't disappoint.

They still auditioned pianists but the candidate pool diminished significantly. Melinda didn't want any men and she only admitted women of a very specific age – between twenty and twenty five. She was looking for something in them and couldn't find it. Grant gave up advising her, Antoine was growing impatient, while Jemma and Leo couldn't understand what the deal was.

"Can't we just play it without a piano?" Leo asked one Friday afternoon, barely over a month till the big day. "We can play a quintet, we sound good together but we really should practice that piece of yours, if we want to perform it. There isn't much time left."

"Or you might play the piano part, instead of bass," inferred Jemma. "If piano is so important."

"It is important!" May stood up and started pacing the room, arms folded on her chest, brow furrowed. "Alright. If you really have to know, the main character in Phil's new novel is a pianist. A girl. Young girl named Sunny, who was an orphan but loved playing so much and was so determined, that she basically taught herself everything. The novel is her story and if this piece is going to complete the novel, there must be a piano!"

While listening to her outburst, Grant remembered about someone who fit this profile to a T. He lifted his hand and reached for the pad.

I know her, he wrote and handed the note to Melinda.

She glared at him, taken aback. "You know her, how? She's a character from a novel."

Grant wanted to respond that Phil wrote about real people; based his characters on actual, living people. Ming, the main character from "The Cavalry" was obviously based on Melinda herself, but with a different profession. After brief consideration he refrained from waking painful memories, though.

Last year, he wrote instead, we were searching for a pianist for the orchestra. A girl auditioned. She said something about being an orphan and teaching herself. We didn't admit her because her style was, Grant hesitated.

"It was what?" Melinda stood over his right arm, watching him write. Others gathered around too.

Contemporary. But I think Maestro Fury used another word.

Trip giggled and Jemma muttered, "Stop it!" but there was laughter in her voice as well.

Maybe Maria Hill would have her address? Her name was Mary Sue, he hesitated again – couldn't remember, something.

"Wait a minute, Mary Sue?" Jemma exclaimed behind Grant's back and he jumped involuntary. "Fitz, do you remember? That pub next to Lynn Woods Park? That girl playing piano there?"

"Yeah. I remember. She was a real humdinger."

"He means she was great. And when the manager introduced her as Mary Sue Poots, she said she'd rather be recognized under her stage name." Jemma paused dramatically and gave everyone a glare with a satisfied smirk. "She preferred to be called Skye."

"Sky?" Melinda repeated, dumbfounded.

"Spelled S‑K‑Y‑E."

They all looked at one another in various stages of astonishment. Antoine recovered first, as usual.

"Looks like you're gonna have to change the title of your piece," he grinned at Melinda.

"Looks like we're going for a beer tonight," Melinda replied.

Briefly, a thought ran through Grant's head, that this was a bad idea. Pub meant crowds and noise, and might not bode well for him. He couldn't let down his friends though. He needed their trust, he needed them to know they could believe in him, that he wouldn't fail. He was committed to this project now and he would prove it – to them and to himself.

The pub was in the cellar. They found the place early in the evening, people slowly filling in. Soft hum of conversations carried over the delicate, melodious sounds of piano. Dimmed lights brought about the atmosphere of grime obscurity, the effect being obviously deliberate. The most prominent experience, thought, at least for Grant's senses, came with the smell – the specific mixture of moist and stale air that made his intestines recoil. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, when he felt his heart begin to hammer in his chest. There was still time to call it off, he thought, to tell the others that he couldn't do it.

Leo entered ahead of him, complaining about the low ceiling over the narrow staircase and not enough light inside. Jemma followed him, exasperated with his whining. At some point, Grant didn't notice when, she took his hand in hers and pulled him gently when he hesitated. Antoine was right behind him with Melinda at the rear. In the end Grant didn't tell them anything, didn't indicate his discomfort in any way.

"There she is." Melinda pointed at the scene, hidden in the shadow, on the other side of the long, narrow room. "We need to catch her during a break." She strode ahead purposefully, to the table next to the small dance floor.

Jemma kept pulling Grant with her and together they dodged round the patrons, following Melinda. All the while Grant felt Antoine's presence at his back, gentle hands on his shoulders grounding him.

"Take your seats, I'll order us some beers." Melinda disposed.

"Back stage exit," Antoine told Leo under his breath, pointing into the shadow behind the piano.

"She really is good." Jemma called their attention to the girl who played.

Grant couldn't remember if he had met this girl the day she'd auditioned for the Orchestra. He must have but if he had, she had looked different, probably had worn some official attire. Now, she had her long hair loose and they flowed around her arms in waves and curls. She wore a checkered shirt and jeans and she looked nothing like the classical musician. If anything she had that air of a rock-star about her.

Contrary to her appearance, she played a classic.

Grant recognized Chopin's waltz and Mary Sue – no, Skye, that name fit this artist much better – put so much joy into the piece, it was impossible to tell it was a distressing nineteenth century melody. It definitely wasn't played the way the conservative director at the community orchestra would see fit. Still, it was flawless and, listening to her, Grant felt how his anxiety slowly begun to dissipate.

After she finished the waltz, Skye begun to play Diana Krall's cover of "Fly Me to the Moon" with so much sass and enthusiasm Grant couldn't help but smile.

"Oh, I can't-" Antoine only made it through the first half of the song. He grabbed Jemma's hand and whispered theatrically. "You have to dance this with me."

Jemma giggled and nodded and they flew to the small dance floor like pair of fluffy kittens. Antoine was a good dancer but Jemma had as much grace as a willow branch. They still seemed to enjoy their dance tremendously.

Leo looked a little disgruntled but he smirked under his nose. Melinda twisted her lips in the widest smile Grant had seen on her to date – she even showed some teeth – and grabbed Grant's hand saying, "And you will dance with me, mister." And that was it.

Smell of alcohol on her breath made him feel trapped. Smell of alcohol and the cellar. The cellar, the low ceiling, walls closing in. The person that was not really there, couldn't be.

"Grant?" he heard a voice coming from very far away, but he couldn't tell if it was male or female.

He felt like all air got sucked from his lungs and floor escaped from under his feet and he was hanging above the vast ravine. He couldn't make a move and the sound of the piano faded into the background, replaced by a deafening thud of his own blood. Melinda's palm on his wrist burned, but he couldn't remove it from her grip.

He was aware that he was panting but the air felt like it was too thin, like it wouldn't sustain him and he desperately needed something more solid, more tangible. His heart couldn't pump blood fast enough. He heard Melinda talk to him, hovering, shouting. Leo joined her ("backstage door!") and forced him to stand up, pulled, pushed, but all Grant wanted was to curl into a ball and crawl under the table. He wasn't there. He wasn't really there. This had to be what going out of one's mind felt like. Grant would have laughed if he wasn't so thoroughly terrified. Part of him knew what was going on but it was quiet, shy, hidden deep inside the wild animal, the primeval beast, overwhelmed with fight or flight response.

That terrified part of him was back there, in another cellar, with another man.

Arms held him upright, exposed. "Breathe, just breathe," voice said. Hand stroke his back. Images swam before his eyes, of faces, walls, "Where the hell are you going?" but he couldn't keep his eyes on either of them long enough to recognize. He tried to free himself but he was too weak.

He felt like trapped and, at the same time, completely striped, unsheltered. He couldn't tell how long it lasted. Felt like forever. He finally came to the sensation of a hand rubbing circles on his back, incessant, firm but not invading. Grant realized he was leaning forward, hands on his knees, his ass propped against the wall, panting like a fish out of water. Outside, in the back alley. It was dark and quiet, only Leo stood next to him, keeping guard and stroking his bent back. Melinda paced back and forth in front of a girl in a checkered shirt, a few steps away. At his feet, Grant saw vomit, some of it staining his shoes.

Breathing still came with difficulty but at least Grant's perception of reality returned and with it overwhelming shame. They saw him having a panic attack. He wished the ground would open up and swallow him.

"Shhh," Leo whispered into his ear. "You're okay. Everything's gonna be okay."

Except it wasn't. Grant could see it in Melinda's face when she turned to look at him.

t.b.c.

A/N: Thank you for reading. If you like this story, I would really like to hear from you. :) Please, review.