Chapter Twenty

 

Was Sophy here, or had I imagined it? No, she had to have been here. I feel somehow...transformed. My wings are strong, and I fly back to the suburbs faster than before.

When I return to Vera’s house, it’s dark inside. Not just the darkness of night, but the darkness of the shadows. I don’t even try to enter. I remain outside and spend the night praying for the right words to whisper to Vera when she awakes.

I hover by Vera’s bedroom window, waiting for the alarm clock to go off, but when it does, the shadows are still too strong for me to enter. My plan for getting her to talk to her father during breakfast is thwarted. I can’t whisper to her if I’ll black out as soon as I enter the house.

Vera’s dad leaves before she does. His pickup truck pulls out of the garage a half hour before Vera walks out the front door. Her eyes are puffy like she spent the night crying and huddled under that pink comforter.

She hesitates on the front step, one hand still on the doorknob.

“Don’t even think about going back into that house, Vera. Put one foot in front of the other and get your butt to school.”

She heaves a sigh and steps off the porch. I don’t know if it’s a coincidence or if I actually planted that suggestion in her head, but I’m glad she’s moving.

At school, there’s still no sign of Warren or Ms. Kitchin. Several times I stop by her classroom on my way between checking on Vera and Cecille. Although I’m disappointed, I feel it’s really up to me now to save both my Charge and my sister. I don’t care if the “rules” say the Charge has to want a Guardian. I’m not leaving my sister unprotected. In fact, I wonder if there’s a way to help both of them at the same time.

The idea hits me when I’m watching Cecille and Vera at their lockers before fifth period. The tip of my wing knocks a magnetic pink ribbon off Vera’s locker while I use my hands to pull the literary magazine off my sister’s top locker shelf. Then I pray that Sophy was right about God giving me the ability to plant thoughts in people’s minds as I lean over my sister and say, “Perform the poem.”

My sister’s eyes move from the pink ribbon on the floor to the magazine that has landed at her feet. She opens the magazine to Vera’s poem.

“Vera.” Cecille talks slowly like the idea is still forming in her head. “Would you mind if I used your poem as a performance piece for drama club?”

“What?” Vera shuts her locker and stares at my sister as if she’s speaking a foreign language.

“For drama club. Those of us who do oral interp pick pieces like poems or monologues from a play. We memorize them, and then we perform them in competitions or shows.”

“You want to memorize my poem?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know.” Vera’s brows furrow. “I wasn’t even sure I wanted it published. It’s pretty private.”

Cecille looks disappointed. She picks out the last of her books and closes her locker. “If you don’t want me to, I understand.” She heads down the hallway.

Now it’s time to plant a thought in Vera’s head. “Let her do it. It must mean something to her if she wants to memorize it.”

“Wait!” Vera calls out and jogs over to Cecille. “What would it sound like? I mean, how would you say it?”

“Why don’t you come to drama club after school today? I could do a trial run in front of everyone. If it sounds good to you and them, then I’ll work on memorizing it. If you don’t like the way I read it or if the others don’t approve, we’ll skip it.”

Vera bites her lip.

I whisper again. “It’s better than going home to an empty house.”

“Okay. I’ll come.”

“Great. Meet me in the auditorium right after school. I’ll introduce you to everyone.”

As Cecille walks off, Vera heads to lunch, the tiniest of smiles on her face.

 

The old excitement of the theater world calls to me throughout the rest of the day. I don’t know how well Vera is concentrating, but all I can think about is drama club.

When I enter the auditorium with Vera at three o’clock, I have to whisper encouragement to get her to open the heavy doors and step inside. This is totally new territory for her, and it would take an idiot not to notice her trembling. I wonder if she’s ever had any real friends before, or if she ever joined any activities at her middle school. Although I’ve been guarding her for months, I realize there’s still much I don’t know about her.

Vera stands at the back of the auditorium. High school kids are jumping over the fold-up, padded auditorium chairs or shuffling down the rows to get to their friends. Backpacks lay strewn everywhere. Snacks and bottles of Gatorade are consumed at a voracious rate—almost as fast as their mouths are chattering. Most of the kids sit in the first few rows, but a few have branched out to other spots in the auditorium.

A few more students enter from the doors behind Vera, who stands like a petrified tree; the latest arrivals nearly knock her over as they enter.

“Sorry,” one of young girls calls as they hustle down the house left aisle.

Vera takes one step backwards.

“Stay right where you are, Vera Lavoy. Cecille wanted you to come.” Speaking of Cecille, where is she? I scan the crowd. Cecille talks to Mr. Cardone down at the front. “Stay put,” I tell Vera and fly over the heads of the other students.

I stop above Cecille in time to hear her say, “The poem was in the school literary magazine.”

“You need permission from the poet,” says Mr. Cardone.

“When we do a Shakespeare monologue, we don’t have to get his permission.”

“This is different. We’re talking about a student here at our own school. Let’s be courteous to our fellow artists.”

“I told her to come after school, but I’m afraid she’s chickened out.”

I glide down over Cecille’s shoulder. “Look up, Cecille. She’s frightened. Welcome her.”

“Oh wait. She’s here. I’ll go get her.” Cecille dodges several other kids as she runs up the aisle.

At the top of the auditorium, Vera is clutching her bag so tightly she looks like someone fearing she’s about to be robbed.

“Vera,” my sister calls. “Come on. The meeting is about to start.” God bless my sister. Without any encouragement from me, she practically drags Vera down the long aisle and brings her to a row with a couple of underclassman I don’t recognize.

Two years have passed since my last drama club meeting so I only know about half the students. Gregory Hicks with his scraggly new beard runs the meeting so he must have been elected president. No surprise there. Shana Peters with her half-shaved head and all-black ensemble sits at the end of one row and whispers with her friend Lexy. All-around class clown Roger keeps interrupting Gregory from the back in what is obviously an attempt to impress the pretty blonde sitting next to him. I recognize a few others, but many are either underclassmen or upperclassmen who joined more recently. Mr. Cardone sits off to the side. As drama club moderator, he usually lets the club president run the meetings on his or her own and only steps in when there are problems or they need direction.

The first part of the meeting is spent practicing skits for the school’s variety show, which is only a week and a half away. Watching their enthusiastic participation in the rehearsals reminds me of what I’m missing. I nearly slip into the darkness several times. I want to crawl into a corner, curl up into a ball and cry over what I’ve lost, the shows I’ll never perform. But I can’t fall into the darkness right now. I have to be here for Vera and my sister now.

Toward the end of the meeting, Gregory asks if anyone has something new they want to try. My sister jumps up.

“I’ve got a poem to read.”

Vera tenses.

Cecille heads down the aisle. “I’m thinking I could use it as an oral interp piece for our next competition.”

“Great,” Gregory says. As my sister passes him on her way up the stage, he adds, “It’s about time, little Dunston.”

My sister rolls her eyes at him and takes the stage. In her hands is the literary magazine folded open to Vera’s poem.

Back in her seat, Vera bites her lip as Cecille begins to read. My sister’s voice is strong and reaches to the back corners of the auditorium. I wonder if she remembers the vocal exercises I used to do in my bedroom. She would always complain that I was being too loud and disturbing her homework, but I told her I had to be that loud so the little old deaf lady in the back of the auditorium could hear me.

Cecille’s voice is so commanding that she has everyone’s full attention right away and she holds it throughout the poem. Nobody shuffles in the seats; no one whispers to a neighbor. When she’s done, there is silence for seconds that drag on.

Finally, Cecille breaks the silence. “So what do you guys think? Is it good for the oral interp comp?”

Shana Peters shouts from her seat on the far house left. “I’ve read that somewhere before.”

Gregory Hicks says, “Is that the lit magazine you’re holding?”

Cecille nods.

“Someone at our school wrote that?” asks a tall, gangly boy from the third row.

“Yeah,” Cecille says. “In fact, she’s sitting right over there.”

Heads turn to where Cecille is pointing. Vera draws down into her seat.

“You wrote that?” asks a curly-haired brunette sitting in the same row.

Vera nods ever so slightly.

“That’s really good,” says the brunette.

“So should I do it for the competition or not?” asks Cecille.

“Let me see the poem again.” Gregory stands up from his position in the orchestra pit and reaches for the magazine from my sister. He takes a moment to reread it as the other drama kids whisper. Vera looks like she wants to fall right through the auditorium floor.

“I like it,” Gregory says, “but I feel like we could do more with it. See this part here?” He points to the final stanza. “This part is like the refrain of a song. Hold on.” He heads over to the auditorium seats and pulls out a guitar case. I’ve forgotten he used to write little ditties for some of our skits. Gregory takes his guitar out of the case and strums a few chords. After a few tries, he finds a tune that is both mournful and reflective. Then he starts to sing, “I’m tired of being numb...I want to feel the light...I’m sick of looking at a world that’s only black and white...Where did all the colors go?”

I forgot how amazing Gregory could be. He’d shown signs of talent the day he walked into drama club. Today he’s proving why he’s the leader of this group.

Several drama kids voice their approval of the song, and Vera looks like she’s going to cry, but almost in a good way—like she’s moved by Gregory’s version of her own poem. There are no shadows nearby, so I can tell she’s not upset by it. The only ones in the room who look a little worried are my sister and Mr. Cardone.

“Hold on a minute,” says the drama club moderator. “Before you get too excited, we have a few things to consider.” He looks to Vera. “First, we have to make sure we have the poet’s permission to use the poem. She might not want us using her poem at all.”

All eyes are on Vera.

Vera gives a little shrug. “I guess it’s okay.”

The curly-haired brunette two seats down smiles at her. Vera gives a small smile back.

“Next, this poem was brought up by Ms. Dunston as a piece for the oral interp competition.”

“True,” Gregory says, “but we’ve been looking for a song to add to the variety show skits.”

Several students voice their agreement.

The curly-haired brunette jumps up from her seat. “Wait a second. You can’t do that!” In that instant, I recognize her. She was friends with my sister back in middle school. Only she was about five inches shorter the last time I saw her, and she used to straighten her hair back then. But there’s no doubt about the way she said, “You can’t do that!” This is definitely Vicki Ramponni. “This is Cecille’s piece to perform. You can’t just take it away from her.”

Everyone talks at once. It is clear that some of them side with Vicki and others side with Gregory.

“Hold on!” Mr. Cardone waves his hands and jumps up on stage next to Cecille, who takes a seat on the lip of the stage. “Hold on, everyone! Maybe this doesn’t have to be an either-or situation. Cecille could still use this as an oral interp piece next month at the competition. And if Vera is okay with it, Gregory could also work on it as an entry for the variety show.”

More excited chatter.

“Gregory, can you finish the song in time?”

“I can have it done tonight.”

Vicki stands with her arms folded. “I still think Cecille should be a part of the song if we perform it at the variety show. She’s the one who brought it up.”

Cecille shakes her head. “I don’t want to sing it.”

“Cece,” Vicki calls my sister by her old nickname. Her voice is soft and coaxing now. “I wasn’t thinking of you singing. You should dance to the song.”

Immediately, I’m excited. My sister is a wonderful ballerina, and even from the little bit Gregory has played, and I can tell it would be perfect for a ballet, so I’m surprised by the sad look on my sister’s face.

“Vicki, you know I can’t do that. I haven’t danced since…” She stops herself, and without her having to say anything, I somehow know she hasn’t danced since my death. Time freezes for a moment. When I took my own life, I thought I’d be giving her the chance to attend the ballet school of her dreams. Instead, she stopped dancing completely.

Time restarts. The wind howls, and a shadow appears through the back doors. I fly to it.

“No,” I tell the shadow. “You’re not getting any farther than this.” My wings are flung out behind me. I face the stage. “You can do this, Cecille. You can dance again. Don’t give up as easily as I did.”

My sister’s voice is so small I can barely hear it from the other side of the auditorium. “I haven’t danced in nearly two years.”

Vicki leaves her seat and walks toward the stage. “Soooo? Who cares? You were an awesome dancer, and I’m sure you can do it again. Mr. Cardone, aren’t you always saying we should try new things and not get stuck doing the same kinds of skits over and over again?”

I glance at the shadow swirling behind me as Mr. Cardone speaks from the stage. “Yes, it would be nice if the student body saw you guys as more than a comedy act. We should do some serious pieces, and we should include some music in our acts. If Mr. Hicks can compose the rest of the song tonight and get a copy to Ms. Dunston, I think this would be a great addition to our repertoire. The question is, can you get it done in time? The variety show is only nine days away.”

“We can, Mr. Cardone,” Gregory says. “I’ll finish the song tonight. Then Cecille and I can work after school tomorrow on the dance. You cool with this, Little Dunston?”

Cecille nods, but I see the hesitation in her eyes.