Insult to Injury Page 13

  Romi

  The house is colder than ever before. Probably because I just left the warmth of Gail’s home. The contrast is staggering. I make my way into the living-room area and turn on the LED lantern. I’m going to have to take it with me to charge tomorrow, however that’s going to work out. As Gail’s coming with me, which I’m so nervous and giddy about, I can barely think. Will she find it super strange that I charge a lamp in the office area? I’ll just have to make sure the kids distract her enough that she won’t see what I’m up to.

  I open the little cooler, which is more to keep rodents and other animals away from my stash of food than to keep anything cold. I take a vitamin pill, a force of habit from being homeless so long. An old guy once told me it was what kept him going when the food was scarce and far between.

  I sip from my water. I have to find a way to top up the container somehow, but I’m so tired right now, I can’t think of an obvious way.

  I change into my soft sweatshirt and use the last of the water in my cup to brush my teeth just outside the door. The night sky is cloudless, and the stars and the moon light up the overgrown garden. Returning inside, I make sure the makeshift alarm system I devised from some threads I pulled from some ratty old curtains hanging in the kitchen and empty cans is set in place. If a large animal or, worse, some stranger, enters through any of the broken windows or the rickety door, I’ll hear them. I sleep with a knife under my pillow.

  The sleeping bag warms me quickly, and I burrow into it much like the animals I just thought of. I wrap my arms around myself and wish they were Gail’s. Wincing, I try to push that thought away, knowing the futility of such dreams. Dreams are double-edged swords that slice into you in the night, when you dare to indulge in wishful thinking. I can’t count the times I’ve cursed myself back to front for hoping and wishing for something I know will never come true.

  At times I think of a home of my own, of friends, of simple pleasures like watching TV…and the ultimate wish, someone to love and who will love me back. That desire, that yearning, has surfaced since I came back to East Quay, and now I know the exact moment the wall crumbled. Right there on Gail’s driveway, as shocked as I was at seeing someone move in to Aunt Clara’s house, was the instant my heart leaped and began freefalling.

  I curl up on my side and whimper. There’s just no hope. My past is a weedy airfield where my growing emotions regarding Gail will crash and burn. Then there’s the fact that we come from vastly different worlds. She has money, is world renowned, and when her arm has healed, she will move on to bigger, better things. Gail may not be able to play the violin like the virtuoso she used to be, but she’ll find something to compensate for that part—and that won’t, can’t, be me.

  Trying to calm myself, I rock back and forth in the sleeping bag, the faint rustling from the movement soothing me. In my treacherous mind that won’t stop dreaming, and thus hoping, Gail’s arms are around me, and she’s keeping us both warm as she breathes against the back of my neck. I close my eyes, inhale her scent, so vivid and clear, and I swear I can hear her whisper my name just before I fall asleep.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Gail

  I gaze up at the sky as I step out of the car. We’re at the parking lot belonging to the Belmont Foundation Center, where Romi works with the young people in the choir. The modern structure is designed to fit in with the old New England town, which speaks to Manon’s attachment to it. I tip my head back and examine the shingled exterior. It consists of three floors holding offices, conference rooms, auditoriums, and studios, all meant to be used to help the less privileged in our society.

  I already regret joining Romi in this endeavor, and if I had been able to find a good enough excuse, I would’ve bailed out on her. But who am I kidding? When I saw her standing by my car as I exited the house, any reasons I could conjure up disappeared from my mind. Instead I felt myself smile as I walked toward her. The fact that she smiled right back was enough to make my breath catch.

  “Ready to come inside?” Romi asks, interrupting my musings.

  “Sure.” I walk next to her, suddenly so nervous, and I can’t for the life of me figure out why. Is it because I’ll be around young people, who are not part of my usual social circle? Or is it because music will be today’s theme? Probably both.

  The lobby isn’t made of the cold marble, glass, and brass that public-building architects are so fond of. Instead I see dark hardwood flooring, wallpapered walls, and several groups of couches and armchairs, all with their own area rug. It looks like an extended living-room area. Magazines, several fireplaces, books, board games—but no television sets, I note as I take in the setup and the people hanging out. The people are of all ages, and some are engaged in discussion while others are reading. Very few seem mesmerized by their cell phones, which seems to be the norm these days.

  “We sign in over here.” Romi nudges my left arm and points to the reception area, which is the smallest part of the lobby.

  The girl behind the counter can’t be more than seventeen or eighteen. She smiles broadly toward Romi as she pulls out guest badges for us both. “Nice to see you again, Romi. Ms. Belmont said that once your paperwork clears, you’ll get your permanent badge.”

  I hear a small gasp from Romi, and my eyes snap up to look at her. Her normally alabaster complexion is now even whiter than usual. I don’t want to draw attention to her paleness in front of the other young woman but take a step closer to Romi. “All set?”

  “Yeah.” Romi nods at the girl and then leads me to the elevators.

  “What’s the matter?” I ask in a low voice as we step inside the closest one.

  “What? Oh, nothing. I’m fine.” Romi presses the button for the second floor. It’s clearly a lie.

  “You’re as white as a ghost, and that happened just now. At the counter.” I place two fingers under Romi’s chin and gently tip her head back. “You’re going to face your choir in mere minutes, and you can’t go in looking like this.”

  “Fuck. You’re right.” Romi closes her eyes hard. “I need—I need a minute.”

  The elevator stops, and I exit. “Restroom?” I spot a sign two doors down.

  “Not the one here. The girls are all in there before we start. There’s a smaller one around the corner for the staff.” Romi’s voice is husky now, and I get the feeling she’s trying hard not to cry.

  “Come on, then.”

  We turn a corner and see the sign indicating the staff restroom. Luckily, it’s empty. I check the door after we’re inside and find it locks even if there are individual stalls inside. I turn the deadbolt. Looking over my shoulder at Romi, I find her holding on to one of the sinks, her eyes closed. She’s trembling, and I act without really considering the consequences. I run some cold water in the sink next to her and dampen a paper towel. Squeezing it, I nudge Romi’s shoulder with the back of my hand. She faces me slowly, and I notice that her kajal has smudged some, and tears have made faint gray tracks on her pale cheeks.

  “Allow me.” I gently wipe her cheeks. “Look up.” She obeys, and I dab at the smudged parts. “There you go. Less panda.” I toss the paper towel into the bin. “Better?”

  “Yes. And no.” Romi’s eyes are still wide, and she makes me think of a cornered animal. I can’t for the life of me guess what triggered this, well, panic attack, I suppose. We were at the counter, everything was fine until… I think back to what the girl in the reception said. Something about Romi getting a permanent badge. Wait. After Romi’s paperwork cleared. That was it—it had to be.

  “Is there something in your past that might jeopardize your new job?” Even I can hear how uncharacteristically gentle I sound.

  “Oh, God.” Romi sags to the side, supporting herself against the sink. “Yes, there is. I’m fucked,” she whispers. “I might as well go to her office and tell her I can’t stay.” She lifts her gaze to me, and the devastation on her face slowly morphs into resignation.

  “Hold on. Don’t j
ump the gun here. And stop panicking.” I cup her chin, much like how I touched her face last night. “Before you do that, why don’t you and I brainstorm about it?”

  Huffing, Romi straightens, but she allows me to hold on to her. “You’re telling me you want to help, when you have no clue about my past?” She’s challenging me, but not so much that I can’t see the pain and confusion behind her bravado.

  “I’m not big on trust these days,” I say lightly, “but it can’t be a secret that I care…what happens to you.” I come damn close to saying “care about you,” but I don’t want to go that far yet.

  “No. No secret. And that goes both ways.” Romi takes a deep breath. “I just can’t see how—”

  “Do you think I’d lie to you?” I take a step closer, which leaves only a few inches between us. Letting go of her chin, I move my hand up and brush an errant tear from the highest point of her right cheekbone.

  “No.” The immediate answer makes me feel soft inside, and the emotion is so rare, I slide my hand to the back of Romi’s neck. I run my thumb in an unplanned caress behind the delicate shell of her ear, which makes her shiver.

  “Well, then. Time to go to work. You still have to reassure me that these cool young people won’t mind having an old woman visiting them.” I let go of her and give my best impression of a suffering look.

  Romi snorts and shakes her head. “Old, huh? Not likely.” Glancing at her reflection in the mirror, she nods. “All right. Panic postponed. Let’s go.”

  Romi

  It’s funny and interesting to watch the interaction between Gail and my choir kids. Well, kids and kids. Some of them are only five years younger than me, but most of them are still in middle school or junior high.

  Gail keeps a low profile at first, sitting on a chair just inside the door, but it’s obvious that her elegance and, yes, beauty, make the kids curious. As Carrie isn’t here, I’m the one in charge, and I’ve already learned that nothing gets everyone’s attention faster than a wolf whistle. It’s something I’m really good at, fortunately. I stick two fingers into my mouth and blow, hard and fast. The kids all turn to me, which is what I expect. Watching Gail’s eyes widen is even better.

  I take the choir through the first two verses of “This Is Me,” stopping them every so often to make them listen to the lyrics and emote the feelings in the song. A few of the girls have a problem following the melody, and when we attempt it a fourth time and they still come in early, or if I stop them in time, too late, I wonder how to help them.

  “Can’t you just play along on the piano, like Carrie does?” Stephanie asks. She’s the unofficial third in command.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t play the piano. We need to find another way to—” I hear steps approach from behind.

  “If you want, I can accompany you on the piano, one-handed, of course,” Gail says coolly. “Perhaps it’s easier that way?”

  “That’d be great, Gail,” Stephanie says, then stops herself. “If Romi agrees.”

  “I do,” I say, and smile broadly toward Gail. “Thanks.”

  Gail relaxes marginally, and I realize she may have been worried that I’d think she’s taking over. She clearly has a lot to learn about me. I have a very tiny ego. Living on the streets and in shelters can knock such things out of you pretty fast.

  As Gail plays the melody first and then the chords, it doesn’t take the kids long to nail the verses. When we move into the chorus, I see the light truly go on in the eyes of all the girls, no matter the age. They love the song, and so do I. I hum along, careful not to make my voice part of the equation. I know I probably look a fool trying to be a choir director, but I don’t care. I stomp my foot and use my hands, and the girls’ eyes are locked on me as we use music to develop unity.

  After an hour and fifteen minutes, it’s time for the next part, which Carrie has told me is equally important. Food. Some of the kids live in foster families, but at least half of the eighteen girls and two boys live in families where food can be scarce and not always nutritious enough. The Belmont Foundation provides catering via contributions from local restaurants. Today we’re sponsored by the Sea Stone Café, Mike’s place, judging from the prepared boxes. We always have at least five spare boxes, which means Gail can have one.

  We move to the area boasting an oval table and chairs. As Gail sits down, I find myself outmaneuvered by a few of the youngest girls, who snag the seats next to her. Gail looks faintly shell-shocked at the unexpected attention, but I’ve begun to know these kids and merely smile reassuringly.

  “What happened to your arm, ma’am?” Keisha, one of the youngest girls, asks as she rips into her food box.

  “Hush. That’s rude, Keisha,” an older girl says and frowns.

  “It’s all right.” Gail looks at Keisha. “First of all, please call me Gail. As for my arm, I was in a car accident a while back.”

  “Does it hurt?” Keisha looks up at Gail with concern, her eyes nearly black.

  “It does, a bit,” Gail says in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “Can I help you open your box? It has a sticky thing that’s really hard to peel off.” Keisha points at the tape at the top of the white box.

  Gail blinks a few times. “Why, thank you, Keisha. It’s nice of you to offer.” She leans back as Keisha and the girl on Gail’s other side struggle to open the box and manage not to spill the contents. “Thank you, girls.” Gail raises her left hand. “Good thing I have one more, so I could play the piano some.”

  “Yeah. You play better with one hand than my foster sister does with two, and she’s taken lessons, like, forever,” Dylan, a gangly fourteen-year-old boy, says.

  “That’s not a fair comparison,” Gail says kindly. “I’ve practiced the piano for more than thirty years.” She winks at him. “You have a lovely tenor voice, though.”

  Dylan blushes a deep crimson, which ignites his multitude of freckles. “Um. Er. Thanks.”

  Now Gail gets swamped with questions about what she thought of everyone’s individual voice. She manages to give them all feedback and tips, and tears burn behind my eyelids when I notice how she avoids being the typical lazy adult who just gives blanket statements of praise without caring. This is also the perfect moment for me to sneak out and charge my LED lantern. With a little bit of luck, I can have it in my backpack again without anyone noticing. I make a quick detour to the office area and then return to hear Stephanie ask Gail yet another question.

  “And Romi’s voice?” Stephanie has obvious little demons in her eyes.

  I give her a stern look as I rejoin them, but she just returns it with an angelic smile. Brat.

  “I didn’t hear Romi sing,” Gail says, looking at me over a glass of orange juice.

  “Oh, she should sing something. You should, Romi.” Several of the kids speak as one. “Like that song you performed at the open-mic night,” Lisa, Stephanie’s friend, says. “‘Never Enough’?”

  “Nah. That’s all right,” I say, starting to feel cornered.

  The other boy in the choir, Aron, pipes up. “Oh, please. We want to hear too. Several of us weren’t able to be at open mic.”

  “You can’t have the heart to disappoint them,” Gail says helpfully, with a broad smile. That does it.

  “Fine, fine. One verse. One chorus. A cappella.”

  The room goes instantly quiet, and I’m more nervous than I’ve ever been. I don’t think Gail would ever tell me I’m a mediocre singer in front of these kids, but I know she must have such immensely high standards, I’m certain she’ll wonder what the fuss was about at Mike’s and Vivian’s when they praised my voice.

  I sit in silence and close my eyes for a few moments. As I open them again, I look directly at Gail and start to sing.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Gail

  I don’t think the expression “being floored” covers how I feel when Romi begins to sing. Nor does her voice sound like anything else I’ve heard from either classical or popular singers. She
sang only one verse and one refrain of a song I admit I’ve never heard. It was clear it resonated with Romi and most of the young people around us. Tears rose in their eyes, and I found myself swallowing down some myself.

  Romi’s voice is quite versatile. It can clearly go from frail to laser strong in seconds, and still it sounds just…amazing. Why she’s not interested in a career in music, I’ll never know.

  Of course, deafening applause met her singing, and it was rather entertaining to see her blush. She looked at me with trepidation, I could tell, but something in my demeanor must have reassured her, as she nodded and gave me a quick smile.

  Now we’ve just said good-bye to the kids after tidying up and making our way back to the car. I think of the conversation we’re supposed to have but don’t want to push Romi.

  “Can we talk at your place? I mean, if you have time?” Romi asks quietly.

  I didn’t see that coming. “Absolutely. As much time as you need.”

  She turns slightly in the seat and pushes her hands in between her thighs. It’s such a familiar gesture by now, I have to smile. “You’re so kind to me,” Romi says. “I mean, you don’t know much about me, yet you’re prepared to help out. I could end up being a serial killer—you don’t know that.”

  “But I do. I may not be the most perceptive person you’ll ever know when it comes to most people around me, but it’s different with you.” I stumble over words in my mind as I try to express what I mean. “I’m well aware that I don’t know a lot about you, but that’s not the most important part, as I see it. I feel I know your heart.” I’ve started the car and pull out into traffic. “I don’t mean to sound presumptuous, but that’s how it feels.”

  Warm, hazel eyes scan mine. “It’s not presumptuous at all.” Romi places a gentle, hesitant hand on my knee. My muscles tense, and I want to pull over and kiss her. That thought nearly makes me run the car up onto the sidewalk. I hope Romi doesn’t notice my reaction.