Empty (18 page)

Lying down has an urgent appeal to me. My eyes roam the space. There is not enough room.

I watch Darren and Ty do their magic act. Let’s just say they’re no David or Criss. They give a good go, though, and the audience claps. Then two girls butcher some love song. More clapping. Blah. Blah. Blah.

Even though the acts can all see me sitting over here, they don’t acknowledge me. The show goes on. During a tap dancer’s set, I have a brilliant idea and flip over the cone, giving me a much wider place to rest my calf. In theory. The problem is twofold now:

1. I still have to get my leg up.

2. It’ll be like trying to balance my leg on the tip of an ice-cream cone.

But I have to relieve the pressure on my foot. My toe feels like it’s going to explode. I don’t know if toes can actually do that, but I’m not taking any chances. That would be gross.

I’m gross enough as it is.

Brandon’s sister, Kim, and her friend are onstage with six other girls now, cheering their hearts out.
Rah. Rah. Barf.
I’m glad I’m in the dark because I’m giving them the finger and, oh, is it satisfying to flip those two off.

I put my hand down as the cheerleaders scurry off stage right. But Kim and her friend skip toward me, arm-in-arm, giggling. Before I have time to yank the cone out of the way, Kim trips over it.

Since the chipper skippers’ arms were linked, they both go down. Hard. The fall breaks them apart, and one lies facedown, arms and legs spread. Kim ends up in a twisted fetal position. For a second, I wonder if the girl who face-planted is dead, but she pushes herself up onto her hands and knees and crawls to Kim. “Are you all right?”

Kim sits up and shakes her head. As her face turns toward the light from the illuminated
EXIT
sign above the door, I see blood.

Kim’s cheek is bleeding.

“You’re blee’ing,” I say. That didn’t come out right. My mouth refuses to form words.
How am I going to sing?

The two girls yelp at the same time. I’m guessing they didn’t know I was still sitting in the dark. How can you miss me? Seriously.

Kim reaches up and wipes her cheek, effectively smearing the blood. Now she looks like she’s ready to head off into battle or tackle the quarterback. “Oh my God! I’m bleeding!” Kim says to me with pleading eyes as she stands up. “You put that cone there on purpose. Didn’t you?” She holds a helping
hand out to her friend. “I told you, Julia, Taryn said she’s a fat bitch. So did Brandon.”

Under my breath I say, “Your brother’s a skinny asshole.”

Both girls raise their eyebrows at me in shock. I don’t give a rat’s hiney what these two think. I hope they tell him what I said.

Word. For. Word.

I can hear Cara playing her jazzy tune on the piano, which means I’m on in one act. I wanted to prop up my foot, and that never happened. I wanted to clear my head, and that never happened. At this point I don’t give a shit about anything. I just want it done and over with. And I want these two freshman bitches away from me.

“Come on, Julia,” Kim says. She yanks her arm and pulls her toward the door. “Let’s go find Brandon.”

“Kim, Julia.” I reach up and blow them a big exaggerated kiss. “Catch it. Give that to Brandon.”

They push open the stage door, and Kim snarls over her shoulder, “You wish, you fat fuck.” As the door closes, their cackles mix with the audience’s applause. It reminds me of machine-gun fire from those stupid action movies. I can nearly feel the bullets whiz by my face.

The guitar kid is next. He plugs the cord into his amp and starts strumming. Ahhhh, this sound is luscious. So much
better than bullets. Notes string together like colorful candy beads. My mouth opens. I want to chew on them.

Melissa thanks the guitar soloist. I stop chewing on his music and watch him unplug and grab his amp as the curtain closes.

Crap, I’m next.

If I hadn’t been trying to eat electric guitar notes, maybe I’d be ready. I’m not.

I’m wasted.

I’M SUPPOSED TO BE OUT ONSTAGE. I PRESS MY
hands into my thighs and stand. I straighten up and lift my chin so I can breathe. I get my bum foot into position and heel-walk out of the darkness. When I’m five feet out onto the stage, the red velvet curtain slowly glides open.

I’m already messing this up.

I put every ounce of focus and energy into making it to the microphone stand. I should’ve dropped out of this show. I should’ve stayed home like the gods were telling me to. Each time I look at the distance to the mic, I cringe. I swear it’s getting farther away, just like first base during my last softball
game. I puff my cheeks up with air and then release it—I don’t need to look any fatter than I already do.

Three more steps and I’m in front of the mic. It’s a freaking miracle. I put my shoulders back and suck in air through my nose. The lights are blinding. I squint to find Mrs. Salvatore and her signal. She points, and then my music starts. I have a few seconds before I come in, so I use them to unclench my fists and try not to projectile vomit on the front row. My nerves are kicking the Vicodin’s ass.

I open my mouth and sing. I sound kind of whispery and soft, and I don’t like it. My mouth messes up the word “away,” and it comes out “alay.” But I keep singing.

It’s just me and the music. It’s like the audience is behind a wall of light. Maybe the pills are winning now. I feel different. I don’t care what anyone out there thinks about me.

The next chorus comes, and I let it fly. I grab the stand like I’m in a music video. I go for it. I sway my hips, then dip down. I yank the microphone out of the holder and throw my head back. My voice rolls and booms and fills every corner of the room.

It fills all the empty space inside me.

Close to the end of the song, I shoot my arm straight up and spread my fingers as if sparks could explode from my fingertips. The music stops. There’s silence.

I think I just blew everyone’s minds. I know I’ve officially blown mine. I place the microphone back in the stand, and I swallow.

Like a bomb, the audience explodes into applause and cheers. It’s the loudest roar of the night. I lean to the side and bow.

I did it! I can’t believe I did it. I wish the stage crew would turn the lights down so I could see everyone’s faces, but I can’t see anything. I lean into the mic. “Thank you.” I smile. The smile feels extraordinary. The clapping continues, and I bow again.

On my way up from my bow, I stop for a second. I strain to make sense of what I’m hearing. There it is again.

A
moo
.

Then another.

Shouts of, “Do it!” erupt from the back of the auditorium. Even over all the noise, I recognize one voice as Chase’s.

Maybe he’d laugh. Chase always laughs. Maybe they’d all laugh. I can handle the laughter because I’m controlling it. I can decide if they laugh or not. I want to hear them laugh. I want everyone to laugh. I do. Maybe if I do it Brandon will laugh. I know he’s out there somewhere. He has the best smile. I want him to smile at me. I want him to like me and be impressed by my voice. What if Brandon ran down the aisle
and up the stairs and made out with me in front of everyone? What if he used this microphone to apologize to me and tell everyone that he lied about everything?

Why doesn’t Brandon like me? He had sex with me. You’re supposed to like someone to have sex with them. He must like me. . . . Doesn’t he?

I want to hear laughter right now. Laughter will squash my pain. Like a bug.

“Just do it!” Cara shouts from the left. She’s backstage, so the audience can’t see her, but I can.
I
hear her loud and clear. I gaze at my Car-car in her perfect purpleness, with her hands on her hips, nodding at me, telling me to “Just do it,” and I see that she’s not really looking at me. She’s looking through me.

I turn back to the audience. These people see me. They just cheered for me like I was famous. Brandon cheered for me. This auditorium needs more entertainment. I can do that. I can be a star for them. Maybe they’ll love me.

I bring the microphone to my mouth again, spread my legs, and squat down into sumo position. The back of the auditorium goes nuts. My broken toe doesn’t exist right now. It’s just me and the mic and my adoring crowd.

Low and deep, the
moo
pours out of me like batter.

I grin into the white lights. Again I moo. Then I bow. I fumble trying to get the microphone back into the stand
and it ends up clattering across the stage. The feedback squeal makes the room go silent.

The stage lights go out and the houselights go on, and I can see the audience for the first time. Mrs. Salvatore looks like she’s about to shit a coconut. They all do, actually. Someone in the back stands up and starts clapping. Slow claps. I squint through my tears to see who it is.

Brandon.

He cups his mouth and shouts a deadpan “Wooooh!”

Like I’m possessed, my arm raises, and my middle finger stands alone. A solitary tree trunk in the field.

I just flipped off Brandon Levitt in front of six hundred people, including my principal and all of my teachers. A fleeting sense of vindication passes through me like a shooting star, then it’s over. I don’t want to stand here anymore. I don’t. I feel bare and stripped clean. And I’m crying.

I hobble off the stage. When I’m back in the darkness, I wipe my cheeks. My hands are covered in jet-black mascara. Great. I looked like a freak out there—mooing with raccoon eyes.
You’re stupid, Adele!

I spot the overturned traffic cone, and I want to throw it. I reach for it. I wing it onto the stage. It bounces end-to-end and lands on its side. The audience gasps as the curtain slowly closes.

CARA RUNS ACROSS THE STAGE, LAUGHING. “OH MY
God, Dell, you are so crazy. That was hilarious! Did you see—”

I cut her off. “Get me out of here.”

“Relax, spaz. I know a secret way out.”

Cara leads me behind the stage, and I take the stairs slowly. She uses her phone to light the way. It’s pitch-black and it smells like wet basement.

“Can you switch arms? You’re stopping my circulation,” she says.

I release my death grip. “Sorry.”

Her phone goes dark, and for a split second I can’t see
anything. “Shit,” she says. Then her little light is back.

She holds out her other arm, and I grab on. “We’re close,” she says. “The door’s right up here.”

I don’t say anything as we make our way down the narrow hallway. My toe is trying to rip its way out of the sock, my stomach rumbles, and I have to pee.

“My car is back here.”

I don’t ask where “back here” is. I don’t say thank-you for getting me out of there. I am mute. I give Cara a nod. The mooing ruined everything.

She pushes open a door, and I think we’re still underground. There’s a set of dirty concrete steps in front of us. A waft of trash hits my nose.

“We’ll go slow,” Cara says. “I can’t believe you took all those pills. It could’ve been so much worse up there onstage. You sang pretty great for being trashed.”

The door clicks closed behind us when we’re on the steps.

“That door’s never locked, you know. That’s what Sydney told me,” Cara babbles. “She said she and Chase snuck underneath the stage last weekend after Melissa’s party and made out on the balcony prop from last year’s
Romeo and Juliet
.”

I am incapable of responding.

I hear crickets. We must be outside. We make it to the top step, and I look around. Big, dark green trash Dumpsters
are to my right and left. I know where we are now—we’re behind the school next to the cafeteria. No one ever parks here because it smells like shit.

Cara asks me to let go of her so she can text someone. She looks over at me with a huge smile. “Just got us invited to the after-party at Sydney’s.”

She thinks I’m capable of going to a party right now? I stare at her with wide eyes as we both get into the car.

“What? Come on, it’ll be the perfect place for you to un-embarrass yourself. You know, save face. You did throw a freaking traffic cone across the stage, Dell. People are going to talk. Why not face it head-on? Besides, you sang great. Everyone loved your performance. I’ll bet you’ll get lots of compliments. Compliments are good, right? But first we’ll have to fix your makeup. It’s, like, all over your face.” She starts the car and drives.

Cara, my only friend in the world, doesn’t see me, know me, or understand me. This rips my heart apart, and my sadness smooshes the pieces into an unidentifiable mound. I’m spent. “I want to go home.”

“Whatever, Dell.”

She doesn’t even argue with me.

The rest of the drive home is silent.

My head is a jumble of phrases and words:
fat fuck, darkness,
don’t tell Taryn, like I’m in a music video, fat bitch, do it, stay still, zombie makeup, Vicodin, you wish, you fat fuck . . .