Transcendent (26 page)

The words stung. She was right; not everyone was safe, and the crowd outside proved that more than ever. But I had to stand by my instinct.

“If you can't trust Zane, Ari, then please—trust me.”

Ari was silent at that, her shoulders rigid as she stared out the window.

“I think it's maybe more than luck, though,” Delia said, her already quiet voice almost a whisper now.

“What do you mean?” I asked, my whole body stiffening.

“I just mean that . . . people seem to listen to you, Iris. Even if it feels totally random and against their own inclination sometimes. Like at school, with people like Bryce and Noah, and Carolina . . . when you put them in their place, give them a look . . . I don't know, they just get it. They stop. You just have that effect on people.”

“Huh,” Ethan said, shaking his head. “Never thought about it, but you have a point. Sounds crazy, but . . . what the hell, this whole thing is crazy, right?”

“Stop,” I said.
“Stop.”
But my head was already spiraling through other moments: the first day I'd met Ethan, at the shelter with Mr. Jackson . . . “I'm just friendly. People respond to friendly. I smile a lot. That's all there is to it.” I was right. I had to be right.

All three of them stared at me, silent.

I pulled on my jacket to signal the end of the conversation, and the rest of them followed my lead. I grabbed my purse and the violin case and was the first out the door.

Worries about Ari, Ethan's doubts, my own doubts even, Delia's absurd comment about
luck
—I had to push it
all away. The music, that was what mattered. Just me and my violin, and Abby of course, too, listening and hopefully finding some small kind of comfort, some kind of release. Music was always my cure, better than sleep or Advil or steaming chicken noodle soup.

Zane was waiting for us down in the kitchen. My parents, Caleb, and Zoey, thankfully, were nowhere to be found. My mom had mentioned a quick shopping trip with Zoey after school—basic supplies and a few new clothes, maybe. I couldn't believe they'd leave me alone for long, even with my friends and Zane there. I called a cab and then jotted off a quick text saying where I'd be, and that,
yes
, not to worry, I was definitely using the back door. We headed out through the yard and across our neighbor's property, the five of us parting ways as my taxi pulled up along the sidewalk.

Ethan and Delia both pulled me in for a hug. And then suddenly Ari was there, too, squeezing me so tight from behind that I swore I could feel her heart thudding against my back.

The four of us, all stitched up together tight, just like it was supposed to be.

Zane was already in the cab when I finally pulled away.

“I know it felt a little tense,” I said, breaking the silence as the car started down the street, “but they don't hate you or anything. They just don't know you. And they're always
wary of strangers. Instinct, I guess. We were all kind of on the outside, until we found each other.”

“It's fine,” he said, eyes locked on the view outside his window. “It's not like I care. Everyone thinks what they want about me, anyway. I gave up trying to change anyone's mind a long time ago.”

“You might say that,” I said, my voice barely a breath, “but I'm not sure it's really true.” The words were so quiet, I wasn't sure he'd heard. He didn't answer, at least, and I didn't repeat myself.

We didn't speak as we pulled up to Abby's apartment building, as we climbed the two flights of stairs and once again found ourselves swept into Sam and Janelle's cramped but cozy apartment.

If Janelle had been excited before, she was nearly bouncing through her skin now.

“I'm glad you're back so soon!” she gushed, clapping her hands as she did a little dance around me, circling like a bee over a juicy new flower. “Abby's been so much more active and engaged since she met you. She came out to the kitchen for tea with her grandmother today! We even got her to laugh a few times. It might sound like so little to you, but it's not, Iris. Trust me, it's not. Not after how it's been.” She slowed for a beat at that, like the dark had suddenly seized her again, dragging her back through all of the worst memories from the past weeks.

“I'm glad I'm here again, too,” I said. But the familiar gnawing burn of anxiety was back in a sudden rush. I'd reacted so quickly, got in that cab so fast, I hadn't had time to worry. It hit me now, all at once.

I lifted my violin case up in front of me, hugging it close to my chest. “I had the idea that maybe Abby would like me to play some songs for her.” It sounded silly and inadequate to me now. Why would a few songs on the violin make a difference? I was good, sure, but I was still only learning. And it was just music, after all.

Just music.

No. Music was special. I believed that. I'd always believed that.

Janelle nodded, already fluttering again, the darkness dispelled. “Abby loves music, you know. It's why she was down at Disney to begin with . . .”

We both froze.

“I don't want to upset her more, if . . .”

“No,” Janelle said. “
No
. It's not music we should blame. Go on. Go play for her.”

I nodded and started for the room, my hands sweating as they clamped tightly around the case, my shield. The door with the sparkly
A
was open this time. Even though Abby had likely heard me out with her parents, I still cleared my throat, letting her know I was there now.

“Hi, Abby,” I said, leaving the door open behind me
this time. Sam and Janelle could listen, too, if they wanted. Why not? Playing music for people—it was what I did, who I
was
.

“Hi,” she said, squirming to pull herself into a more upright position. “I didn't think you'd be back so soon.”

I set the case on the floor as I let myself fall into the chair by her bed. “I thought you might like it if I played a little music for you. I heard you like to sing. And I love music, too. I love the violin. So if it's okay, I thought maybe I could play for you?”

“Sure,” she said, her smile drooping just a little. She was disappointed, maybe—she'd hoped I was there to do something bigger—or, as it was for her mom, the music was a reminder. Music had become too linked to Disney in her mind.

But Janelle was right. The music wasn't to blame.

I pulled the violin out, precisely and slowly, buying more time as I considered what to play first. My chin was on the rest, the bow in my hand. The moment hung there, suspended, as Abby waited.

And then I heard the opening notes. I'd already started playing.

“Defying Gravity,” from
Wicked
. I'd figured out the notes for myself after seeing it on Broadway, giving it my own twists and turns.

For the first minute, Abby's lips were tensed, a tight,
straight line that seemed to cut entirely through the small portion of her face that I could see.

I kept playing, though. I kept trying.

Her shoulders twitched. Was she upset? Angry? But after a second twitch, a third, I realized that no—she wasn't upset or angry, she was
swaying
, rocking back and forth in sync with the music. Her hand, too, resting on top of the blanket, the tips of her fingers tapping out a soft beat against the puff of her comforter. The movements, no matter how subtle, filled me up, golden liquid sunshine spilling through my fingertips. I sat up straighter, played louder, deeper.

As I came to the end, the final chorus, her lips slowly turned up.

“Play more,” she said, as soon as my bow came to a halt. “Please, please keep playing.”

So I did. I kept playing. I knew other Broadway tunes, music she might recognize.

And a few songs in, Abby started singing along.

•   •   •

It didn't necessarily get
easier
after that.

First there was Charlotte, an adorably redheaded and freckled eight-year-old girl who'd lost her right arm in the bombing—Charlotte, who asked me to watch
The Little Mermaid
with her; by the end, we were both singing and
dancing while we twirled around the room, me with my violin, her swinging around her favorite doll. Then there were two five-year-old twins, Andrea and Andrew; Andrea didn't have a scratch on her, but Andrew had burns all across his face, chest, and upper arms. Andrea cried through most of my visit, but Andrew—Andrew was calm, soft-spoken. When his sister left the room for a snack, he asked me to especially try to help her. He told me that he would be okay, as long as she could feel okay, too. They curled up on Andrea's bed together as I played for them, humming and then making up silly new words as they pretended to sing along.

Tommy, Alexa, Tyler, Jia, Ruby. For three days, I made back-to-back visits to kids in all different states of recovery, most at home, but some still in the hospital—and always with Zane and the violin at my side. Angelica had asked the parents not to tell others about my visits, and everyone was quick to agree—they'd do anything, try anything, if it meant they could have even a tiny shred of hope. My mom stood by her word, letting me and Zane go on our own, but she or Dad still called me every half hour, just to check in. They were terrified, but they weren't telling me to stop. Our neighbors across the yard had started letting me and Zane in through their back door, allowing us to wait in their foyer until a cab arrived. We'd run down their stoop then, our hoodies pulled up tight.

I felt just as scared each time, just as helpless when I walked into the room with an anxious new face studying me. But my violin—it gave me confidence. It spoke when I couldn't. And each time, I felt more sure when I left—more sure that, no matter what the cause, there had been a small shift for the better. A tiny glimpse of happiness, a smile, a song, a laugh—something, no matter how minute or subtle, that hadn't existed when I first arrived. Because, for better or for worse, my reputation was more powerful than I could have realized. My presence, my music, my hand in theirs—it was all together a magic pill that everyone was only too eager to swallow.

But then I met Maddie Rae Stevens.

Maddie was a beautiful five-year-old who had been in a coma since that day at Disney World, and she'd been showing increasingly alarming signs of physical deterioration. I held her hand more tightly than I'd ever held anything in my life, but I felt nothing there. She was like a doll, a fragile, breakable doll that had no chance of ever coming to life. Her dad, Owen, stayed in the room with us the entire time, his red, sleepless eyes carving through me with their vicious desperation.

“Save my little girl,” he begged after I'd said my good-byes. He continued yelling down the hallway as Zane led me past nurses and doctors who followed us too closely with their eyes. “God damn it, save her! You're supposed to
be some kind of savior, aren't you? Why aren't you saving
her
?”

But I'd known from the first second I walked into that room with Maddie Rae. And Owen knew, too, as much as he didn't want to accept it. I couldn't—no matter how hard I tried, no matter how fiercely I played my music or pleaded with the other Iris to help me—change a single thing.

No one could save her, no matter how much anyone
believed
.

Because sometimes, not even hope was enough.

•   •   •

Zane and I were silent on our ride back home from meeting Maddie Rae. But as the cab started to turn down the street just before mine, I slammed my hand against the plastic window behind the driver. “No!” I yelled, shocking all three of us.

The cab lurched.

“No,” I said more quietly, gritting my teeth. “Park Place. Drive to Park Place. Drop us off just past Underhill Ave. Please.”

“Iris?” Zane asked, his hand landing on my knee. “What are you . . . ?”

“What's the point in trying to hide what I'm doing? Won't it be better if they know I'm trying at least? The way
people were watching us at the hospital today, I doubt my little visits are a secret anymore, anyway.”

I felt desperate, doubtful, but I was still hurtling forward.

“I don't know. I think we should talk to your parents first . . .”

“They'll tell me no,” I said, just as the cab stopped in front of our house. I shoved some bills in the driver's hand and threw open the door before Zane could try to stop me.

I held my head up as I marched toward the clusters of people standing between me and my front gate. I'd noticed from my bedroom window the day before that there were ribbons—cloths of all colors and sizes—tied along the iron posts. Now, up close, I watched as a woman tied a red string, double knotting it, her eyes closed as her lips moved silently up and down. Praying.

People were stopping by to leave their prayers for me, their wishes.

Their demands.

“Excuse me,” I said, nudging two women who were holding up a large neon-yellow banner. I blinked as I stepped past them and Zane was suddenly right in front of me, his hand wrapping around mine.

“Iris!”
One person whispered it, and then another. “Iris! Iris!” My name spread through the lips of everyone around me, a crowd of maybe twenty or so people. It
sounded like hundreds, though, my name hissing like a sticky breeze all around me.

As soon as we'd passed the gate, Zane locked it behind us. It was a joke of a barrier, more ornamental than anything, three feet high and easily surmountable for anyone who wanted to try.

But it stopped them—for now. I stood on one side, and they stayed on the other.

An older man in a faded army jacket and fuzzy black cap leaned in, his arms nearly brushing against me. “Iris, we need you to—”

I stepped back and held my hands up, motioning for silence.

It was only then that I noticed the news van, the camera angled straight at my face. But I kept going.