Transcendent (29 page)

“What would they be singing?” Ethan asked.

“Well, that's partly how Zane and Zoey figured in . . . I told you how they lost a cousin at Disney, Brinley—she was down there for a chorus trip. Apparently she was an amazing singer. Only a kid, but she wrote her own songs. I haven't read them yet—Zane's supposed to be back with them any time now. But I thought we could work with that to start. We'd have a rehearsal with the kids leading up, and then they'd sing a few songs at the fund-raiser. Some of them might have instruments they want to play, too.
And we're going to have music stations for the kids to write their own songs. Angelica thought we could find some local musicians to volunteer . . .”

“And the donations are going to what?” Ari asked, squinting up at the ceiling.

“For now, we're thinking it'll go to families who need support, like medical expenses, or covering the loss of income if they've had to leave their jobs. But then we're hoping the kids can do more performances, write more songs. Different kids, too, depending on where we're performing, or how long they can be on the road. A rotation, maybe. I don't know.” I sighed. As much as I wanted to do this, I was already exhausted by the sheer enormity of it all. It felt impossible that I was actually leading something this momentous, when a few weeks back I'd been just another seventeen-year-old girl in New York City.

“That's all sounding really cool, Iris,” Ethan said quietly, “but would you be traveling, too? What about . . . what about school? It's senior year. You should be applying to colleges. And not to be an ass, but . . . didn't you freak out when your mom wanted you to leave Brooklyn? Weren't you fighting to stay
here
?”

“Yes,” I said, shaking my head. “But that was different. If I'd jumped on a plane then, I would have been hiding. I would have been running away, pretending to be anyone but Iris Spero, and that just felt entirely wrong. This is
getting on a plane, yeah . . . but to face it all head-on. I'd be leaving Brooklyn, maybe—temporarily—but it's not about running from a place. It's about
not
running from who I am.”

“It's the exact opposite of what your mom did,” Delia said. “She left Green Hill to disappear. You're leaving Brooklyn to be out in the world, all loud and proud.”

“Exactly.” My lips twitched, caught somewhere between a smile and a frown. “I'll miss you guys while I'm gone, and I'll miss my family and Brooklyn. Because if the first fund-raiser here goes well and these Disney's Children performances work out—then yes, I want to travel with them. I can probably do work on the road and still graduate on time. But music was always the dream, right? And that's what I'd be doing now. Making music. Sharing it with other people. I can still go to college later, and I will. I'll figure it out. But I need—”

“We know,” Ari cut in, raising her hands in surrender. “You need time to figure it out. I get that, as long as you don't erase us from your life altogether. Okay? We need you. You're the glue. And you need us, too. We're your people.”

“My
best
people.” I grinned at her, and she grinned back, as sincere and unguarded a smile as I'd ever seen on Ari's face.

“And as for school, I think you need to do what you
need to do. College will always be there. This idea sounds pretty damn awesome, way cooler than our lame school orchestra. You'd probably regret it for the rest of your life if you didn't follow through.”

Hearing those words, an enthusiastic seal of approval from Ari of all people—it was everything I'd needed to move ahead. I exhaled, my whole body instantly feeling a hundred pounds lighter.

“Oh, and of course I forgot to mention one of the most important parts,” I said, clapping my hands on my knees. “I need the three of you up on stage for the New York show. I have a feeling none of the kids will bang on the drums quite like you do, Ari. And Ethan and Delia, you two are totally going to rock the woodwinds. Seriously. Please. Music has always been our thing. It wouldn't feel right without you guys at my side.”

“You didn't even have to ask, Iris.” Ari snaked her arm around my back and I leaned into her shoulder. “I would have been offended if you
hadn't
.”

“Seconded,” Ethan said.

“Thirded,” Delia chimed in. “If that's a word. But yes, I'd be honored.”

“Thank you, seriously, you don't know how much—”

The front door opened and all of us turned, staring as Zane walked into the living room.

“I have them,” he said, pulling a notebook out from
the pocket of his hoodie. “All the songs. They're amazing, Iris—even better than I remembered. Broke my damn heart all over again that this little girl won't ever sing or write another word. She had a gift. A serious gift.” He looked up then, frowning slightly, as if he'd just realized that we weren't alone in the room—my friends had also witnessed this uncharacteristic moment of vulnerability. They needed to see this Zane, though. The Zane I knew. The Zane I cared so much about.

“Can I see?” I asked quietly, reaching my hand out.

He nodded, dropping the little book onto my open palm. I looked down, my hands shaking as I slowly flipped to the first page.

“This first one is called ‘Hear Me,'” I said. I took a deep breath and then I began, reading the words out loud.

Here I am, so hear me now

Here I am, so hear my song

These words are mine, these words are yours

They're from my head, they're from my heart

If you hear me now, hear my song

You'll see just how alike we are

That deep down where it matters most

We love, we cry, we hurt, we laugh

We fight, we learn, we hide, we dance

We live our lives, we dream our dreams

The differences, they're there, they are

But we are human, we are the same

And maybe someday, someday soon

We'll be friends, you and I

We'll sing together, you and I.

The room was silent when I finished. Tears poured from my eyes, the words in front of me swimming as drops fell heavily onto the pages. To think of Brinley, the beautiful mind that had written these words—to think of her dead, cold and lifeless and below the ground, was like a razor-sharp claw raking jagged slashes across my heart.

“These are,” I started, choking down a massive sob, “perfect. This song . . . how did this song come from a little girl? It's so real. It's so
true
.”

“I know,” Zane said quietly. He stared out the window, his wide shoulders tensed as he clenched his knuckles around the lower ledge. “They're all like that. I remember most of the basic tunes, the rhythms, and I know Zoey does, too, so we can teach you. I used to hear her singing them all the time, but I never paid enough attention to the words. I never told her how much of a genius she was when I had the chance.”

“Maybe you didn't ever tell her,” I said, gently putting the notebook down as I stood from the sofa and moved toward Zane. I rested one hand lightly, tentatively, on his
shoulder. He didn't flinch or brush me off, so I kept it there. “But you're honoring her now. Nothing is as good as having her back, but maybe this is the next best thing.”

I felt his strong shoulders tremble beneath my hand. He ducked his head down, fighting back tears that I wished he'd let himself cry.

“Well then,” Ari said from behind me. I jumped at the sound, pulled away from my private moment with Zane. “That was definitely spectacular, and I'm definitely on board. So . . . what next?”

T
HE FUND-RAISER
came on bigger and faster than I could have ever imagined.

In less than a week, we'd had several hundred families sign up to attend the first event in New York City, and thousands more had requested to be involved in future countrywide programs. Nearly two hundred kids were participating this first time around, which included the event itself plus a few rehearsals to learn the ten songs we'd chosen from Brinley's notebook. We had an impressively accomplished staff of volunteer musicians on hand, too—Angelica said they had all begged her to be involved. The grander and more impressive the plans became, the harder it was for me to believe that without my nudge, none of this would have happened.

But I couldn't deny how many people had joined Disney's Children because of me, because of
who I was
. I couldn't deny how excited volunteers got at just the sight
of me—it was almost a physical, quantifiable thing, the increase in energy and enthusiasm that swelled when I stepped into a room. People smiled wider, moved faster, accomplished more, and brainstormed bigger, better ideas. It was almost as if they fed off me somehow, and all it took was the simple fact of me being there, with a smile or a few encouraging words.

It was bizarre—bizarre and unsettling and absurd. But it worked. It had made this event possible. I told myself, over and over again, that I was just doing my part, playing my role.

I was Iris Spero, daughter of Mina. This was my duty.

The big night had arrived, hanging over the ledge just in front of me. I had only blinked, it seemed, and there I was, sweating profusely, my heart banging around under the weight of my ornately beaded dress—a vivid green the exact shade of my eyes, shimmering with tiny gold accents. The dress had been made specifically for me, a gift from a designer who I'd never heard of before. It had showed up at my doorstep with a note pleading with me to wear it for this first performance. She had worked on it day and night, she'd said, since she'd heard about what I was doing for these children. Children like the daughter she'd lost, the daughter she'd give anything to have back.

Even if it hadn't been the most beautiful dress I'd ever
seen—which it absolutely was—I wouldn't have been able to say no, not after reading her letter.

But the dress wasn't the only thing we'd discovered on our doorstep.

In the days since Ella Bennett's funeral notice had appeared, there'd been other “gifts” left on our stoop: a picture of Ella and Kyle and a little boy who must have been Parker, standing in front of Cinderella Castle—
before
—its sweeping stone turrets and shiny blue spires still intact; an article from Green Hill's local paper about the Bennett family and a fund-raiser that had been helping with Ella's hospital bills; a worn-looking old doll, with scraggly blonde curls and a chipped smile and beady glass eyes that didn't stop staring; a photograph of my mom as a teenager, her belly round and pronounced as she leaned against the lockers in her old high school hallway.

There was never any note. But words weren't necessary.

I won't forget.

I breathed in deep and brought myself back to here. Now. All the people I
could
still help.

Zoey held my hand, Caleb, my parents, and Zane hovering close behind. My aunt Gracie was there with us, too, her arm locked around my mom's waist. She'd flown in on a red-eye from Texas that morning to surprise us. “The second your mom told me she was pregnant with
you, I believed,” she'd said to me at breakfast. “That's the power of family. I wouldn't have missed this day for anything.” Aunt Gracie was only twenty-five now, closer to my age than my mom's, but she was usually so cool, so unflappable and composed, that I forgot there were only eight years between us. She looked giddy and nervous now, though, twirling the tulle skirt of her bright pink dress as we waited.

We stood in front of the grand, arching doors of the auditorium at Carnegie Hall, which had lent us the space free of charge for the night's event. Apparently someone high on the board there had lost a sister and a nephew of his own at Disney and considered it the least he could do in their memory. The hall looked spectacular and surreal, with glittering, glowing stars lining the way into the main event space, each one marked with the name of a victim.

Angelica had refused my offer to come earlier that day for setup. She'd insisted that I arrive once everyone else had settled into place—that I had already done more than enough. But I wasn't naive. She wanted a grand entrance.

All eyes on me.

I nodded back at my family and then at the two black-suited men standing at either side of the entrance. They pulled open the doors at my signal, beaming at me as I stepped forward.

Cameras flashed and people cheered, whooping and whistling and clapping their hands. Those who were able stood as I made my way down the plush crimson-red aisle, waving and smiling and fighting back the overwhelming urge to run—to hide in the bathroom, purge every last bite of my dinner into the toilet. Spots swam across my vision and I clenched my fingers more tightly around Zoey's palm, reaching for Cal with my free hand. He waited for just a second, then latched on tight. The sounds hushed around me, my dress felt lighter, the lights above me dimmed. I was floating, falling, flying . . .

But then my eyes refocused and I saw my grandparents and Aunt Hannah—and Aunt Izzy and Ellen and baby Micah, visiting from California, just to see me—all of them grinning and wildly clapping. And I saw the rows of chairs at the front of the room, up on the stage. Ari and Ethan and Delia. The children.
My
children. Some in wheelchairs or leaning against walkers, some in bandages and casts. Some were held in their parents' arms; others were standing on their own, healthy and untouched, at least on the outside. They were big and little, boy and girl, dark, light, skinny, chubby, pale, freckled, tan, braided, and buzzed. All were in matching green and gold T-shirts. And they were smiling. They were all smiling.

I surged forward, running those last steps, Zoey and Caleb dragging behind me, until I reached the stage.

“I'm here,” I said, reaching my hands out toward every last one of them. “I'm here.”

•   •   •

Everything had been perfect so far.

I collapsed against the black leather chair in my private dressing room offstage, sighing in relief. I had fifteen minutes to myself for the intermission. The kids had already performed eight of Brinley's songs without a hitch—some sang and some played instruments: drums and triangles, flutes, trumpets, guitars. I played my violin for parts of each. It was a patchwork of noise, raw and beautiful. At the start of the second half, we'd have stations where groups of kids would work with the professional musicians on writing their own songs. After thirty minutes, we'd ask for a few of the groups to perform what they'd written so far, and then, finally, we'd close with two more of Brinley's songs, with “Hear Me” to be the very last.

I could see it all playing out now, my eyes closed as I burrowed farther into the soft leather. There was so much energy and life out in that room. Besides my family and friends, there were a handful of familiar faces: Sam and Janelle; Claire; Abby and Lula, both up on stage, Abby singing, Lula swinging a tambourine; some of my teachers and a few
incredibly
unexpected classmates, such as Carolina Matthews and Noah Kennedy, cheering along
with everybody else; even Monica and Leo, who Zoey had pointed out to me from the stage—Zane had allowed them this small pass for Brinley's sake, though he'd made it clear it was too soon for anything more.

And about halfway through the first set, my eyes had landed on Benjamin, standing and clapping and swaying so eagerly that my already overwhelmed heart nearly combusted in my chest. I'd mailed him a personalized invitation, along with puzzles and caramel brownies—and a brief thank-you note explaining my stay at the shelter. But he'd never responded, and I'd assumed that he wouldn't come, that he'd felt deceived or betrayed by “Clemence.” But from the way he grinned at me up there on the stage, I don't think he was disappointed. Not in the least.

Mikki—or Iris, whatever I was supposed to call her—she wasn't there. I'd tried to invite her, stopping by the park a handful of times in the past week during our planning breaks. I'd brought the violin, too, hoping that the playing would magically lure her in. But she hadn't come.

I jumped at the sound of a knock on the door, my eyes snapping open. I had left my family and friends out front by the stage, saying that I needed just a few minutes to myself to prep for the rest of the event.

It's okay
, I told myself, pushing up from the seat.
I'm ready. I can do this.

“Come in,” I called out. “It's not locked.”

I expected to see my mom, or Angelica or Zane, maybe. But instead it was a tall, broad-shouldered girl I'd never seen before—just about my age, I'd guess—with freckles all across her pale, pinkish skin and bright red hair pulled into a long, thick braid. She wore a simple faded blue dress, a few sizes too big and hanging over a pair of old lace-up brown boots.

“Hello?” I said, trying to mask my rattled nerves. There were plenty of people here tonight from Disney's Children who I hadn't had the chance to meet yet. Still, it was unsettling that she'd pushed past everyone else to see me privately. It felt wrong to me, off. But I had a role to play, even now. I forced my lips up, tried to smile. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, please,” she mumbled, her gray eyes jumping from me to the ceiling to the floor. She stepped into the room, shutting the door behind her.

Alarm seeped in, a cold shudder that sent the hair along my neck and my arms on end. Was I safe? Should I run? She was intimidating physically, towering above me—but she looked tired, too, weak, with her drawn face and that pale skin.

Not just tired. She looked sad, I realized. Deeply, painfully sad.

“I'm Iris,” I said, extending my hand, though I had a feeling the introduction wasn't necessary. She looked
down at it for a beat before reaching out, clasping her fingers around mine, cool and scratchy at the touch.

She shook a few times before saying, “I'm Elisabeth McDan—” She cut herself off, pulling her hand out of my grasp as she took a few steps back. “You can just call me Elisabeth.”

“Okay,” I said, “Elisabeth. It's nice to meet you. I only have a few minutes before I have to be back out there, but . . . is there anything in particular you wanted first?”

She bit down on her lip, her entire face scrunching inward. “Yes,” she said, “there is.” She faced me straight on, but her eyes were fixed just above mine, somewhere along my forehead. “Can we sit down? Just for a minute. I know you're busy, but I came all the way up here from Oklahoma and I . . . I just have some words I need to say. While I have the nerve.”

I nodded, easing myself back down onto my seat as she settled in the chair opposite mine.

“My dad, Iris, he . . .” Her voice broke, and she closed her eyes for a moment, her chest rising and falling heavily beneath the tattered collar of her dress. My mind raced to fill in the gaps—her dad, he had died at Disney, hadn't he? Or maybe she'd lost a sibling that day, a little brother or sister, and what had he done in his grief? Run off, maybe? Or worse—was it too much to bear, had he . . . had he taken his own life? I gripped my clammy hands around
the arms of the chair, steeling myself for those terrible words to spill out of her mouth.

“My dad,” she started again, this time her large gray eyes staring directly into mine. Her pupils were wide and penetrating, a dark abyss that threatened to yank me into the spiral of her agony. “He was part of the Judges. He was part of the group that bombed Disney.”

I gasped.

The Judges.

In all the moments of the past weeks, all the moments since I'd run away, distracted by my own life—I hadn't stopped much to think about the people who had caused this. Even as I'd looked into the faces of these children, hugged their broken bodies—I hadn't thought about the people who were actually behind the tragedy. I hadn't thought about what they were doing right then, how they were coping or not coping, scheming or not scheming. They had seemed peripheral to the devastation, somehow. Peripheral to the reality of these kids and their everyday lives, their futures.

But now, Elisabeth here in front of me, I realized how strange it was that I'd forgotten—I'd forgotten that this hadn't all happened by chance or by some terrible misfortune. This wasn't an earthquake or a twister or a superstorm. This was human will. This was a
choice
. Anger seethed through my bones, a blistering, quick-burning
fire. I thought of my classmates' rage, how much I'd resented it. They had taken it too far, but still—I understood the very core of it. I felt it deep down inside of me.