Unlocked (13 page)

They’d been over this. “Except for the PECS cards.”

“Yes. Except that. But it’s a lot of therapy and distance from using an occasional PECS card … to understanding and wanting to dance. Turning circles, flapping … this sort of repetitive behavior is typical for students with autism.”

Tracy didn’t want to argue with the woman or waste time trying to explain Holden. Here, in the drama room, she could see for herself. She still had a couple of minutes, so she prayed silently for her son.
Dear Lord, this is a chance … a beginning. Maybe the miracle I’ve been asking for is going to start here. Right now. So please, Father, be with Holden and don’t let him act out. If he does … well, if he does he won’t be able to stay. So please, Lord … please help him.

Take your position and stand firm … see the deliverance I will give you, my daughter.

The answer was strong and breathtaking. It filled her heart
and soul and mind and left her anxious with hope. God was in this. She could feel Him working. Now she only had to stand firm and watch the next hour play out.

Mr. Hawkins walked to the front of the room and announced that they were going to work again on the Belle song. “This time, we’ll break into parts according to your character. You all know your roles. The baker, the bookseller, Belle …” He looked around and discouragement colored his expression. “Where exactly is our Belle? She should be here by now.”

Tracy studied the drama teacher. He seemed tired, like he doubted the kids’ ability to truly pull off a great production come spring. She let the notion pass. This wasn’t about the drama class, it was about Holden’s response to the music. She looked at the back of his light-brown head. His hair was darker than it had been when he was little, and it held just the slightest curl. But he wore it short so most of the time it was impossible to tell. Tracy willed herself to look beyond his hair and handsome face to the boy locked inside. What was he feeling right now? Fear excitement wonder? Like always, she had no idea other than the obvious. He was here, and he had chosen to sit quite a distance from any of the other kids.

Before Mr. Hawkins began to play, a beautiful girl ran into the room and took a seat in the front row. She pulled out her script, looked back at Holden and smiled. Tracy couldn’t see Holden’s reaction, but he seemed to look at the girl. Straight at her.

Mr. Hawkins raised an eye in her direction. “Thank you for joining us, Belle.”

“Sorry.” She sounded truly upset with herself. “I had to go home for my script.”

“For the last time,” the teacher held her gaze.

“Yes, for the last time,” she repeated, clearly sorry. She kept her attention straight ahead and opened her script.

Tracy wondered if the pretty girl was the one who had pushed
for Holden to have a place in the class. Why else would she have looked back at him when she first arrived? Tracy made a point to thank the girl, whoever she was.

The students rose to their feet as the music began. The girl who’d arrived late started the song, her voice clear and beautiful. Tracy smiled. She would do a wonderful job as Belle, Tracy had no doubt. Other kids sang out their lines on cue, and Tracy was impressed. If this rehearsal was an indication, the spring production would be very professional.

Tracy could only see the backs of the students, but she was so caught up in the song she almost forgot about Holden. As she turned to him, what she saw brought tears to her eyes. It was just like she’d thought. Holden was no longer sitting in the chair looking at the ceiling or studying the empty desk in front of him, the way he might’ve been. He was on his feet doing something that seemed absolutely appropriate given the music that surrounded them. To anyone else, it might’ve looked like Holden was turning in circles, acting out even. But Tracy knew better.

Holden was dancing.

A
FTER A FEW TIMES THROUGH THE SONG
, M
ANNY GAVE HIS
drama kids a quick break. He was happy with the way the earlier song sounded, and it was time to do something new. He never taught the musical numbers in order. He taught them according to difficulty. “Belle” was a tougher piece for an ensemble group, so he wanted to follow it with a less time-consuming number. Hence, “The Mob Song” would be next.

He needed another copy of the rehearsal schedule. One for the mother of Holden Harris—so she might know when he should and shouldn’t observe the class. So far the boy had done pretty well. A little circling in place, but nothing too disruptive. Manny left the room and went to his private adjoining office.
He found the schedule and stopped at the window. Two stories and a hundred yards away, the football team was practicing. An announcement this morning had told the students of Fulton High that their football team was undefeated. “You can be proud, students. Very proud,” the principal told them.

Manny squinted at the horizon. Just once—this one last time —he dared hope for something that hadn’t happened in his tenure at Fulton:

A musical that might make the students feel the same way.

He drew a long, slow breath and stared at the rehearsal schedule in his hand, the one he’d printed for Holden. Something about the kid’s presence breathed new life into him. New meaning. If his downtrodden drama program could help a kid like Holden Harris even a little, then his efforts here had to be worth something. Today, while the kids were singing “Belle,” Manny even allowed himself to feel enthusiastic. Hopeful. The students sounded wonderful. So maybe they had a chance after all. Word could get out. The school would get behind them. It might happen.

Once, a long time ago, Manny had been a praying man. But his prayers hadn’t done a thing to help him with his divorce or the custody battle that ensued. His girls lived in Los Angeles with their mother. They got his eyes, he liked to say, and her arms. He hadn’t prayed much since then. But today, with Holden turning circles in the back row, Manny had the impulse to talk to God. A stronger impulse than he’d felt in two decades.

He closed his eyes.
Okay, Lord … here I am. Remember me? I’m the guy you forgot about.
A pang of guilt sliced through Manny’s heart.
Okay, maybe you didn’t forget about me. But it felt that way. It definitely felt that way.
He struggled with the words. Lecturing never gave him reason to pause. But talking to God … This was harder.
Anyway, Lord, … there’s this kid, Holden Harris. He loves hearing us rehearse, and I was wondering if … if maybe
You could help him out. He has autism, God. So maybe if the music could unlock that little world he’s in, maybe he could be a different person.
He felt guilty asking for the rest, but he’d committed himself. If God was really listening, Manny might as well give Him the whole list.
One last thing, God … we won’t have a drama department next year if the kids don’t come watch. I don’t know how to make that happen, but I have a feeling You do. So if You could work that out, I’d be … well, I’d be amazed. Because both those things are going to take a miracle. Thanks for listening, God. Sorry it’s been so long.

He opened his eyes. “Amen.” He took a final look out the window and returned to the classroom. “Back to your seats, loquacious youngsters.” This was Manny’s schtick, his
modus operandi.
Talking as if he held a Shakespearean doctorate degree. “Enough waxing on. Enough intermingling.”

He caught the kids’ giggles and strange looks at his word choice. He loved that, challenging them to break out of their limited vocabulary. They loved it, too, even though it had been awhile since he’d cared. He looked out over the classroom. “Remain standing.” Thirty kids packed the first few rows in front of him. “How many of you know the music from this show?”

Just about everyone raised a hand.

Manny caught a quick look at Holden. He was standing, but he wasn’t turning circles anymore. His eyes were focused on the ceiling just above the classroom window, but every so often Manny swore he looked at him. Like he was taking instruction, same as the other kids.

“You are now villagers. I’d say Village People, but some of you would harken back to the seventies and think I intended something I did not. So you are villagers and you fear the Beast more than any creature you’ve encountered.” He flipped through the score on his piano. “As you sing this piece, I will hear fear and determination in your voices. Determination driven by fear. If
I do not hear this, we will sing it again. We will sing it well into December, if necessary, but we will find our inner fear.”

The music was dark and foreboding, with a pulsing rhythm intended to replicate the stomping feet and slamming farm implements that would give the number its ferocity. Manny enjoyed this, getting his students to feel the emotion in the music. “Okay … five … six, five-six-seven-eight!”

For the most part, the students began on the same note, but they were hardly in unison. Manny stopped playing and faced them. He paused for a long beat. “Who can give me the definition of
ensemble?”

Ella was the first to raise her hand.

“Very well, Miss Reynolds. What is the definition?”

“It means all the parts acting together as one.” She gave a slightly embarrassed shrug. “I did a report on it last spring.”

“Exactly.” Manny was impressed. The question had often stumped his previous casts. Usually they figured
ensemble
meant everyone other than the leads. Whoever was left. Manny paced in front of the students. “All parts acting as one.” He stopped and looked pointedly at the second row. “That means each word sounds like it’s being sung by how many people?”

The cast looked at each other, and then sort of mumbled.

“One.”

Manny shook his head and rubbed at his right ear, as if he wasn’t getting a clear read on their answer. “How many?”

“One.” This time their answer was both loud and together.

“Very good.” He walked back to the piano. “Begin again.” He counted off the song and they came in much stronger. Their diction would get crisper in the coming months, but he could at least understand the lyrics. “Louder!” he shouted over the music. “Make me feel your fear!”

Their voices grew, and with the sound came the terror that was essential for the song. “It’s a beast, he’s got fangs, razorsharp
ones …” Then as quickly as the song built to a crescendo, it died off.

Manny stopped playing and turned around. Half the students were no longer singing, but watching Holden Harris. He was pacing up and down the side of the classroom, his hands folded near his chin, elbows straight out, pumping his arms like he was either in pain or very nervous. He looked like an anxious mallard duck, and a few of the students were giggling at him.

The thrill of the afternoon leaked from him like air from an old tire. “Okay, people. Back to your places.” He looked at Holden’s mother. “Can you help us?”

Tracy Harris was already making her way to her son. But Holden didn’t seem to hear her. He stopped suddenly and plummeted to the floor. Then, in a display more impressive than almost anything the jugheads out on the football field could pull off, he laid into a series of perfect push-ups. Absolutely perfect.

A few of the girls backed up. “That’s weird,” one of them whispered loud enough for the class to hear. “Why’s he doing

that?”

“I don’t know.” Another one chuckled quietly. “But he’s good

at it.”

There were seven minutes left in the hour, and Manny wanted desperately to get the students back on track. But now half the guys were gathered around Holden, counting off his push-ups the way they might in some locker-room machismo contest.

Holden’s mother stooped down, her hand on his shoulder. After a few seconds, she stood and politely motioned for the kids to step back, to leave her son alone. “He gets nervous. He needs his space.” Her tone carried an apology. “He’ll be okay. Just go back to singing.”

Manny was able to get the kids rallied for one last go at the “Beast” song. Holden tired of the push-ups and sat in his chair at the back of the class, breathing hard. His arm muscles pumped
up, his blue eyes deep and intense, the kid was better looking than any of the guys in the cast.
He’d be perfect for the Prince,
Manny thought. The role of the transformed Beast was a brief, but important part. Manny hadn’t made up his mind which of the ensemble would play the role—mainly because no one looked like a prince.

No one except Holden Harris.

If he weren’t autistic, he could play the part based on his looks alone. But that wasn’t going to happen, because already Holden was working his wings again. Flapping and nodding his head. Discouragement flooded his mind and heart. Why did he bother praying? They weren’t going to get a miracle for the drama department, and not for Holden Harris, either. Manny embraced his disappointment. It was at least familiar. And no harm done about the hope he’d felt earlier.

He hadn’t really expected prayer to work, anyway.

E
LLA COULD HARDLY WAIT FOR THEATER CLASS TO END
. S
HE
planned to pull Holden aside and tell him the amazing truth —they had been friends when they were little! And how great it was that they’d found each other now! But when Mr. Hawkins reached the loudest, most intense part of the song, Holden lost it. Ella watched him, helpless to do anything. Holden still didn’t know who she was, after all. She couldn’t just run up and expect him to find comfort in anything she might say or do.

Even now when he had to be tired from his push-ups, Holden was still moving his arms. He looked intent on something, like he was trying to accomplish a task. Ella glanced back at him several times, but Holden never let his eyes meet hers. He looked a few inches to her right or left, but never straight at her.
It’s his autism,
she told herself. A lack of communication, little or no eye contact, repeated behaviors. They’re locked in a world all their own, one website had explained.

Throughout the last painful minutes of class, Mr. Hawkins had everyone sing again, but a few of the guys still laughed at Holden.