Holland

Practice is horrible. I can’t concentrate, my fingers are all over the place, and nothing’s flowing. For the first time in my life, music isn’t calming or soothing; it’s exasperating. I want to be at home in my bed with the covers pulled over my head so I can bawl my head off. If I can just be alone for a few hours, maybe I could purge him from my system and get my life back on track. Yeah right, Holland, you keep telling yourself that.

Mama is sitting in the waiting room while I practice, as if I need another thing to worry about right now. If Shanna says anything about King being here yesterday, I’m dead meat. As if she were reading my mind, Mama opens the door to the practice room a crack.

“Okay if I come in?”

“Yeah, you may as well. I’m not having a great day,” I say laying my bow across my legs with a deep sigh.

“I noticed.” She lowers her eyes to the floor, shaking her head. She’s disappointed. Oh my God. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my mama disappointed in me.

“You should have stayed home last night instead of staying up all night watching movies with Savannah. I knew better than to let you spend the night before a practice day.”

As if there were any non-practice days. I can’t remember a day that I didn’t play for a minimum of three hours.

“It’s one off day. Gosh, Mama can’t I ever just relax and have some fun?” As soon as the words tumble from my lips, I regret them. I sounded whiney and ungrateful. I’ve never complained about my lack of social life because I enjoy being at home, and I love practicing. It’s never been a chore. But now that I’ve had a taste of living on the edge a little, I’m interested.

“Holland. What’s gotten into you?”

I shrug one shoulder and pick up my bow, running it across the strings in a horrible screech just to annoy her. I don’t know who I am lately, and what’s worse is that I don’t think I want to go back to the person I used to be.

“I’m going to ignore that and chalk it up to sleep deprivation. But I’ll tell ya what, there will be no more staying the night at Savannah’s if you have a practice room reserved the next day. We can’t afford to do this if you aren’t going to take it seriously and give it one hundred percent, Holland. This is your future—”

“Mama, God, I get it. I’m off my game for one day and you think I’m throwing my future away.”

I’m on my feet and packing my violin in its case before she’s able to process the fact that I have just raised my voice to her for the first time ever. I’m so emotionally tired that I just want to go home. Squeezing past her in the doorway, I mumble something about having to be perfect all the time and stomp down the hall and into the street.

It’s so hot already, and the smell of tacos from the Mexican restaurant next door mixed with car exhaust is nauseating. Beads of sweat are forming on my forehead when Mama catches up with me.

“Are you sick, honey?” She presses the back of her hand against my cheek and I brush her away.

“I’m fine. It’s just hot out here. Can we please just go home?”

Her arm drops to her side and she narrows her eyes to look at me . . . hard. She’s off balance. My attitude sucks right now, and for once I wish I hadn’t always been so damn good. If I had thrown in an occasional hissy fit or misbehaved a few times, this wouldn’t be so hard.

“Yes, okay. Let's go.” She pinches her lips together and stalks down the hill to our car. I follow and watch her as she robotically gets into the driver’s seat while I put my violin in the back. She’s really pissed, but I’ve got too much on my plate right now to worry about out apologizing, and I sorta don’t want to anyway.

* * *

At home, I trudge upstairs to my room and Mama goes in the opposite direction to the kitchen to start dinner. When I close the door and lean my back against it, the tears I’ve been holding back for hours fill my eyes. I wrap my arms around my waist, trying to hold myself together. The scene in the bathroom this morning with King engulfs my mind. His angry face and stern voice saying we need to talk, the pain in his eyes when he pulled back the shower curtain, and finally the way his body shook in my arms when he broke down and cried.

It’s like a modern day Romeo and Juliet, except it’s not our families keeping us apart; it’s our age difference and drugs.

I stumble across the room and climb in bed, burying my face in my pillow. The more I cry, the worse I feel. Isn’t crying supposed to help relieve the pain, heal the heart? Well if it is, I’m doing it wrong, because after a solid hour of sobbing like somebody just died, all I feel is exhausted. My head hurts, and my eyes are so swollen that I can hardly see when I roll onto my back and stare at my ceiling fan circling slowly overhead. I single out one blade and follow it around and around with my eyes and remember how cool I used to think that was. One blade can look so clear and obvious when it’s the only thing you’re looking at, but when you lose track of it, they all blend together again. I’ve taken my eyes off of my dream of becoming a professional violinist, and now it’s spinning out of control, lost like that damn blade.

A soft knock on the door pulls me from my fan metaphor. Shit, Mama can’t see me like this. But she never knocks. Maybe it’s Savannah. I can’t risk it, so I very quietly slip from the bed and pad across the floor into the bathroom and close the door before saying ‘come in’.

“Honey? I’ve got sweet tea and Lorna Doones.”

Sweet tea and Lorna Doones cookies. She’s trying to make up. Time to pack my bags, because I’m going on a guilt trip.

“I was just going to shower.” My face is pressed against the door, and I squeeze my swollen eyes shut and grit my teeth while I wait for her to decide if she’s going to let me have my space or be stubborn and stand her ground until I come out.

“Okay . . . I’ll leave them right here. I have to run an errand. I’ll be home in a half hour. Are you okay?”

Thank God, she chose space. I’m spent, and I don’t think I could handle guilt on top of heartbreak today.

“Thanks, Mama. I’m just going to study for a while. Love you,” I call through the door. When I hear her leave, I slide down into a heap on the floor. I don’t want a shower. I may never shower again without having traumatic flashbacks. I’m too weak to get up, so I curl up into a ball on the floor and try to think about nothing, like a blank white wall, empty space, eternal nothingness.

“Holland?” I feel the door gently nudge against my back, and I open my eyes. When I blink and see the furry fibers of the rug from my bathroom floor up close and personal, my heart accelerates and I sit up. Mama. Shit.

“You like never pass up sweet tea and Lorna Doones, woman. What are you doing in here?” I hear Savannah say and slump against the door.

“Hey, you’re smashing me here.”

“Sorry.” I scoot away so she can open the door. Her eyes pop when she sees me, but for once, she doesn’t comment on my lack of makeup, sad looking hair, and puffy eyes. Taking a seat on the toilet, she hands me the tepid glass of sweet tea, but I shake my head. I’m not sure it would stay down if I drank it.

“Well I’m not wasting a perfectly good glass of sweet tea,” she says, taking a big gulp and setting it on the vanity.

“I saw your mom leave and tried to call you. When you didn’t answer after like fifty calls and a hundred texts, I decided to come over here and make sure you were okay. So I guess you’re not okay, huh?” I shake my head again.

“I was a bitch to my mama at practice today, you know . . . just to make sure I was completely miserable.”

“Ah, hence the tea and cookies.” Savannah narrows her eyes at the tea.

“Yep.”

“Can I do anything?” She reaches out to put her hand on my shoulder, and the warmth of her hand brings the water works again. When a sob catches in my throat, she kneels down on the floor and wraps her arms around me, shushing and smoothing my crazy bird nest hair against my back.

“Come on, let’s get you back to bed.” Savannah guides me to my feet and back to my room. When she tucks the blanket under my chin like a toddler, I make a twisted sort of laugh/cry sound and she giggles.

“You’re such a baby.” She rolls her eyes, but I know she’s teasing. Anyone can see I’m suffering.

“I know. Pathetic, huh?” I swipe the tears that are about to trickle into my ears off of my face and crack a smile. Only Savannah could make me smile right now. She knows what to say and how to say it like nobody else.

“So we need to make a plan. Let’s make a list of things that will help you feel better and forget ol’ what’s his name.”

“I think I’ve had just about enough of your lists, and King is pretty hard to forget.”

Savannah sits on the bed, tucking her leg under her butt, and chews her thumbnail—a nasty habit I’ve tried to get her to quit forever. I look at her thumb with raised brows, and she shoves her hands into her lap. With one nervous habit under control, another surfaces, and her knee begins bouncing up and down.

“You’re gonna make me sea sick,” I say. She jumps up with a huff and starts pacing back and forth at the foot of my bed.

“I can’t help it. I feel responsible for this whole thing, and I can’t figure out how to fix it.”

“It’s not your fault. I told you I had choices, and I made the wrong ones. There’s no fixing this, it’s over no matter what we feel. We’re six years apart in age, and more importantly, what he does for a living is incredibly illegal.” It sounds so logical when I say it out loud, so simple and straightforward, but inside my heart it’s anything but.

“Okay, so what do we do?” she asks.

“Homework.”

“Homework?”

“Yeah, normal old regular homework. Go home and get your computer and your backpack. We need to study for finals.”

She stops pacing and scratches the top of her head with one finger.

“Okay, I’ll be right back.”

And the first of hopefully many normal, boring evenings begins when she returns. We spread out our binders and folders full of papers from our last year of high school. Savannah and I started kindergarten late. We have always been the oldest in our class, and we are the only two graduating at nineteen, going on twenty.

Savannah starts off strong studying, but she ends up scrolling through Facebook and Pinterest, stopping every minute or so to laugh and show me a funny meme or quote. I roll my puffy eyes and try to cram a million facts and figures into my head in hopes that it will shove out the memories of King. As soon as she’s packed up and gone, he creeps back in like a thief, stealing the relief I was starting to feel, and the raw, open hole in my heart is exposed and bleeding again.