Very Twisted Things
Page 37

I didn’t play for grief or loss or even for Sebastian. I played for Violet. Me.
And it was good. Euphoric.
The next morning, I drove to Lyons Place and parked in the front. I got out of my car and went inside on unsteady legs. Mrs. Smythe, a longtime friend of my parents, met me at the door and shook my hand. She’d been the perfect choice to oversee the everyday operations of the hundred-bed facility, and I was glad I’d chosen her.
She gazed at me and patted my hand. “Are you ready? If you are, they’re all waiting for you in the cafeteria.”
I nodded and followed her, muscles rigid, a cold sweat popping out on my skin.
“What do I say?” I gasped out, barely able to talk as we approached a door where I could already hear the low rumble of kids’ voices behind it. My heart was banging in my chest and my tapping was out of control.
“Tell them your story, Violet, or don’t. They pass no judgment. They’ve all got their own demons, and knowing that you’ve been through the same things they have—it means something.”
I lifted my violin from its case. Stroked the soft wood. “May I—may I play for them?”
“Of course, my dear,” she said.
And so, I walked into the cafeteria that I’d helped design. On the back wall was a mural of the lion at Central Park, his big slumbering eyes golden and full of mystery as a comet zoomed overhead. On the right side was a portrait of my parents. Not a formal one where you’d sit down in front of a photographer, but a casual shot of my dad messing around with his guitar, and my mom gazing at him adoringly. And there I was—sitting on a chair watching them, wearing the soft smile of a girl with fairy dust in her heart.
It was a moment of frozen happiness.
I took a giant breath and looked into the eyes of the kids who waited for me. They stared and I stared back, fighting the panic, and for the first time … winning.
In a low, halting voice I talked about my parents.
“My father only had one goal in life and that was to make my mother happy. She was only happy when she was helping others. They took me to Africa, the Ukraine, even China … and through all of our adventures, the lesson they taught me was simple: I was an extremely lucky girl, but I was not the only person in the world, and that we only truly know ourselves when we give back. When they died, I—I forgot that for a while. Their legacy and that lesson is why I’m here today. For two years it was the one reason I never could take my own life.” I inhaled. “So today, I’m here to commit myself to Lyons Place and make it a home worthy of you.”
Silence followed my speech.
And then, among the artifacts of my past, I lifted my violin and played for them.
“Sometimes reaching your dreams isn’t all you’d thought it would be.”
—Sebastian Tate
“PUT YOUR FINGERS here for the C note,” I instructed Kevin, one of the students at Lyons Place as we sat in the music room. About six other students sat around in a circle, all of them here for their second guitar lesson.
I glanced over at Spider, who was helping another group of wide-eyed students in another part of the room. Truth be told, the brass son of a bitch looked quite at home as he pranced around in his blue ensemble, explaining how to hold your instrument.
When I’d come home from my initial visit with Mrs. Smythe and had told him about the place, he’d been surprisingly enthused. Of course, I’d given him a pep talk this morning about his language and behavior before we’d arrived. So far, he’d been clean and chipper. Thank goodness, Mrs. Smythe had been on board with him too. Turns out her husband was English, so she’d been quite taken with him.
Kevin adjusted the guitar and strummed out a basic chord. The music reverberated through the room and I grinned. “Not bad,” I said and showed him the next one by placing his fingers where they were supposed to be. “We’ll have you playing like Stevie Ray Vaughan before you know it.”
He turned red, and I clapped him on the shoulders. “What’s wrong, man?”
“You-you-you’re actually teaching me to pl-play the guitar,” he stuttered. “It’s the coolest th-thing ever.”
I smiled, careful to not interrupt his stumbling words. Mrs. Smythe had given me the low-down on how to handle his speech impediment last week as well as explaining how he’d lost his mom in a house fire years before. He was ten years old with fuzzy red hair and a big hopeful smile. His enthusiasm was infectious.
“You’re a natural, Kev.”
He straightened his shoulders at my praise. “I-I really want to si-sing,” he pushed out. “Be fa-famous like you. When I sing, I don’t stu-stutter. Gi-girls will like me then.”
I squeezed his shoulder. Dude. Been there.
“We can do that, no problem. Chicks dig guys who sing, but being famous isn’t all it's cracked up to be, ya know? It comes with a downside too. Sometimes just being yourself is all it takes to get the girl.” I tossed him a grin and flipped through some of the music I’d brought along with me.
“Do y-you have a gi-girlfriend?”
My mind went straight to V, and I blinked, feeling that familiar pang I got when I thought of her. I hadn’t seen her since the coffee shop two weeks prior. I watched her house each night, of course, scouring her property to look for any sign of her, but she hadn’t been playing outside except for once, nor had she been dropping by to make us green drinks. Her car was often gone from her circle drive, too, and it was killing me wondering where she was. Mila assured me she hadn’t left for New York with Geoff. I was glad for that at least.