Wild Reckless Page 32

  Once we hit the field, it’s just like any other Friday—Willow atop a small ladder, her arms keeping a steady beat that we all seem to be perpetually a hint behind. What’s different about today though is how everyone in the stands is paying attention. People are actually cheering—people from other schools, either already having gone or waiting to perform. They’re supportive, appreciative, and when they whisper to one another between songs, I can tell they’re competitive.

  Willow was right—this…feels…awesome!

  It seems like it takes us only minutes to pack up after the performance, and soon we’re in the stands, waiting for the final two schools to perform. Owen stays, sitting behind me, his legs on either side of me, his arms wrapped around my body, keeping me warm. We were allowed to change out of our uniforms after the performance, but most of us left our shirts on, wanting to feel like a team.

  The award ceremony drags on, with awards for dozens of categories. Willow is beaming because she received a medal of distinction for drum major.

  “She does wave her arms with excellent precision,” Owen jokes in my ear. I elbow him because Jess is close, but when I hear Jess laugh, I ease up on Owen.

  We’re all amused because every time our school is called for an award, Willow has to step forward, saluting, then she walks over to the master of ceremonies to shake his hand and take our trophy. We end up winning six, including Willow’s and a third-place overall finish. Jess rushes down to the field to help her carry them all.

  “I have to admit, that was kind of cool,” Owen says during our walk from the stadium to the parking lot. We stop at Willow’s car, and Owen pulls out the bag holding my uniform. “Is it cool if I drive you home? It’ll be four or so by the time we get home. I’d like to take you to dinner.”

  “Dinner’s good. I never did get my steak,” I tease, standing on the tips of my toes to kiss him.

  “I’m pretty sure you made out all right,” he says, rolling his hands down my back, to my ass and pulling me to him closely. I blush and look to see who’s watching, but the moment his lips hit my neck, I care a whole lot less.

  “I don’t know, I really wanted a steak,” I joke, and Owen spanks me once, squeezing his hand hard on my cheek.

  “You sure about that?” he winks. I nod no, because…no, I’m not. In fact I might forgo eating for days for more nights with Owen. If only I could erase everything that happened the day after.

  Willow packs the trophies in the backseat of her car, promising Mr. Brody that she’ll bring them to school on Monday. Owen and I wait for them to drive away before walking to his truck.

  “Hey,” he says, tugging on my arm, taking a step back before letting me climb inside. “Can I take you somewhere in the city? Like, on a real date? Would that be okay?”

  “You sure?” I ask, knowing how expensive places in the city are. Owen doesn’t have the money to do something like this, but he’s looking at me with such excitement, I can’t just outright say no.

  “Positive. I have a place in mind,” he says, his eyes lowered, giving me that look that would make me follow him anywhere. I nod okay, and Owen opens my door, waiting while I climb in and buckle the seatbelt before closing it for me.

  I haven’t driven in southern Illinois since I was a kid, so most of the things we pass aren’t familiar to me. Most of the state looks the same—lush and green in the summer, and thick of dead leaves and stickily trees in the winter. But there’s something beautiful about the usual today, and I let my eyes glaze over as I watch the rays of sunshine flash in and out of the thick branches as we rush by.

  The constant hum of his engine draws me in, and somewhere along the way, I slip into a short slumber, not waking up until I feel Owen push the gearshift into park then reach behind his seat, pulling out a heavy plastic bag.

  I stretch my arms and look around, doing my best to adjust my body’s clock, to recognize my surroundings. The gothic buildings orient me immediately, and I flash to Owen, the look on my face panicked.

  It’s panic punching me from the inside out right now; I know it is. Why did he bring me here? Why are we here? This isn’t a date!

  “Owen!” I start unclicking my buckle, even though I have no intention of leaving this truck.

  “Hold on! Before you get all…Kensi on me. Listen to me. Please, just listen to me. And if I don’t make any sense, I promise we will drive right out of this parking lot and I will take you to the best steakhouse in the city,” he says, crossing a finger over his chest, his other palm flat toward me, as if warning he comes in peace.

  Crap—he’s coming in peace!

  My body deflates in retaliation, but I lift my chin enough to look at him, to stare him in the eyes while he pleads his case.

  “I know you think you don’t want this. And…and,” he raises his hand to stop me from interrupting, my rebuttal stammering at the tip of my tongue. I let it simmer longer. I owe Owen a listen; he’s right. “In the end, you might be right. Maybe…maybe…you won’t want this. But I kinda think you do, Kensi. And if you don’t try, if you don’t at least just see this through, look inside that door, you will regret it. You are so gifted, and unlike me, you have options.”

  “Owen, you have options, too,” I start, but he grabs my hand quickly and holds it, shaking it lightly and smiling.

  “That’s not what I meant,” he says, his lips curve into a smile against my wrist as he holds it to him. “I’m good with where I am, Kens. I’m all right with not being able to have everything. When I play ball, it’s purely recreation for me. It’s not a dream. It’s not this thing that I always thought about doing for a living. It’s an escape. It’s the way I lose myself, take control, be someone else, for just a few hours,” he smiles.

  His head falls to the side, against his headrest, his leg propped up along the seat. He lowers my hand in his and presses it flat against my leg, resting his palm over mine. “I’ve seen you. No…not just that…I’ve heard you, Kensi. I’ve felt you when you play, when you lose yourself so completely to that piano. For you, it’s different. And for you, this is something that could mean the rest of your life. And you might not think you want it now, but Kens, believe me, when something’s gone—” he swallows hard, his jaw flexing, his eyes struggling. “When something’s gone that you love, and you start thinking about how much you didn’t appreciate it when it was here…that shit will poison you. And I’ll be damned if I’m not going to try to save you from that.”

  To my left, out the window, is the main music hall for the University of Chicago. I know those steps. I’ve climbed them for years. There’s a small hallway to the right, as soon as you enter, and it dips down, below ground, to a long line of offices and practice rooms. It’s where I play with Chen. It’s a place I haven’t been in months.

  And Owen’s right about one thing; not going, missing it—my time with Chen—it gnaws at my insides when I let it in.

  I draw in a deep breath, the heat from Owen’s truck mixing with the coolness of the glass window by my face. I look back at him, his eyes hopeful. I want to do this, maybe more for him than me. And maybe for me, too.

  “I don’t have anything to wear,” I say, looking down at the silly band shirt and jeans I have on. Owen pulls the plastic bag up to his lap, sliding it over to me, inside a plain black dress and a simple pair of black ballet flats. It’s exactly what I would have picked on my own.

  “I scoped out your closet before I left your room last night. And yes, I had to tell your mom what I was up to when I stopped by your house this morning to get this. But don’t worry; she’s not coming. I told her I had to trick you into coming, and her being here would probably scare you away,” he says.

  He’s right. It would have.

  “My time’s at four o’clock,” I say, looking at my watch. It’s a little after three thirty.

  “I know,” he says, his head now resting along his arm, against the back of his seat. His jaw is rough, his beard showing more than it usually does.


  “Will you come in with me?” I ask, the bag of clothes held close to my chest.

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” he says, a smile so soft, so honest, it makes me believe that maybe I can do anything.

  I lead Owen through the corridor, to the hallway bathroom I’m familiar with, and I change quickly. I’m glad Owen brought what he did. Anything…more and I would feel uncomfortable. The only thing I need to work past now is the growing nerves threatening to derail the strength and control in my hands. Owen notices them trembling, reaches down, and threads his fingers slowly through mine as we stand along a sparse hallway, the applicant before me staring at the crack in the auditorium door, waiting for it to open, for someone to welcome her inside.

  Once she enters, I squeeze Owen’s hand harder, looking to my right, to the long wooden bench, and the two boys who have sat down, each of them dressed in a suit.

  I pull my hand from Owen’s briefly, blowing on my palms, trying to make the sweat stop. Please, for five minutes, just stop!

  “Miss Worth?” There’s a young woman standing in front of me now, clipboard in her hand, the list of names on it—long.

  I smile and let go of Owen, wiping my hands along the skirt of my dress and passing through the doors with him, watching to see just where he sits. I notice Chen at the main table in the center of the auditorium as I pass through the rows of seats. He doesn’t smile at first, but when nobody else is looking, he raises his thumb and winks.

  I needed that—more than he’ll ever know.

  “Miss Worth, what will you be playing today?” a man with a graying beard and glasses pushed to the tip of his nose asks.

  Clearing my throat, I flex my fingers, searching for the memory of everything I know. I know this. I know I know this.

  “Rachmaninoff Piano Concerto No. 2,” I say, my voice losing its confidence the moment the sound of it hits the airy stage, the vastness around me swallowing me whole.

  “Very well. Begin,” the main man says. I move to the piano, possibly the nicest one I’ve ever seen, and smooth the wrinkles on my dress. Looking down, I search for the pedals, placing my feet in familiar positions, finding my comfort. I close my eyes and run my hands once in opposite directions, just as I do every time, until I come back to center, and my hands find their natural groove.

  It’s there; that sensation, the one that tells my fingers they are home. I don’t open my eyes at first, instead just letting my mind take me back to my room in the city, the practice room that used to feel like home. The sound from my hands—it feels like that home, like my old life, and the longer I play, the more of the Concerto I complete, the more my mouth tastes funny. I’m hitting the right notes, everything coming out just as it should. But what’s missing is the passion.

  My stop is abrupt, my fingers recoiling into my fists, my eyes flashing open—thoughts of Owen, of Willow, of my life now, the good and the bad, surrounding me.

  “Miss Worth?” There’s a throat-clearing sound. They aren’t happy. I’m pretty sure this is how someone blows an audition. But I can’t continue to play something that I just don’t feel.

  “I…I’m sorry. I’ve changed my mind,” I say, my eyes searching for Owen. He’s leaning forward in a far seat, his elbows propped on his legs, his head tilted to the side. He’s afraid—worried that I’m quitting, giving up. But I’m not. I’m just doing this on my terms.

  “If it’s all right, I’d like to begin again?” I ask, my fingers finding one another, fretting…maybe hoping a little too that they will get the chance to show everyone exactly what they can do.

  “You may,” the speaker says, his tone growing more tired with me.

  Deep breath.

  “Thank you,” I say, retaking my seat and looking at the expanse of keys before me, the pattern, the way the black and white lines dance. I’m going to make them dance. I rest my hands loosely, nothing like this room full of professors would wish me to, but…I. Don’t. Care. “This is C Jam Blues, written by the great Duke Ellington. I’m going to be playing it as inspired by Oscar Peterson. I hope you enjoy.”

  When I turn to face the keys again, I smirk, my stomach settling, and my heart soaring. I don’t even remember hearing the sounds my hands make. This moment, the five minutes I play and pound, smiling the entire time—it’s like recess. I’m on one big life recess, and I never want to come back.

  I never bother to look, just playing on, dragging out a few of the jazz riffs, some of the repetitions, a few more times than necessary. I do it because I can tell everyone is hanging on every single note I’m playing. They won’t admit it—but I have them. I have them because this…this is what my hands were meant to do. What I’m meant to do.

  When I’m done, I feel euphoric, and I stand, the bench screeching along the floor as I move it out of my way. “Thank you,” I say, stepping to the side exit, down the steps to the end of the hallway where Owen is now waiting for me.

  I’m worried he’s going to be mad, maybe disappointed, but he rushes to me, sweeping me into his arms and twirling me around the tiny hallway, his kiss proof that what I did in there—Owen liked it too.

  “That was fucking fantastic. I mean, holy shit, Kens! Did you see those guys? They had no idea what to do with you. I mean, I don’t know how they work these things, or how they score that shit, but damn, girl!” His celebration is enough, and I tuck myself along his side, the plastic bag with my jeans and band clothes dangling from Owen’s other hand.

  We climb the small steps up the narrow hallway, my hand on the door I’ve pushed through so many times. Chen bursts through the opposite side of the hallway, his eyes finding mine right away, his face proud and beaming.

  “Ohhhhhh Kensington,” he’s nearly weeping, and I can see the surprise in Owen’s face as this man, probably in his sixties, brushes Owen aside, hugging me as if I’m his own daughter. “So proud. You make me…so proud,” he says, his hands on my cheeks, pushing in tightly. I can see in his eyes that he’s genuinely happy for me, and I can also see that I blew any chance I might have of joining their program.

  And Chen and I couldn’t care less.

  I introduce him to Owen quickly, and their handshake is fast and awkward before Chen rushes back inside. I breathe easy for the two hours it takes to drive through the city, to Owen’s driveway. Owen asks me questions about Chen along the way, about my lessons with him, about my underground lessons—the times we knew my father wasn’t around, wouldn’t hear. I talk about how Chen made me love jazz, my chest alive and full and anxious for more.

  I want to run through the streets of our neighborhood when I skip from Owen’s truck, making noises in celebration just to hear them echo off of the dark houses around us. The moon is out, and still the stars are bright—a pairing that shouldn’t happen. And I want to dance, for hours, out here in the freezing cold in Owen’s arms. The way he’s looking at me, the wonder in his face, it spurs me on, drawing me to him.

  And then there’s a crack in his façade. My feet stop before him, his arms catching me, his fingers fumbling for mine, teasing the ends, never quite holding on completely.

  “What?” I ask, every drop of elation in my body from before now exchanged for dread.

  “I’m moving to Iowa,” he says, and all I hear is the humming of the blood passing along my eardrum. The color is gone from my body, and the strength is failing my legs. “I know. God, Kens, I’m so sorry. To tell you now…this way…after your night—”

  “Why?” I cry, holding my fist to my mouth. I hold it there for several seconds, my lip quivering underneath, until the tingling in my lip is so strong that I know I won’t be able to hide how this is all making me feel.

  “Kens…it’s all been too much. It’s just…it’s too much for me, for my mom. And Andrew. We’re underwater with the house, but if we sell it, the bank has agreed to wipe the slate clean. My mom is going to look for something cheaper, maybe an apartment. And then the extra money from her check will pay for my grandpa,” he’s speaking so fast; h
is words don’t even make sense.

  “What happens in Iowa? Why can’t you stay here?” I take a step back, my feet pounding the pavement like a child. I’m embarrassed how it looks, but I’m so afraid of what this means. I’m losing Owen. I just got him, and already…he’s gone.

  “My uncle lives there. My dad’s brother? He owns a print shop, and I’m going to work for him. I’ll be able to send some money to Mom, and I’ll be able to save for college. The shop isn’t much right now, but he says in a few years, he’ll leave it to me, retire. I…I could make that place into something maybe. There’s a great school there for Andrew, and he’ll be away from this…at least for a little while. When my mom gets settled, maybe if she’s able to find a place big enough, he’ll move back,” Owen says.

  He’ll move back.

  I keep my head to the side, my eyes piercing him, my nostrils flaring. Owen can’t say anything to take this feeling away, and the longer he stands there, his arms to his sides, his expression just as broken as my heart, the more I want to cry.

  “I have a few weeks,” he says. “Tonight, let’s celebrate you. I don’t want to think about the other stuff anymore.” He steps to me in small movements, treating me like a deer caught in the sights of his gun. Owen…he’s the hunter. And I am dead, my heart broken and time no longer relevant.

  Chapter 21

  We haven’t talked about Iowa again. It’s coming. I can tell. Owen’s mom had a realtor to the house on Monday after school. I walked by them at the table on my way up to Owen’s room. Owen and me—we never mentioned it.

  On Tuesday they told Andrew their plan. He’s about as happy about it as I am. I came over when they were sitting in the living room, after dinner. Andrew walked out in the middle of their talk saying, “I fucking hate Iowa!”

  We passed each other through the doorway; Andrew never looked at me.