"I can't do with Holloway today," Kenji vents. "Can't we just dip?"
I gawk at him. "Ditch school?"
He gives me a jaded look, eyes thinning with shallow irritation. "Yes, Saint Amara. We can come back just before math period. C'mon, just this once. I'm dead tired."
I shake my head tentatively. "Then take a nap when you get home. I'm not ditching."
We go against the torrent of busy students, shouldering past people to get to my locker.
"Are we at least we're taking the drive out for the festival? Alexia is even game to join."
"I can't. I'm going to the orphanage this weekend."
He gives me an exaggerated eye roll. "It's not this weekend, Mother Teresa. It's the weekend before my mom's birthday. Can you come to that or will you be too busy achieving world peace?"
I pull a face at him. "Yes, I can go to both." I open my locker. "I was only saying that this weekend is out—"
Alarmed, I whip the door close, leaving it narrowly ajar.
Kenji doesn't take notice, ranting on, "Good, cause you know I need you there."
"And you know I'll be there."
His attention fastens on my hand on the door.
I divert it back to me. "Hey, I'll see you in class. I just gotta stop at the bathroom. I can feel the red sea parting if you know what I mean."
He grimaces before realization wipes away his disgust. "Liar, you ended your period last week. I know because you stopped bitchin about the pain."
"You really want to argue with me about what I'm going to do in the bathroom?"
His eyes widen. "See you in class."
He disappears past me.
Once he's fully out of range. I fling the door back open. The metal shelves are overflowing with red roses, hiding all my textbooks. And at the base of the tall gap beneath the shelves is a woven gift basket bursting with all kinds of packaged goodies—a note stuck to the elaborate wrapping.
I pluck it off.
I won't stop until you talk to me.
¬¬¬
"Amara."
My eyes flutter, reuniting with reality. My father is seated on the leather armchair, behind his furnished mahogany desk.
"What has been going on with you lately?"
Vaulting over the whole truth, I muse a half-lie. "Was thinking about my recital."
He leans back into his seat, frustration warding off his worry. "I was there."
"For the end of it."
"But I was there," he says again, firmer this time. "And I saw and heard what I needed to, and you were remarkable, baby. You don't need me to tell you when you had an entire auditorium cheering for you."
I quirk my brows. "Can I see the report?"
He hands me the dense bundle of papers. I flick through it, assessing the new policies.
"You know how some members make the decision-making process difficult. But the vote for this was unanimous. We're just missing one thing."
"Funding," I say flatly. I look up at him. "Can't the Kings bankroll these projects?"
"It's his generous donations that's been keeping everything afloat. And frankly, still keeping me in power. I need a new investor. This town needs it."
We trade disheartened looks. I try to reassure him with a smile.
"I'm ready for tomorrow's announcement."
He nods with thoughtful thankfulness. "Good, at least those environmental schemes will assuage their anger and hopefully inspire patience."
I scoff bitterly. "People like Montoya are not making it easy."
His smile pierces the gloom. "I saw the interview. You managed her with expert charm." He gives me a considering look, then nods with certitude. "I think you're bred for politics. Just like your old man."
I snort. "So I can be a mayor like you?"
"Greater than me. You have the potential to obtain a much higher rank in government."
I shrug indifferently. "Maybe in another life, but in this one, I'm pursuing my music."
He fixes on a prim smile. "Baby girl, you are talented, but cello is a glorified hobby. Do you really want to build a career doing just that?"
Confusion screws my face into a frown. "It's all I want to do," I say too softly. Louder, pouring conviction into my words, I say, "I'm want to be a cellist."
"And what, play in an orchestra for all your life? Baby, you have too much potential for that." He moves himself forward to plant his elbows on the verge of the desk. "I'm not saying abandon your music. I'm saying diversify. You can play on the side. But you can't abandon your social and civic duty either. You do enjoy helping people, right?"
I concede a nod. "Of course I do."
"You could take that to a national—hell—even an international level. You could go big in the public sector, work your way up and get an ambassadorship. Your only limit is yourself." He reaches for his draw, sliding it halfway out. Then he hands me the pamphlet. "I know you've had your heart set on Berklee, but Princeton has an exceptional international relations and economics program. It has a broad assortment of contemporary international theory and it touches on the global political economy."
"Pops..."
He lifts a diplomatic hand. "I'm not asking you to choose. I'm just giving you options. You can still revel in your music, but you can be something else, too. There's no denying that you have a heart of a servant. I think the world could use someone like you."
My response is a resigned to a cumbersome shrug.
He liberates a sigh. "Do you know what your name means?"
"God is my refuge."
He rewards me with a finger-point. "It has both German and Hebrew origins. But the Hebraic meaning translates to 'noble one'. After your granddaddy died, it was hard on you. You two had an unshakeable bond even at your tender age." He looks away with a coy smile. "I must admit, I was jealous. When your mom recommended you pick up music, she foisted those piano lessons on you, and you hated it."
I break into a small smile.
"But the first time you touched the cello. There was a cosmic connection. Now, I'm not undermining your talent or what it has done for you. I'm just saying that there's more to you, more of you to be and to give."
¬¬¬
My father concludes his speech. And it's met with a thunderous applause.
I strut down to stand before the podium. An explosion of camera flashes erupts in my face, barely able to see the multitude of microphones jutted right at me. When the raucous fades, my eyes survey the mass of gathered townspeople, the police officers lining the rims. A pair of dark eyes grabs my gaze. Dread seizes a breath from my lungs. Vanko Chernenko in the flesh, posted at the front-lines near the blockade of policemen. He stares back at me with deadly calm, hands shoved in his jacket pockets with cold casualness.
C (open string)
D (first finger on the A string)
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A (first finger on the D string)
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"My father, Mayor Smith, and the rest of administrative c—council," I stutter. I never stutter. "They—they—uh have begun transformative plans for the new go-green initiatives. Such as the creation of nature-based solutions," I blurt, so I don't have a chance of stumbling over the words again.
Scattered whispers ripple through the crowd, people leaning into one another, troubled faces looking back at me. Blinking rapidly like I'm completely malfunctioning, I shake my head, trying to stave off whatever this is. Words form in my throat only to meet death in my mouth. My throat runs dry, becoming an arid tunnel. My eyes find a friendly face. Larry stands by a small security team with his hands clasped in front of him, loaning me comfort with a heartfelt smile and an encouraging nod.
"And—uh—"
C (open string)
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It's not helping! Why is it not helping?
My breaths come out choppy and fast. I glance down at my trembling fingers digging into the thin slab of the bulging wood, meant to keep documents from slipping off the slanted face of the podium.
"Beginning with launching the schemes on sustainable urban transport." My father sidles my flank, easing me by the shoulders, swapping us out. "As well as urban forestry and promoting smart energy policies to encourage the use of non-renewable resources to mitigate the town's carbon footprint."
My mother draws me back to her side, looping her arm around mine.
Under a spell of light-headedness, I try to regulate my unstable breathing, but I'm failing miserably. My chest rising and falling erratically. What the hell is happening to me? The searing sun above only intensifies my hot flashes, wanting desperately to push my mom away, but I don't. I can't. On the brink of tears because I feel like I'm losing control over my own body in front of a crowd of people.
Through a picture-perfect smile, mama says, "Amara, baby, are you alright?"
I nod, knowing full well that my voice would betray me.
An hour passes before the event culminates. Whilst my parents conclude things with the press, I take a walk to the private parking on the flank meant only for the councilmen.
"Amara."
I come to a stuttering stop.
Oh, God no.
I turn around glacially.
A dread-inducing smile slices his face open. "I think you know what I'm going to say next."
My eyes start burning from not blinking.
His brows crinkle. "What, only big-mouthed when you talk behind a screen?"
My eyes find the floor, seeking refuge from his eyes. "What do you want?" I squeak.
He tilts forward mockingly. "Speak up. I hate it when people mumble."
My eyes clench close for a second. In one fell swoop, I'm no longer what the town perceives me to be. In the face of Vanko, I'm reduced to nothing but that spineless and helpless little girl.
Vanko injects gentleness into his voice. "I just want to talk."
"Then talk."
He gestures to our surroundings. "Here?"
I say nothing.
He releases an explosive breath. "Okay. I wanted to say that I'm sorry."
Any illusion of stability I held on to disintegrates. I suck in a wobbly breath, stepping away from him only to come back again, forcing myself to face this.
"Why?"
"I moved back so—"
"Why are you sorry?"
He restrains his annoyance, a hint of heat in his eyes. "Because my cousins and I were just messin around way back then. It was all a joke. And by your deer-in-headlights reaction to me. I'm guessing you didn't take it that way."
My sanity teeters on the precipice. "A joke?"
"Yeah," he says flippantly. "A joke."
"Well, did you see me laugh?"
His face steels into a daunting look. Dread blooms in my gut but I don't let it stop me.
"I didn't find you harassing me, funny. I didn't find you knocking me around, throwing slurs at me, funny." The thought of Kenji drives me over the cliff. My chest tightening with outrage. Unleashing only a slither of long-simmering rage that I've kept bottled for a decade. "And I didn't find you beating up my best friend. Funny. You punk ass bitch."
Shell-shocked, I retreat a step. Beyond mortified.
He looks back at me with a glint of intrigue in his eyes, like he's marginally impressed.
His plump lips peel back into a ravishing smirk. "Filthy words for a pretty mouth."
"I'm sorry—," I blurt. I nearly thwack my head. "No, I'm not! Take your 'sorry' and go. I want nothing to do with you."
I spin around, walking away briskly.
"Amara."
This time, he goes after me.
He catches my wrist—a scalding surge shoots through me, jerking me around with mild force.
"How do you know what's going inside my head?"
"I'm sure it's just echoes." I wrench my hand away, wide-eyed, coddling my wrist to my chest. "Empty as hell because you must be dumb as hell if you think I'm going to believe a word you say."
"Amara."
I look past Vanko. He swivels around. Larry marches up to me urgently.
"You okay?"
I wait a moment before I submit a nod. "I am now."
"Your mom said I should take you home. They're going to be a bit longer than expected."
Larry examines the black-clad teenager that's taller than him.
Vanko returns his scrutiny with a smug grin.
"I'll be seeing you around," he says, then walks off.