I wanted to scream at my former self: You don’t even know what’s important! You have no handle on things! Wake up! I cringed when I thought of how our biggest fight had been over how he hadn’t texted me when he told me he would one night. Not over anything actually important, like when he became frustrated with me when I tried to talk to him about music, about deeper things, about dreams and the future, about life and what it meant to me.
I thought of the concert when I had first played Requiem . It was my debut with the Chicago Junior Symphony. When I got offstage, Cody had met me with one red rose, and he looked all handsome and preppy in his khakis and collared shirt. “What did you think?” I asked, still a little out of breath and existing on that other plane, the one where I didn’t just play music, I played emotion, life, possibility.
“Great,” he said, kissing me on the cheek. He bounced on his heels. He checked his cell phone. I still had goose bumps, feeling the magic of the music, right there, coursing under my skin. “We can still meet up with everybody downtown if we hurry.” He yanked on my elbow.
“Oh,” I said, “yeah.” I forced a smile and hurried out with my friends.
Because I knew he was just being Cody. He was popularand hot. A good prank partner. For his senior prom, we won king and queen, and we went up to the podium wearing those goofy glasses with the big noses and mustaches. We dressed up as Fred and Daphne from Scooby-Doo for Halloween. We sailed on the weekends on Lake Michigan with his parents. We went to all the fun parties. He made me cooler, more popular, and, fluck, he was fun.
But he didn’t get me. I knew that even then, and it made me feel shallow.
I shook the memories away. Annaliese had tried after Sophie. She had tried. Cody had given up easily. And I had not been surprised. I had pushed them both away. I had pushed everyone away.
I grabbed my phone, finally working up the courage to call Mia-Joy. When she answered, I broke down. “I’m so sorry, Mia-Joy.”
“I know, Corrine. It’s okay.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t speak to you at the funeral or that I—”
“Really. It’s okay.” And Mia-Joy sounded so fine. She sounded honest and forgiving. She always was.
“At the cemetery, we shared stories about her. Celebrated her life,” Mia-Joy said. “I missed you there. You would’ve liked it, I think.”
“Celebrated her life,” I repeated. And I tried to hold on to that phrase.
Mia-Joy told me some of the funny stories that people shared about Granny Lucy when she was younger, teachinghigh school typing, how she used to slap kids’ knuckles with a ruler if they weren’t paying attention. How she used to wear her hair in cornrows, enough beads at the ends of them to make music every time she turned her head. I laughed with Mia-Joy and let her talk. She went on and on, and I listened, glad that I could at least do that for her.
“I should go,” she said after a long while, sighing into the phone. “It’s super late.”
But I had one more thing I wanted to ask. “Mia-Joy, tell me what you know about Rennick Lane. Are you guys friends?”
“Why?”
“He knows things about me,” I said.
“Corrine, he’s Ren from the Pen. From school.”
I backtracked in my mind a little bit. Liberty was a big place, and it was true that I had gotten in the habit of purposely not looking into people’s faces, but I heard things. Rennick Lane was Ren from the Pen? The kid that everyone talked about last fall when he came to our school? That seemed crazy.
“Penton Charter?” I asked.
“Got kicked out. Had to go to public school. It’s no big secret.”
“And what was it for?” I had heard things. And I could conjure the memory of Rennick’s silhouette now. Always alone, that movie-star rebel look about him. Leather jacket in the winter. Jeans and a T-shirt. Too cool.
“I don’t know. Nobody really does, Corrine. Fighting, I heard. But he
I thought of the concert when I had first played Requiem . It was my debut with the Chicago Junior Symphony. When I got offstage, Cody had met me with one red rose, and he looked all handsome and preppy in his khakis and collared shirt. “What did you think?” I asked, still a little out of breath and existing on that other plane, the one where I didn’t just play music, I played emotion, life, possibility.
“Great,” he said, kissing me on the cheek. He bounced on his heels. He checked his cell phone. I still had goose bumps, feeling the magic of the music, right there, coursing under my skin. “We can still meet up with everybody downtown if we hurry.” He yanked on my elbow.
“Oh,” I said, “yeah.” I forced a smile and hurried out with my friends.
Because I knew he was just being Cody. He was popularand hot. A good prank partner. For his senior prom, we won king and queen, and we went up to the podium wearing those goofy glasses with the big noses and mustaches. We dressed up as Fred and Daphne from Scooby-Doo for Halloween. We sailed on the weekends on Lake Michigan with his parents. We went to all the fun parties. He made me cooler, more popular, and, fluck, he was fun.
But he didn’t get me. I knew that even then, and it made me feel shallow.
I shook the memories away. Annaliese had tried after Sophie. She had tried. Cody had given up easily. And I had not been surprised. I had pushed them both away. I had pushed everyone away.
I grabbed my phone, finally working up the courage to call Mia-Joy. When she answered, I broke down. “I’m so sorry, Mia-Joy.”
“I know, Corrine. It’s okay.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t speak to you at the funeral or that I—”
“Really. It’s okay.” And Mia-Joy sounded so fine. She sounded honest and forgiving. She always was.
“At the cemetery, we shared stories about her. Celebrated her life,” Mia-Joy said. “I missed you there. You would’ve liked it, I think.”
“Celebrated her life,” I repeated. And I tried to hold on to that phrase.
Mia-Joy told me some of the funny stories that people shared about Granny Lucy when she was younger, teachinghigh school typing, how she used to slap kids’ knuckles with a ruler if they weren’t paying attention. How she used to wear her hair in cornrows, enough beads at the ends of them to make music every time she turned her head. I laughed with Mia-Joy and let her talk. She went on and on, and I listened, glad that I could at least do that for her.
“I should go,” she said after a long while, sighing into the phone. “It’s super late.”
But I had one more thing I wanted to ask. “Mia-Joy, tell me what you know about Rennick Lane. Are you guys friends?”
“Why?”
“He knows things about me,” I said.
“Corrine, he’s Ren from the Pen. From school.”
I backtracked in my mind a little bit. Liberty was a big place, and it was true that I had gotten in the habit of purposely not looking into people’s faces, but I heard things. Rennick Lane was Ren from the Pen? The kid that everyone talked about last fall when he came to our school? That seemed crazy.
“Penton Charter?” I asked.
“Got kicked out. Had to go to public school. It’s no big secret.”
“And what was it for?” I had heard things. And I could conjure the memory of Rennick’s silhouette now. Always alone, that movie-star rebel look about him. Leather jacket in the winter. Jeans and a T-shirt. Too cool.
“I don’t know. Nobody really does, Corrine. Fighting, I heard. But he
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