Page 2 of The Darkest Note

My mother stored weed.

She’d puff it in my face and laugh, low and haunting. It was always that tone.

D#major.

Like a vampire coughing up blood.

I love you and Vi more than anything in the world.

The line from her suicide letter plays on a loop in my mind.

I thought if I burned the words they’d disappear, but the ashes rose from the dead and started haunting me.

I love you and Vi more than anything.

Mom had nothing but audacity.

Love? Her twisted version of love was a descent straight into the darkest chords, full of brokenness and black keys.

I always saw the chaos in her, but I never let it stain me. I created a space inside my head where the music would die. Because if I couldn’t hear music at all, then I wouldn’t hear her notes either.

But now that she’s gone, music has tiptoed its way back into my life. Or more like it slammed into me at a hundred miles an hour and now I find myself on a ride with no idea how I got there and no clue how to get off.

“Like a wreeeecking ball!” A soulless, upbeat version of Miley Cyrus’s hit blasts from the speakers on the stage.

I’d descended into my thoughts to escape the noisy cover, but it seems like the music’s gotten even louder.

Three girls wearing dressed-up versions of bras and booty shorts gyrate to the rhythm.

The girl in the center suddenly rises in the air, propelled by a thin harness. Her legs spread wide as she flies over the crowd, flashing everyone in attendance.

Heads tip back in adoration. Roars erupt from the audience like they’re all her worshipers and this is some kind of cultish mating ritual.

I wonder if it’s too late for me to rip my wig off and run.

“I thought you’d dipped, you skank!”

A hand grabs me before I can make my escape.

I force a smile on my face and ease around.

“Me? Run from this,” I gesture to the blonde performer who’s soaking in the ‘woof, woof, woof’ erupting from the guys in attendance, “lavish display of musical prowess?” I blink innocently at my best friend. “Never.”

“You’re such a music snob, Cadey. Now bend down so I can unbutton your shirt. You’re not showing enough cleavage.”

I swat her hands away. Breeze tilts her head up and gives me a scolding look.

“Don’t you dare undress me,” I murmur.

“Do you see the act you’re following?” she whisper-shouts. “More of your clothes need to come off. Stat.”

I look down at the leather jacket, white shirt and unreasonably short skater skirt that Breeze forced on me. Black heels, giant hoop earrings, green eye contacts and heavy makeup complete the look. It’s all a part of my best friend’s fool proof plan to rid me of stage fright—a plan we came up with when I scored the role of Mary in our school’s Christmas play.

Six years later, I still need the wig to perform in front of crowds, but at least I’m performing. I guess you can call it a rousing success.

“Maybe this is proof that I don’t belong at Redwood Prep,” I murmur.

“It’s too late. You already accepted the scholarship.” She fixes the red bob that’s covering my long, brunette hair from view. Blue eyes focused, she fusses until the strands meet her approval. “And you know why you can’t turn this down.”

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