Page 74 of Pierce Me

“By the way,” she throws over her shoulder, “you destroyed those students in there. No one will ever be able to play in that attic after tonight. Most of them will drop out of college—what’s the point, if they can’t be as good as you? Because you were good, Isaiah.” I close my eyes. “I could hear your voice from three full sets of stairs down. It’s how I found you. And you didn’t even have a mic.” She stops for a minute to take a breath. “I knew you were in there somewhere.”

Wait, what?

She’s walking away again and I follow, furious.

I jog to catch up with her and quickly drape my soaked jacked over both of our heads, holding it steady as I keep up with her brisk pace.

“I was in there somewhere? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Issy Woo,” she replies, and I do hate this stupid name, but I don’t think I’ve ever hated it more than when it comes out of her lips.

She looks like she hates it too. Is her chin wobbling? Her voice sounds full of tears, and I don’t know what to do to make them go away.

“I’ve been watching your progress for years,” she goes on, and I purse my lips. This can’t be happening. “I stood outside every basketball court, every stage, every stadium you played. From the beginning. You were good to begin with, but now you’re amazing. But Issy Woo is not you. Your voice…” Her own wobbles.

“You were outside that basketball court?” I ask, my voice barely audible.

She nods.

“I imagined you there,” I whisper.

“Well, I was. No need for imagination.” She sniffles. She’s full on crying now.

I might be too. This is too big to wrap my mind around. She’s been to every one of my shows. Every one? How could I not know about this? How did my heart not skip a beat every time she was near?

And Spence said that New York was the first—the only show she ever attended. From inside the stadium.

My heart breaks just a tiny bit more—who could have thought there’s anything left to break?—and I want to throw the jacket on the narrow, glistening pavement and grab her in my arms so tightly she’ll never have anything to be sad about anymore.

“Did you hear me singSaint Hope?”

She nods. “Every single time.”

“Every single time what?”

“Your voice shook every single time you sang it. Even on the track of your record. Your voice…”

“It was about you,” I say, and her head goes down, “of course my voice shook. What were you going to say about my voice, Eden?” I ask softly, as if I’m afraid I’ll break her just by speaking.

“It’s not the voice I know,” she replies. “I know you, and it’s not you. You’re hiding your truth. Where are you?”

I pull away from her.

‘I know you’.Where does she come off saying things like that? My gut churns in anger and pain, and I struggle to breathe.You need to get angry, my brain tells me.Right now.Otherwise, you won’t survive. You need to get mad at her.

You need your anger shield or you’ll drown. You’re going under. A second more, and you won’t be able to save yourself.

The rain is letting up. Eden stops walking abruptly and I almost stumble into her. She points to the top of the hill, where we just climbed slash tumbled down from.

“What you did in there, the way you sang, that’s who you are,” she says. “But the rest of the time, you’re putting on a show. I don’t know what happened to you.”

“You!” I scream, spitting raindrops. “Eden. Eden.” I can’t stop saying her name. I can’t. My voice sounds sweet around it, calm; the storm that is wrecking me stops at her name. “Youhappened to me. You destroyed me. How can you even ask, after what you—?”

But she’s already gone. The minute I spit out that first ‘you’ with all the pent-up despair and bitterness of these past four years, she bolts. In a second or so, she’ll disappear into the tiny streets and I’ll lose her again. For what it’s worth, I regretted it the moment I said it.

“No!” I scream. “Eden, come back, Jesus!”

Something in the raw despair in my voice stops her in her tracks.

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