sorry for me? Cause u don’t have 2 anymore.
My heart races. I have never been so honest. With myself or anyone else. The prospect is exciting and terrifying at the same time. Both turn my stomach upside down and make the back of my neck suddenly damp.
Minutes tick by. He doesn’t answer. Moments of my life are spent staring at a cell phone. I won’t stare at it any longer. I’m going back to bed. Back to my dreams. Or nightmares.
That’s when he answers.
I don’t feel sorry for you. I thought I was helping. I want to help you, but the truth is that you are helping me. Like no one ever has.
His words fill me with joy. Pure joy. I want to jump up and dance around my room. I breathe in and taste hope. Then I write back.
U r helping me 2.
I press send then type: I am going back to school on Monday. After today, I know how hard it will be, but I need to go.
He answers right away, like he is sitting beside me.
I know.
See you tomorrow at 2:30?
16
— Stella —
It’s a typical Saturday morning. Saturdays used to be family days, full of forced activities no one really wanted to do, but we all felt obligated to pretend to enjoy. But ever since Dad moved out and we became a split family, the pretense is gone, and we can be ourselves. On Saturdays, we are free to do whatever makes us happy, which, for Mom, is planting flowers. For Emerson, it is dancing. She is already dressed in her leotard and tights, hair pulled back into a tight bun. Mom is decked out in army pants and clogs, but she has to work before she can dig in the dirt.
Mom’s an accountant. She mostly works from home, so her schedule is pretty flexible except in March and April—tax season. With everything going on with me, Mom has taken entire days off. She must be behind schedule. She has been working really late the past few nights; I can tell by the circles underneath her eyes. She surely has work to finish before she can go outside.
“I can help with your work,” I tell her.
Her eyes widen in surprise. She smiles, happy to have my help. Mom shows me which office tasks I can do. I get started while she drives Emerson to the dance studio. I begin by assembling packages for Mom’s clients. I make copies of tax returns and stamp them copy . Each tax return and copy go into a special navy blue folder with extra envelopes that hold federal and state tax returns. Then I put everything into a giant mailing envelope. I like the mechanical nature of the task; it is relaxing. I don’t have to think too much, so I can let my mind drift.
I think about Hayden.
He’s an unknown to me. Maybe that’s why I like him so much. Maybe, if I’m being honest, I also like that he seems to understand me even though he hasn’t known me for long. He was right when he said I couldn’t imagine myself differently. I couldn’t. I only thought about Someday Broadway. It was my everything. I was so focused that I lost track of everything else. I used to like other things.
Now I can’t really remember what those things were.
I thought I knew who I was. But I was limiting myself to being one thing. Defining myself by my talent. There’s more to me than that. More I can give. More I can share. The truth is, I’m starting to like this new Stella better than the old Stella.
My mind turns again to Hayden. I think of the day he walked into the theater. When he stepped onto the stage. How nervous I was to sing in front of him. Until he began playing. Then I remember something else. That day was also the first time I heard him speak.
And I was disappointed in the sound of his voice. That it wasn’t smooth and commanding. Or accented. How much importance I placed on sounds then. Sounds I can’t hear now. I remember the first time he said my name. It sounded beautiful the way he drew out each letter like music. And it hits me. The reason I can understand Hayden.
It’s his speech.
His words are slowed down. Stretched out. That’s why they’re
My heart races. I have never been so honest. With myself or anyone else. The prospect is exciting and terrifying at the same time. Both turn my stomach upside down and make the back of my neck suddenly damp.
Minutes tick by. He doesn’t answer. Moments of my life are spent staring at a cell phone. I won’t stare at it any longer. I’m going back to bed. Back to my dreams. Or nightmares.
That’s when he answers.
I don’t feel sorry for you. I thought I was helping. I want to help you, but the truth is that you are helping me. Like no one ever has.
His words fill me with joy. Pure joy. I want to jump up and dance around my room. I breathe in and taste hope. Then I write back.
U r helping me 2.
I press send then type: I am going back to school on Monday. After today, I know how hard it will be, but I need to go.
He answers right away, like he is sitting beside me.
I know.
See you tomorrow at 2:30?
16
— Stella —
It’s a typical Saturday morning. Saturdays used to be family days, full of forced activities no one really wanted to do, but we all felt obligated to pretend to enjoy. But ever since Dad moved out and we became a split family, the pretense is gone, and we can be ourselves. On Saturdays, we are free to do whatever makes us happy, which, for Mom, is planting flowers. For Emerson, it is dancing. She is already dressed in her leotard and tights, hair pulled back into a tight bun. Mom is decked out in army pants and clogs, but she has to work before she can dig in the dirt.
Mom’s an accountant. She mostly works from home, so her schedule is pretty flexible except in March and April—tax season. With everything going on with me, Mom has taken entire days off. She must be behind schedule. She has been working really late the past few nights; I can tell by the circles underneath her eyes. She surely has work to finish before she can go outside.
“I can help with your work,” I tell her.
Her eyes widen in surprise. She smiles, happy to have my help. Mom shows me which office tasks I can do. I get started while she drives Emerson to the dance studio. I begin by assembling packages for Mom’s clients. I make copies of tax returns and stamp them copy . Each tax return and copy go into a special navy blue folder with extra envelopes that hold federal and state tax returns. Then I put everything into a giant mailing envelope. I like the mechanical nature of the task; it is relaxing. I don’t have to think too much, so I can let my mind drift.
I think about Hayden.
He’s an unknown to me. Maybe that’s why I like him so much. Maybe, if I’m being honest, I also like that he seems to understand me even though he hasn’t known me for long. He was right when he said I couldn’t imagine myself differently. I couldn’t. I only thought about Someday Broadway. It was my everything. I was so focused that I lost track of everything else. I used to like other things.
Now I can’t really remember what those things were.
I thought I knew who I was. But I was limiting myself to being one thing. Defining myself by my talent. There’s more to me than that. More I can give. More I can share. The truth is, I’m starting to like this new Stella better than the old Stella.
My mind turns again to Hayden. I think of the day he walked into the theater. When he stepped onto the stage. How nervous I was to sing in front of him. Until he began playing. Then I remember something else. That day was also the first time I heard him speak.
And I was disappointed in the sound of his voice. That it wasn’t smooth and commanding. Or accented. How much importance I placed on sounds then. Sounds I can’t hear now. I remember the first time he said my name. It sounded beautiful the way he drew out each letter like music. And it hits me. The reason I can understand Hayden.
It’s his speech.
His words are slowed down. Stretched out. That’s why they’re
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