Broken Little Melodies(7)
“I just don’t!” She wiggled away from me, running toward the water.
She didn’t say much about her life outside of camp, which was perfectly fine by me. I didn’t want to talk about New York either. But I was suddenly curious what she would be going back home to at the end of summer. What was making her so upset? Who had sent her the flowers? Who didn’t want to celebrate their own birthday?
At first I just stood there and watched as she continued into the water, wondering why the hell she’d want to get wet in her clothes. Then I started to worry that she was planning to drown herself when she ducked her head under.
“Belle!” I cried, running after her. I wrapped my fingers around one of her arms and tugged. She struggled against me. “Belle! Stop!”
Finally she gave in, and I managed to pull her back to shore. She was coughing and sputtering as I coaxed her to sit in the sand. I squatted down to her level, taking her face in my hands. “What were you doing in there?”
“I want to know how they felt,” she sobbed, collapsing against me like a rag doll.
“How who felt?” What happened to make her this way? Wrapping my arms around her shivering body, I glanced over my shoulder, hoping a counselor would find us because I had no idea what to do.
But no one else came, and Isabelle wouldn’t answer me. I held her tight until she stopped crying, then walked her back to her cabin. She was so quiet and sullen that I was worried she had somehow broken. I ran to my cabin to change into dry clothes while she showered. When I returned to her cabin, I found her curled in a ball on her bunk, her wet hair soaking through the oversized t-shirt I guessed she normally wore to bed.
Since she still wouldn’t tell me what was going on, I crawled onto the mattress at her side. When she put her head in my lap and closed her eyes, I played with her wet hair until she was sound asleep.
That summer was over in what felt like the blink of an eye. After her birthday it took a few days before Isabelle was back to her old self. By the end of July, she was participating in solos at the nightly sound offs.
Her voice was flawless. I don’t know how else to describe it. Though she said that she was most comfortable using alto, she was able to properly project her voice at any pitch with a strong sound that gave me chills. Once she was comfortable enough to sing in front of everyone, even those who were known to call her names behind my back let up on her a little and gave her flattering compliments. One of the senior girls even started calling her “little Beyoncé.” No one could deny she was awesome. Not even Brooke, who seemed pissed that Isabelle had a better voice.
By the start of August, something had shifted between me and Isabelle. We were always touching each other in subtle ways. Without even thinking about it I’d find myself giving her a back-rub or she’d have her head on my shoulder and I’d have my hand on her leg. It’s as if we were silently comforting one another, knowing the end was near.
Too soon she’d be riding home with her family, and I’d be on a plane back to New York. It’d be nine months until we’d see each other again, assuming she’d get another scholarship. I couldn’t breathe whenever I realized it was possible she wouldn’t get one and we may never see each other again.
Although we exchanged email addresses and our home phone numbers, I knew it wouldn’t be enough. I was too comfortable in her presence, wrapped in the smell of her coconut shampoo and bubblegum lip gloss, feeling her constant touch, and hearing her angelic voice whether in song or laughter. Knowing I’d soon be back in my museum-like house, alone most nights while my parents were off at charity events and social functions, had me sick to my stomach.
Isabelle’s friendship suddenly meant the world to me, and I didn’t know how I’d get along without it.
Just as I suspected, it came down to the two of us in the final round our last night at camp. I ended up winning with a lively version of Justin Timberlake’s “Señorita.” I made her kiss me on the cheek afterwards to pay off the bet. I swear I almost cried when the car arrived that my father hired to take me and Brooke back to the airport.
“Let’s go already, Roman!” Brooke huffed, standing with the back door open and tapping her fingers against the window. She absolutely despised the fact that I gave Isabelle so much attention. “Our parents will freak if we miss our flight!”
“Wait for me in the car,” I snapped as I handed the driver my last bag. As I turned my back on her, I braced myself as I prepared to tell Isabelle goodbye.
My friend stood with her flip-flops teetering on the curb, making us almost the same height. “Don’t you…forget about me,” she sang in a playful tone, crossing her arms over her stomach. It’s like she suddenly forgot we were past the awkward stage and onto openly touching each other in subtle ways. Or maybe it was the only way she could comfort herself.