Buttercup [H.S]

Chapter Twenty One

"I didn't think you were coming back."

I sigh, and watch the mix of colours currently gliding in waves over the styrofoam tiled ceiling. The fancy projector Harry had brought in to the Youth Club did a good job of masking the cheap cladding and tube lights that had been switched off.

The lights have the illusion of being under water, or floating in space. Like a soft, blurred kaleidoscope revolving around, spinning the room slightly, making me dizzy if I focus on one spot for too long. It'd have been quite relaxing, laying on the gym floor with a bean bag under my head, listening to the melody of Harry's guitar that he was playing somewhere on the other side of the room, if it wasn't for six year old Fabian announcing he was bored every two minutes. Or the grilling Abi was giving me for not showing up to Music Therapy for two weeks.

"I know," I say, watching a cloud of red meld into another of blue. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to break my promise. Some...stuff got in the way."

I hear her sigh; a sigh that sounded far too tired and resigned for that of a girl only ten years old.

But Abi had had a rough start to life. Harry hadn't told me much about why she was currently in foster care - he'd said due to confidentially but I wonder if he was saving me from the heartache it'd likely bring.

I turn my head, where I see her gazing up at the mirage of colours floating around above us. I see her deep brown, tightly coiled hair pulled into the neat Dutch braids she always sported. See the little peak of her nose, the freckles peppering her cheekbones.

"It's okay, I guess," she says faintly. "I'll forgive you. But only because you made Harry promise not to make us sing again."

I snort.

According to Harry, the last few weeks of Music Therapy had been gruelling and frustrating for all participants; apparently his idea to form some sort of choir with the kids hadn't been as smooth sailing as he'd hoped. Apparently his thinking being it'd instil some sense of teamwork and community among the kids. Turns out convincing a group of 6-11 year olds to sing "You Are My Sunshine" was near impossible.

I think that's why we were having a very laid back version of music therapy today. Just a dark room, a bunch of bean bags and Harry strumming away random melodies on his guitar.

"I'm bored!" Fabian calls out for the fourth time.

"Yes, we know," I hear Harry whisper, working very hard to keep his tone calm. "Just concentrate on your breathing Fabian. Try to clear your mind. Deep breaths. Close your eyes."

There's a beat of silence, and I think perhaps Fabian is following Harry's instructions, but that little voice pipes up again.

"But Harry, if I close my eyes, I can't see the colours."

The gentle twangs of guitar strings comes to a halt, the room silent. I hear Harry chuckle.

"Good point, Fabian. Right, everyone up on their feet."

I see Harry set his guitar down behind him, flexing his fingers slightly before he puffs out a gust of air. He rests his hands on his hips, assessing the group around him.

"Think we need a change of pace," he says as if to the group, but he nods to himself as if he were simply speaking his thoughts aloud.

He pulls out his phone, plugging it into a speaker that he'd brought along, a little pop and hum ringing out.

"Please no more singing," Abi rolls her eyes beside me, and I can't help but giggle.

"Something funny, Riley?" Harry smirks from across the hall.