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Day 19
I pull open my locker door with way more force than it requires, and its slightly rusty metal hinges squeak loudly in response, protesting against my harsh actions. But I don't give a damn. The stupid thing can fall right off and crumble to dust for all I care. I'm far too upset to be bothered about it. In fact, I'm upset, pissed off, disappointed, irritated, annoyed, and every other fucking word in the dictionary that's synonymous with being angry.
Vito has just replaced me permanently for the rest of the semester. And she did it in front of the entire class, no less.
I think I'm still in shock, to be honest. I haven't had time to fully process any of it yet. I haven't had time to accept the fact that I'm officially taking the back seat for all the other seven performances we have left. It hasn't even been ten whole minutes since the venomous words left her thin, taut lips, and I can still hear them clearly in my head again and again and again, as if she's still speaking them to me.
"You have proven yourself unfit and incompetent to continue to carry out your position as a primary vocalist—a privilege you no longer seem to not take seriously, Miss Gallo."
My face scrunches up in a frown at the memory and the all gut-wrenching humiliation that went with it.
I'm unfit and incompetent? I don't take music seriously? How dare she?
I've always known Vito to be a fairly rigid and unforgiving woman, but I didn't realize she was this cold and merciless.
She doesn't care that the reason I haven't been at my best is because of something I don't understand and can't control.
She doesn't care that I don't have the money to figure out what it is and fix it.
She doesn't care that less than two weeks ago, my grandmother—the only person left in the world who I can call my family and who truly gives a damn about me—just had a major stress-related stroke and is still lying in a hospital bed as we speak.
She doesn't care that I've barely slept or haven't eaten a proper meal since it happened.
She doesn't care that I've become this empty, animated shell of my former self; a walking, barely talking bundle of mental, emotional, and physical chaos, or about any of the depressing events that led me here.
She doesn't care that practically every aspect of my life is crashing and crumbling around me, and I'm helpless to stop any of it.
She. Just. Doesn't. Care.
I reach inside the locker for my bag, and as soon as I do, I feel hot tears from behind my eyes rushing to the surface, their saltiness slightly stinging as they blur my vision.
I've never once felt so demoralized about music the way I do now. When everything else in my life has been shit, my music was the one thing I could count on, the one thing that would never let me down, the one thing I could find solace and peace in. And now, that's falling to shit, too.
I angrily wipe at my eyes with my sleeve, trying to compose myself before anyone else sees me, especially my classmates. I really don't want to give any of those sons of bitches something else to gloat about at my own expense today.
I let out a deep sigh, slowly shaking my head in disbelief in silence at what my life has come to be.
As far as being a Rainbow girl, Mindy has made it clear—in not so many words, of course—that she wants me to agree to Frost's contract. If she's this insistent about the matter, then it's obvious he's incredibly valuable to her. I'm just not sure whether that value extends beyond his bank account or not.
Right now, I want nothing more than to head back to my apartment, fall face-first into my bed, and cry my heart out in the privacy of my apartment, but I have piano in less than an hour, and that requires focus, so I need to cut this pity-party short and pull myself together.
But just then, my phone vibrates loudly from inside my bag, forcing my attention to the buzzing sound. I reluctantly fish it out, wondering who could be calling me at this time. I really don't feel like talking to anyone right now, but I decide to check who it is, anyway. I figure it's most likely Trixie, but it could also very well be Theodore calling about Gran, and after the last call I got from him, I don't want to take any chances.
However, when I look down at the lit screen, I'm more than a bit surprised to see Drake's name showing up as the caller ID.
Trixie and I may talk on the phone all the time, but it's pretty rare for her brother to call me. If anything, he'll usually just shoot me a quick text or relay any information he has for me through Trixie, and even then, that's not something that happens often.
I slightly hesitate before I hit the answer button.
"Hello?" My voice is a bit hoarse from my 'almost crying' episode just a moment ago, and I hope he doesn't notice.
"Roni, hey," his voice comes through the speaker, cool and friendly as always. "It's Drake."
I can't help but smile slightly. "I know it's you, silly. My phone screen just told me."
He chuckles. "Gotta love phones. Psychic little bastards, aren't they?" My smile goes wider at hearing his ridiculous attempt at humor, but it's obviously making me feel a little better, so he must be doing something right.
"Anyway," he continues, "I'm calling to see if you want to go to the Mary Higgins' Thanksgiving Dance this year. I hear it's gonna be the best one yet. And don't tell me you have to work because I know you have the night off," he adds with a knowing tone. Trixie definitely told him that. I have no doubt about it. Heck, I wouldn't be surprised if she wrote down my entire freaking schedule for the rest of my life and handed it to him.
I can only sigh in response. "Isn't that what everyone kept saying about it last year? That it was going to be the best one yet? Correct me if I'm wrong, but if my memory still serves me well, that dance was quite the major flop. People wouldn't stop talking about how terrible it was for weeks."
I'm not even sure why, but there was so much hype about the dance last November, and it ended nothing short of disastrous—with a bunch of wasted frat boys tossing around a live turkey as a makeshift football.
"I know, I know. But it's going to be different this year," he insists. "I just know it."
"I don't know, Drake," I say, the wariness in my voice clear as day.
"Look, Roni, they have new organizers and coordinators this year, and I know quite a few of 'em. Really cool people. They wouldn't be caught dead signing off on half the shit that got ok's from last year."
He continues his attempts to convince me to go. I try to talk my way out of it, thinking of every excuse I can give him, but Drake can be pretty relentless and persuasive, and I know I'm fighting a losing battle. I can't help but wonder why he's even asking me to go.
His sister may be my best friend, but it's still kind of surprising, to be honest. Both Trixie and I know Drake and his reputation with the ladies, and that the truth of the matter is, he could have asked any other girl in the world to go with him—as he's done many times before—and they'd say yes in a heartbeat.
This has to be Trixie's idea. That's the only way it would make sense. She knows how stressed I've been about Gran's situation, so maybe she asked Drake to take me to the dance this year. Of course, that's just speculation, but I'm willing to bet Trixie's behind it. Whatever his reason is for asking, a part of me just wants to say no, but I have to admit that hanging out with Drake is always a good time, regardless of the occasion. Even if he's doing this out of pity, I figure going with him will help take my mind off things, at least for a little while, and I could certainly use a distraction right about now.
"Alright," I mutter, finally relenting. "I'll go."
"Atta girl," he says, his tone deep and cheery, and I can practically see the triumphant smile on his face.
I just offer a small chuckle. I guess it wouldn't hurt to go. Besides, even if the dance turns out to be a complete bust like I'm sure it will, at least it can provide me with a much needed distraction from all the craziness that's been going on in my life lately.
"Alright then, it's settled," he says. "The dance starts at eight as always. I'll pick you up around seven-thirty."
"Oh, that's okay, you—" He hangs up before I can tell him that I can drive myself there and he shouldn't bother picking me up, but I let it go. I really don't even have the strength or desire to call back to tell him, especially when I know he'll just try to convince me to agree with him. Again.
I let out another sigh, carelessly stuffing the phone back into my bag just before I close the locker door. As soon as I do though, a startled yelp escapes me as the image of the metal door is replaced by Gina's face.
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