Blended, page 16
Mom’s staying. I’m so glad. She’s going to sleep on a sofa bed I didn’t even notice against the back wall of the room. Nurse Naomi brings in a blanket for her.
Before I fall asleep, I ask Mom, “Will I still be able to play the piano?”
“Absolutely,” she tells me, squeezing my good hand.
“You sure? My brain’s still gonna remember all my songs, all my music, all my melodies?” My voice cracks with worry. I don’t want to cry. Again.
“Yes, sweetie. Your head is pretty tough. It will keep all your memories safe. I promise.”
She scoots next to me on the bed and holds me close.
I don’t tell her about the memories I want to erase.
CHAPTER 73
Exchange Day
WHEN I WAKE up this morning, I find the coolest thing on my bed! A brand-new case to hold my sheet music! Wow—it’s the softest leather! It even smells good!
Inside is a book of piano music called Boogies, Ballads, and Beats. A note from Darren is tucked inside. He wrote, “You rock, Izzy. Hope this music rocks you, too! Love, Darren.”
He’s the best brother.
Well, the Apple Store will miss me today. Nurse Naomi tells me I’ll be here for at least another day—my head still hurts too much when I sit up. When they let me out, it will be Mom’s week, so I guess she will take me home. I know she’s pleased about that.
CHAPTER 74
Exchange Day
A NEW NURSE strolls in. It’s hard to keep up. He writes his name on the whiteboard on the wall: Ian Addington.
“I’ve never had a man nurse before,” I tell him, keeping my voice low as Mom is still asleep.
“You need me to put on lipstick?” he asks, full of fake attitude.
“Might look ridiculous with your beard,” I reply, laughing.
“I’m willing to try!” He gives me “meds,” as he calls the pills, in a little white paper cup and takes my “vitals” and records it all in a laptop.
“How’m I doing?” I ask.
He answers my question with a question. “How do you feel?”
“Better,” I say honestly. “My head doesn’t hurt quite as much.”
“Good!” he says. He types way more words than I just said, but I guess that’s his job. “The doctor will be in to see you shortly. But first I’m removing those bandages!”
“Really?”
“Yep. You’re doing just fine. How about a couple of Band-Aids instead of all that gauze? And you don’t need this IV anymore either.”
“That would be amazing,” I tell him with a sigh of relief.
I shut my eyes, but it doesn’t hurt when the needle for the IV is removed.
“Can I look at it?” I ask Ian when he lifts off the bandages from my arm.
“Well, sure!”
The wound is reddish, about two inches long, a little swollen, with what’s going to be a scab starting to cover it. I’ve probably had uglier wounds from falling off my bike. Still, I’ve got a bullet wound! It’s a little scary. I can’t even think what “it” is—and I’m not sure I want to. I’m surprised all I need is a small bandage to cover the spot. I look at my arm for a long time. Man, I got shot! Shot! That’s really kinda hard to make my brain understand.
“Can I take a shower?” I finally ask.
“You bet,” he replies. “But let your mom keep an eye on you to make sure you’re steady and balanced, okay?”
“Okay, I will.”
He brings me a stack of towels. “Push that red button if you need me, okay?” He hurries out the door.
I look to my left at Mom, curled up tight on the sofa, covered by a thin blanket. She’s still wearing the fancy dress she bought for Pianopalooza. I bet she stayed awake most of the night, watching me.
She wakes when she hears the nurse leaving, and bounds barefoot over to my bed. “How you doin’, Izzy baby?” she coos as she feels my forehead. What is it with moms and feeling foreheads? Her face is flushed, and her hair is a hot mess.
“I’m okay. Feeling better. Honest,” I tell her. “The nurse said I can have a shower. I feel like it’s been a million years since my last one.”
“Let’s do that, then! Your dad and Anastasia and John Mark and Darren will be here soon, I imagine.” She fluffs her own hair. “They’re probably already pounding at the front door of this place!”
I nod. My head still throbs when I move it, but not as bad as before. “Mom?” I ask as I raise my bed up to a sitting position.
“Yes, sweetie?”
“When we finish the shower, can you run home and bring me some real clothes, please? This hospital stuff is just plain nasty!”
She laughs and laughs. “You are feeling better!”
CHAPTER 75
Exchange Day
I FINALLY GET to check my phone. Heather. Imani. Kids I barely even know have sent me messages. How do they even have my number?
Stuff like “Hang in there!” and “We’ve got your back!” It’s a little mind-boggling how nice people are, folks I don’t even know.
Jontay sent me a message with a meme of one of the African princesses from the Black Panther movie. It says, “Your power is within you.” I like that.
Surprisingly, there’s even one from Clint Hammond: Hope ur not mad at me. sorry. really. I prayed for you and your fam. feel better.
Well, now.
Messages from my friends are pretty normal, but I even get a text from Mr. Kazilly! Wow. It was so very Kazilly-like! His note said, May your convalescence be brief and your rejuvenation be powerful! Of course he used big words! But it was awfully nice of him to send it.
And all those news apps that Mr. K. taught us to use are blowing up with what happened to Darren and me. USA Today. NYTimes.
Me and Darren. We’re a trending story on Twitter—probably Facebook, too. We’re the headline article of the Sunday newspaper, which is still dropped off at thousands of homes in Cincinnati. And online for those who don’t get the paper.
Activists are screaming. Police brutality. Child endangerment. And apparently, Black Lives Matter has put me at the top of its list! I think about that one for a minute.
Plus, NBC News has left a message on my phone? No way. I can’t believe this. I scroll down. There’s also a message from Black Girls Rock!—a group for teenagers—cool!
I keep scrolling and find a dozen texts asking for interviews. Interviews? How do folks find my number? I think again. I’m gonna let Dad handle all that. He won’t allow it, I know.
And the pictures! Seems like half of Cincinnati was walking around near Graeter’s on Saturday, and apparently, they all captured it on their phones! Dozens of people have sent in photos and videos, the story says. There are dozens of photos of Darren on the ground covered by police—from different angles. My head starts spinning.
There’s also a horrible school picture of me—where did they find that?
And a snapshot of me . . . lying on the ground—is that gooey spot blood on my arm? I stare and stare. How can that be me?
I don’t even know how to feel about all this. Embarrassed? Maybe. Ashamed? Yeah, but I’m not sure why. And mad. MAD! And I don’t know what to do with any of it.
We seem to be the horror story of the day. Guns. Police. Violence in the street and stuff. Lots of articles and editorials about racial profiling. A couple of articles talk about Darren and his superstar high school career—his college possibilities. There are a couple of mentions about me and the piano recital, but mostly they show that photo of me and the blood.
I wonder what Madame Rubenstein thought when I didn’t show up. I’m sorry I disappointed her. And I’m really bummed I didn’t get to play my sonatina. But all I really want is to go home. I don’t even care which one.
CHAPTER 76
Exchange Day
AT EXACTLY 3:00 p.m., the four parents and Darren walk into my room. It’s freaky. I’m usually at the mall being switched at this time. So I just pretend to be asleep.
“Should we wake her?” Mom whispers.
“She’s had such a rough time—let her rest,” Anastasia replies.
“Too bad this ice cream is gonna melt,” I hear Darren say.
I pop my eyes open.
“I knew you were faking!” Darren hoots, his voice all high and happy.
“Where’s my ice cream?” I demand. I cross my arms against my chest—gently.
“I’ll run out and get a whole pint for you later on,” he promises.
Mom holds a Target bag in her hand—that means fresh clothes. Maybe even new.
I catch her eye and mouth, “Thanks, Mom.” I can’t wait to change.
Both Dad and John Mark are wearing the same yummy man cologne. It’s a little overpowering as they lean over me to kiss my head.
Anastasia reaches over and smooths my blanket, kinda like a mom would do.
Mom must have taken a quick shower when she went home, because her hair is still damp. She’s wearing a T-shirt with purple sparkles that says, “My Other Car Is a Unicorn.”
I watch a lot of hospital dramas on television, and this is the part where patients just want everybody to leave them alone. It’s all going just a little too well. No arguments. No fights. No snippy remarks. Nothing. If they leave now, nothing bad can happen.
Dad clears his throat. Uh-oh. Here it comes.
“Uh, Nicole, I want to say something—in front of our daughter.”
I tense up. Waiting for the arguments to kick in.
Dad continues. “I just want to offer my congratulations to you and John Mark about your upcoming nuptials. John Mark is a top-notch guy—and I can tell he loves my baby girl. I sincerely hope you’ll both be very happy.”
I’m for-real shocked. That was awfully nice.
Mom, who I think is just as surprised, replies, “Thank you, Isaiah. Really. Truly. I thank you.” She looks at both of them. “And I also really wish the best for you and Anastasia on your wedding as well. I think all of us deserve a little happiness.”
Well, slap me silly! They’re honestly being nice to each other! Of course, if this were one of those Hallmark movies, one of them would then say, “Izzy’s happiness comes first,” then they’d all wait till I was grown and gone before they all got hitched. Ha! That’s for sure not happening!
Well, at least they’re not brawling over my bed. ’Cause it coulda gone that way too.
CHAPTER 77
Mom’s Week
IT’S MONDAY. I’m feeling almost okay. They’re gonna let me go home this afternoon. Mom is so psyched.
And get this: Dad even tells her if I need an extra week for her to take care of me, it would be okay. Whoa! That’s pretty huge. My wall calendar will have to be re-done.
Madame Rubenstein stopped by last night. She stood by my bed and said Pianopalooza was meaningless without me. I gotta admit, that made me feel good, even if it wasn’t true.
She brought me a copy of the recital program. And there was my name, just as I’d always dreamed—in fancy script letters—Isabella Badia Thornton. This was rock-star stuff!
Then Madame Rubenstein started crying. What?
She found a tissue and smiled at me while she wiped her nose. Then she told me she was entering me in another recital—simply called Musical Overtures. It’s later in the summer—for the more accomplished students, she told me. That’s gonna be cool. Though maybe I’ll skip the ice-cream run this time! Ha!
Imani’s mom peeks in right after lunch, with both Heather and Imani. At first they were whispering and not really looking at me—I guess hospitals are pretty intimidating. That’s a pretty good Kazilly word.
“Hey, girl. You okay?” Heather finally asks.
“Well, the room service is great!” I joke. “Three meals a day, with a lovely dessert cup of pills!”
“Does it hurt?” Imani asks.
I look directly in her eyes. “It hurts on the inside.”
She nods at me knowingly. “I feel you.”
They bring me up to date on what the rest of the kids were saying, and how the whole situation had kinda hit the Internet. I’m blown away.
They stay for twenty minutes or so. Imani tells me that Logan has been suspended from school for a couple of weeks. “And his mom is making him go to therapy,” she adds.
“Good! He needs as much as he can get,” I say, and we both nod in understanding.
Then, just before they leave, Heather hands me two little Tupperware containers of slime—one orange and one shiny silver. Now, that makes me feel normal! I can’t wait to get back into making it myself.
I lay my head back on the pillow—it only hurts a little now—and close my eyes. Faint music is playing over a hospital speaker. I recognize it—“Für Elise,” by Beethoven. I can play that one. I dance my fingers in the air.
Faster.
Slower.
Bass.
Treble.
Delicate.
White keys.
Black keys.
Blended perfectly.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The Clementi piece Isabella performs in the novel is called Sonatina in C Major, op. 36, no. 1.
And in case you’re interested, here’s a link to hear the song played really, really well:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0_Ksi2qmW0A
And PS, I can still play that piece!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank the following people:
—Janell, for your loving wisdom and enduring friendship.
—Makeda, for being the strong, unflappable sister, daughter, and survivor that you are.
—AJ, for being such a cool brother, and for surviving that scene at the end in real life!
—Crystal, for being the supermom whose love and strength make it all work.
—And Caitlyn, whose wisdom, knowledge, love, and fine-toothed, legendary green-pen edits make everything sing!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
SHARON M. DRAPER is the author of over thirty award-winning books for young people. She sits in her favorite old chair that swivels as she thinks and writes and creates new stories. When she’s not writing, she likes to walk on the beach with her children and grandchildren, play the piano, and dance to ballroom music. And she has reason to dance—she’s written New York Times bestsellers such as Out of My Mind and Stella by Starlight, has won the Coretta Scott King Author Award for Copper Sun and Forged by Fire, and has received many other awards and accolades. For more information visit her online at SharonDraper.com.
Visit us at simonandschuster.com/kids
Authors.SimonandSchuster.com/Sharon-M-Draper
A Caitlyn Dlouhy Book
Atheneum Books for Young Readers
Simon & Schuster, New York
ALSO BY SHARON M. DRAPER
Copper Sun
Double Dutch
Out of My Mind
Panic
Romiette & Julio
Stella by Starlight
THE JERICHO TRILOGY
The Battle of Jericho
November Blues
Just Another Hero
THE HAZELWOOD HIGH TRILOGY
Tears of a Tiger
Forged by Fire
Darkness Before Dawn
CLUBHOUSE MYSTERIES
The Buried Bones Mystery
Lost in the Tunnel of Time
Shadows of Caesar’s Creek
The Space Mission Adventure
The Backyard Animal Show
Stars and Sparks on Stage
ATHENEUM BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2018 by Sharon M. Draper
Jacket illustrations copyright © 2018 by Debra Cartwright
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CIP data for this book is available from the Library of Congress.
ISBN 978-1-4424-9500-5
ISBN 978-1-4424-9502-9 (eBook)
Sharon M. Draper, Blended
