Harp's Song Part 1

Harp's Song.

by Ca.s.sie s.h.i.+ne.

This book is dedicated to those wonderful, beautiful people who have had their spark extinguished from abuse or a.s.sault.

You are loved.

Everything has a rhythm ... everything. You may think it only exists in music, but you're wrong. As a musician I listen to, interpret, and play rhythms every day. I appreciate their place within a pop song or a cla.s.sical composition, as well as in everyday life.

In a piece of cla.s.sical music, there are different movements or parts that tell a story-a beginning, middle, and an end. Usually the rhythm at the beginning is a calm yet steady pattern that hooks you and moves you further along into the story. Once you're in the next movement, you're met with an increased swing or beat or a lilting, haunting pace capturing the heart of the story. Both types progress you toward the end where you succ.u.mb to the finale-a magnificent culmination of emotion.

I always noticed rhythms everywhere in my life. I noticed them when my best friend would click his pen off-and-on, off-and-on during cla.s.s. I noticed them when we had to run in gym cla.s.s and I could hear and feel the pattern from the pounding of my feet. I noticed them in a lot of mundane everyday occurrences. These may be obvious examples of rhythm but sometimes they are overlooked or considered annoying (case in point: the clicking pen).

However, there are more complicated, discreet patterns that are the underlying pulse to our lives. These rhythms will sneak up on you and take you by surprise. They have the power to leave you feeling complete or hollow, bring extreme joy or unfathomable sadness and ultimately shock you.

Lastly, there is a one-of-a-kind rhythm that belongs to you. You can't prepare for it, as hard as you might try to. It will constantly change, progress, recede, and transform. You just have to be willing to hear it out. It may suck at times and you may want to kick its a.s.s, but trust me, even when it sucks, it knows you. It knows just how fast to push you, how slow to comfort you and how steady to keep you. Even if it's hard to do, you have to trust and have faith in this rhythm ... your rhythm.

I made a decision a long time ago. After I turned eighteen and graduated from high school, I would leave Liberty, Iowa and never look back. I would live my life for me-the way I deserved.

"Come on Harp, it's gonna be one of the biggest parties before graduation. We have to go."

"Then go," I say, not taking my eyes from the books I'm grabbing from my locker. Connor, my best friend, always begs and I usually cave when his groveling becomes unbearable. I know this routine and I'll be d.a.m.ned if I'm giving in ... again. But this time, I really can't. I've got a mountain of homework I need to get through and hours of practice time to squeeze in, plus the Johnson's might need me to babysit that night.

"Seriously Harp, you know I won't go without you. Remember, it's my responsibility to make sure you don't keep yourself locked in your bedroom studying and practicing all weekend, every weekend." He reminds me, "And if it weren't for me, we both know that's what you would do and then you'd be some weirdo, smarty-pants, cello-playing prodigy with no social skills, who missed out on the best part of high school."

Ugh.I.Hate.Him.

Only because he's right though, and that thought makes me cringe. Connor Williams is one of the popular kids. He's charming and good-looking, and he knows it. He's co-captain of the baseball team, and he's one of those tall, broad-shouldered All-American boys with unruly dirty blonde hair, contrasting olive skin and green eyes.

His solid jaw along with his crooked nose gives him a rugged look that makes girls turn to mush when they are in his presence. I've seen it a million times. They walk up to him in the hall and are instantly turned into a puddle of hormones. They start twirling their hair, batting their eyelashes, and when they do finally talk, they sound like four-year-old girls. I don't understand why girls think that's s.e.xy, but they do it every time. He'll flash them his signature, crooked smile-lifting only the corner of his mouth-which usually leaves the girls speechless. I can admit I see what the attraction is; I'm not blind or dead. But, since Connor and I have been best friends since we were eleven, I'm immune to his charm and good looks ... sort of.

Connor and I met on the first day of middle school when our lockers happened to be next to each other, and thank G.o.d for that because starting sixth grade in a new school was terrifying for me. I was a loner and the school was three times bigger than the elementary school I'd just come from. The kids in the grades above us were taller and scarier.

I must have looked as terrified as I felt because once Connor introduced himself to me, he offered to help me find my way to homeroom, which we ended up having together. He sat next to me before helping me to my first cla.s.s where we parted ways until lunch.

Connor saw through me from the beginning, and he obviously felt sorry for me, because that pattern continued the rest of the week and the following week. It soon became our daily schedule. Even though I felt really bad about him always walking me to cla.s.s, he said I was the one doing him a favor because until me, he hadn't known anyone at the school.

That's when I learned that he was new to town and not from one of the other elementary schools like I had originally thought. He also told me that he had a brother, Patrick, four years younger than him. His Dad traveled a lot for work-something to do with insurance-and his mom took care of him and his brother.

As we continued our daily routine, our friends.h.i.+p grew. It wasn't until the last few weeks of school that I realized how much I was going to miss seeing him over the summer. Having spent most of my life isolating myself from people, I was mad that I had let my guard down with Connor. I'd really become attached to him even though his rise to popularity was fast. I told myself daily it would only be a matter of time before he dumped me to focus on his other popular friends. I also knew his family was going on vacation over the summer and with that separation, he would definitely forget about me before school started next year.

During one of those last days of school, Connor surprised me by inviting me over to hang out at his house after school. Connor's mom, Catherine, was beautiful and welcoming.

Once we got to his large, brick colonial home, we all sat around their kitchen table eating homemade chocolate chip cookies, and told stories and jokes. It was so cozy and normal. I had never experienced anything like it, or seen such a nice house before.

Catherine was not only warm and loving with her boys, but also with me, and it made me feel special for the first time ever.

I never invited Connor to my house. My mom was the complete opposite of Catherine, and our small, faded yellow house was not "welcoming", our tiny kitchen was only meant for a small two-person table.

The summer came and went with me going to Connor's almost every day, except for the weeks when he was on vacation-those weeks sucked. However, once he came back we were inseparable again, and that's how it's been ever since.

After I shut my locker, I turn to Connor and watch his pathetic begging. Even though we have been friends all of middle school and high school, I still consider myself a loner and keep to myself for the most part. He is right, of course, without him I would be a social pariah.

It's bad enough that people don't understand our friends.h.i.+p. It's not like I'm ugly or anything, but I don't think I'm one of those normal, pretty girls-you know, the ones with blonde hair, blue eyes and a perfect, little nose. Instead, I've got thick, wavy strawberry blonde hair, hazel eyes and a sprinkling of freckles across my nose.

Being the opposite of social and popular adds to the confusion about our friends.h.i.+p. I think people see me just like Connor said, as a loner, nerd or bookworm. Of course there's the stigma of playing the cello that follows me around everywhere.

Music folk aren't the top of the food chain in this high school, which is part of the reason I'm going to Oberlin College Conservatory of Music in Ohio, so I can focus on my music and be surrounded by people like me. I just have to get through the rest of senior year and living at home.

I look at Connor and sigh, "Ok, fine, you made your point. I'll go ... as long as I'm not babysitting."

"Sweet!" he says and grabs me in a hug. Releasing me, he turns to go work out with some of the guys from the baseball team and over his shoulder shouts, "I knew you would cave. I promise it will be fun. You won't regret it."

The Johnson's ended up not needing me to babysit. I guess that's a good thing because there was no way Connor was going to let me back out from going to this party-even though I could really use the money. I've been babysitting the Johnson's two kids since I was fourteen. They live only three houses down from me, so it works out great since I don't have to beg anyone for a ride to get there. The kids are good too and I'm pretty diligent about saving the money I make, and only using it for music or strings for my cello. My mom gives me money a couple of times a year for clothes and school supplies, but unlike a typical mom, she puts it in an envelope and leaves it for me on the dining room table.

To say that my mom is not a normal mother is an understatement. She's the exact opposite of me in every way-looks and personality. Her raven hair, dark eyes and pale skin are the complete contrast to my light hair and peachy complexion. My mom spends most of her time at work or out of the house. In fact, the more time she can spend away from me, the better. She's made herself very clear that she doesn't like me. I know hate is a strong word, but I'd go so far as to say that she hates me.

I shrug away thoughts of my mom and concentrate on my closet. I'm staring at my clothes trying to figure out what to wear to this stupid party tonight. Connor is picking me up soon, and I am at a serious loss for what to wear. My small closet holds a limited amount of clothes, mainly school clothes and orchestra performance clothes-mostly black and white, and usually long skirts or slacks, so it's easy for me to play the cello.

Since it's the end of January, I settle for a pair of skinny jeans and an olive green v-neck sweater and brown boots. Not very original, but the sweater is a little more low-cut than I typically feel comfortable with. I usually wear a tank top underneath it to hide the cleavage that I inherited from my mom-possibly the only thing besides my height that I inherited from her. Being five feet, five inches, I think my large C-cup chest is totally out of place on my average sized and thin, yet curvy frame.

But tonight ... tonight I'm embracing the whole 'New Year, New You' mentality. I think I will try to get out of my comfort zone and maybe try to fit in for once, well, at least with my appearance. A lot of kids from school will be at this party, including most of the baseball team, which is why Connor is expected to go.

Even though I've only been to a handful of parties, Connor usually doesn't go without me, despite the fact that I end up hiding behind him most of the night. I know-can you say wallflower? But seriously, I've practically lived by myself all my life, and when my mom is home I avoid her as much as I can. My social skills are not great, and the thought of having to make conversation with other kids at school really makes me nervous. I think that's why I gravitate to music so much. It gives me an outlet for my feelings and thoughts, without having to say anything. Music has also provided another barrier between mom and me.

I groan when I hear her walk through the front door and continue into the kitchen. I was really hoping that I'd be gone before she got home. I pick up my hair dryer and dry my long, naturally wavy hair.

I don't use much makeup. My mom never showed me how to wear it. I remember the first time I had tried to use makeup; it was at the start of my freshman year. At school that day, I had been teased for my freckles and thought if I got makeup I could hide them and I would be pretty like the other girls ... maybe. I put the makeup on-foundation, blush, eye shadow, mascara-all of it was layered on my face. I thought of showing my mom and see what she thought.

As soon as she saw me she started laughing, finally spitting out, "You look like a s.l.u.t with that makeup on."

Then for good measure-and the mother of the year award-she added, "But I think I like it better than what's underneath. You couldn't buy enough makeup to make yourself pretty."

The hurt was immediate, and as hard as I tried to hold them back, tears started running down my face. I ran to the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror.

She was right; I'd never be pretty like her or the other girls at school, and with tears streaked down my face I now looked like a clown. I scrubbed my face raw, and lulled myself to sleep following hours of crying. After that experience, it was a while before I wore makeup again. Now I wear nothing most of the time, but on special occasions-usually music performances-I put on a little blush, mascara, and lip-gloss, and that's what I do tonight.

I tug at the hem of my sweater and take another quick look at myself in the mirror. Pleased with my mediocre appearance, I go to the front door to wait for Connor. Thankfully, I don't have to wait long, because he is pulling in when I get to the door. I don't even say anything to my mom. I'm pretty sure she doesn't even know I was there-or she just doesn't care.

"Wow!" Connor says with his charming smile.

I pull myself into his truck and turn to him, "What?"

"You look great Harp. I mean really great," he says bewildered.

"Uh, thanks ... I guess" I blush. I am embarra.s.sed with the attention he's giving me and also a little annoyed. I don't know why he's looking at me like that. It's not like he hasn't seen me in a bikini before, and I definitely have more clothes on now.

"Sorry, it's just ... usually you hide yourself." He must have realized that I was annoyed and uncomfortable. If his reaction is any inclination of the attention I might be receiving tonight, well then, it is going to be a long night.

Connor starts talking about baseball and cla.s.ses and a bunch of other stuff, but before I tune him out I notice he looks good too ... like really good. He's wearing a gray v-neck T-s.h.i.+rt stretched tight across his broad shoulders, and large biceps. His jeans are pulling against his muscular legs. Looking at him makes my stomach flip, not for the first time, but the flips are becoming more of a regular occurrence these days, and I'm not really sure what to make of them.

When we get to Ethan Sommers' house, I am blown away by its sheer size. We live in a mid-sized town-Liberty, Iowa. It's big enough to not feel like we are in the middle of nowhere-since we have a mall and all the regular amenities-yet maintains a small-town feel. I know there is a wealthy section of town, but I have never had any reason to go there. I am always either, at my tiny house-that is in a lower middle-cla.s.s neighborhood-or I am at Connor's-located in a nice subdivision-which is four times the size of my house, but still no match for Ethan's.

Ethan is Connor's best guy friend, popular, athletic and well liked. I know his dad is an attorney, but I never knew they were this wealthy.

I stand in front of Connor's truck looking at the compound in front of me. The main house sits front and center and to the side, behind it is a secondary house. We walk toward the smaller home and Josh Peterson, one of Connor's teammates, greets us.

"Hey man, good to see ya," Josh and Connor fist b.u.mp.

"Keg's on the deck and most of the guys are downstairs in the game ..." Josh notices me, and apparently can't finish his sentence because when I look at him, he is staring at my chest. c.r.a.p. I knew this wasn't a good idea.

"... room." He finally spits out, after pulling his gaze away from my chest and looking back at Connor. I shake my head and look up at Connor, who is giving Josh a death stare.

I nudge Connor, "Come on, let's get a beer," I say pus.h.i.+ng him through the door and toward the deck.

"What was that about?"

"Nothing what do you mean?"

"Come on, you were staring Josh down. What was with that, huh?" I ask while he fills a red plastic cup with foamy beer.

"I, uh ...," he sighs and looks out over the deck, "I guess I didn't like the way he was staring at you."

"Connor, seriously, I know it hasn't escaped you that I'm a girl," I say trying to brush off my embarra.s.sment.

"Hey Connor, glad you made it," Ethan says slapping him on the back, "Can you fill me up too while you're at it? Oh hey Harp, almost didn't see ya there." He adds before he reaches over and gives me a one-armed hug pulling me to his side.

"Hey ... Emma around?"

Emma, Ethan's twin sister, is the only girl I actually do socialize with-a little. I had gotten used to their company over the summers when we would all find ourselves at Connor's pool to escape the hot weather. Emma and I also got a little closer last year when we were Anatomy partners. I always felt bad because I felt like our friends.h.i.+p was so one-sided since I had a hard time opening up to anyone but Connor.

"Yeah, she's around here somewhere ... thanks man! Catch ya downstairs," Ethan says grabbing his beer.

Connor nods and looks at me with a slight smirk on his face, "Let's go Harp. There's a pool table downstairs, whaddya say to a rematch? If I win, you do my English homework next week? Huh?" Connor has a pool table at his house too, and he's pretty good.

Once we get to the game room, I take a look around and see a dartboard, pool table, foosball table, large wall-mounted TV and a serious gaming system that looks complicated. There are probably already twenty people or so hanging around. Some are just sitting in the two leather couches, others are playing at the various games, while another large group of people are outside on the patio sitting and standing around a big fire pit. There is also a hot tub and pool just a bit further out from the fire pit. The pool isn't open yet but there are a few people in the hot tub.

Connor pulls me over to the pool table and grabs two cue sticks while we wait for some guys to finish their game.

"Hey Harp, Hey Connor," Emma says from behind me. When I turn toward her voice, she pulls me into a hug and when we pull away, I see she's eyeing me, "You look really cute tonight Harp-I like it!"

"Yeah, um, thanks. You look really cute too," I say. I feel heat creep up my chest and neck. I'm really not used to this much attention and am silently cursing myself for not wearing a tank top under this d.a.m.n sweater.

Emma and I are about the same size and she looks cute, like she always does. Tonight she's wearing skinny jeans, tall black boots and a black blazer over a purple tank top. She is the typical pretty girl that always gets attention with her sparkling blue eyes, blonde hair and fair skin, all of which she shares with Ethan. They are as close to identical as fraternal twins can get, except that Ethan's hair is a chestnut brown, but I think that makes his blue eyes stand out more.

"Hey Emma, Katie," Connor says. "You guys wanna watch me whip Harp's b.u.t.t in the next game?"

"Nah," Emma says, "I think we're gonna go outside by the fire pit for a little while. Catchya later!" As Emma starts walking out, I notice Katie is still standing, staring at Connor all googly-eyed.

"Katie, come on!" Emma yells from the doors. Katie blushes and runs over to meet her.

I look at Connor and laugh while shaking my head.

"What?" he smirks.

"You-that's what."

"I can't help that I'm ridiculously handsome, and therefore can't be held responsible for the actions of the opposite s.e.x."

"Full of yourself much?" I ask while rolling my eyes.

"Hey, you guys want to play teams?" Justin Turner asks interrupting us.

He is standing with a kid I don't recognize, so I turn to Connor to grab the cue out of his hand.

"Yeah, man, let's go," Connor replies. "Eight ball good with everyone?"

"Sounds good to me," Justin agrees. "You ready?" he says to the guy I don't recognize and who is now looking at me.

"Yep, I'm good. I'm Vincent, Justin's cousin."

After he introduces himself I can see the resemblance between the cousins. Both have dark hair and dark eyes but Vincent has really dark olive skin, while Justin is quite a bit paler. Both are about the same build and height, but you can see the difference of their personalities in their clothes.

Justin is wearing loose fitting jeans and a T-s.h.i.+rt and tennis shoes while Vincent is wearing jeans and a black leather jacket over a white V-neck. He is definitely rocking the bad boy thing and to be honest, it works on him. He looks older than Justin and I wonder if he is even still in high school, but if he isn't I don't know why he'd want to come to a silly high school party.

Connor breaks my thought process, "You wanna break, Harp?" he asks.

I shake my head no and blush-again-while looking down. I can hear Justin and his cousin whispering about me, and laughing that I probably don't know anything about pool, and how easy this game is going to be. So I gladly let Connor break, and take the unwanted attention away from me. He sinks three b.a.l.l.s, two stripes and one solid, so we call stripes. Justin goes next and sinks the first solid but misses the second one. Now that I'm up, I am really cursing myself for wearing this sweater, because once I lean over the pool table, I know those guys are going to be staring straight down my chest. c.r.a.p.

I sigh and walk over to make my shot and just as predicted, when I lean over to get it lined up, I peak up and see Justin and Vincent standing directly across from me, staring straight down my cleavage.

G.o.d, teenage boys are so predictable.

I reposition myself and take the shot sinking it, plus my next one. When Vincent goes to take his shot, he walks around the table a.s.sessing his next move-which is pretty clear to me-and should be an easy shot for him. He has a good set up to sink his ball that is on the other side of the table, but he keeps stalking toward me. When he gets to where I am, he walks behind me brus.h.i.+ng his shoulder against my back and leans in.

"Thanks for the sweet set up." He says and then he grabs my a.s.s.

OMG. Seriously. Did he just do that?

I look over to Connor for some help, but he has his back turned talking to one of the other baseball players. By the time I realize Connor isn't paying attention, Vincent has already moved to the other side of the table and is taking his shot. He makes the next two shots but not the third.

Good, maybe this game will be over soon.

"Nice shot man," Connor acknowledges.