Awakening Foster Kelly Read online

  Awakening Foster Kelly

  Cara Rosalie Olsen

  Acknowledgments

  There is something about the first one.

  Whether it be a person, a thing, or in my case this book, I believe there exists a nook in every single heart, a very special place, designed solely for the “one-s” collected over a lifetime. I wanted this badly; the way a mother yearns for her first child.

  But there are many candles on this cake. And so without further ado . . .

  The first people I would like to thank are those of you who loved my book nearly as much as I enjoyed writing it. Sarah Goodale, you were among the aboriginals, embracing Foster as she emerged from the egg. I will never forget our AFK talks, to which you rendered me a grinning fool; you with your notebook full of chicken-scratch, filling my heart with buttery accolades and apt loathing for my villain. Thank you for falling in love with my characters. Nichole Marshall, for telling me: “I stayed up until two a.m. reading your book.” Tammy Roland, for your eagerness and your time, but even more for your support. No one cheers like you do, Spammy.

  For Keren Broce, editorial phenom and all around lovely person. By no means is this a perfect book. We did our best, but we will not have caught them all. There will be battle wounds. This author thanks you from the bottom of her word-bubbled heart. A heartfelt thank you also goes to my assistant editors, Debi Clayton and Leah Greenwald.

  Johnna Moretti, a fellow writer whose formidable skill is preceded only by an insatiable lust for well-written fiction—it was this comment I loved best: “I am hooked. No work will be done today – just the reading of AFK. I hope my boss is okay with that.” Kristin Imamura, my main squeeze, there is simply too much. Oh, but you know I’ll try. To have a writer whom I relate with and respect—someone who understands how snarky a blank white page can be, the convoluted affair between what’s interesting and what’s only plain weird, and of course, the never-to-be-matched feeling of “Holy &^%* I’m a good writer after all!”—to have you read my words and comprehend them with such startling accuracy is a gift I will keep with me always. When I was buried beneath discouragement, it was you who handed me a shovel and provided the fertilizer. Thank you!

  The third bunch of heroes I would like to thank didn’t necessarily play a direct role in AFK’s incipience or survival, but certainly did so in its creator’s. And when you think about it, really it’s the same thing. Tiana Roy, the word “friend” doesn’t seem quite adequate. Finding you in the midst of both a confusing and uncomfortable time was like finding a piece of myself I hadn’t known was missing. And since then I have fallen in love with you and your husband. Aaron Roy, I love you, Brother. Thank you for being in our lives. Jeff Corbett, we have a history dating back to late-night munchie-runs and unsavory humor; and despite your terrible taste in music I think you’re awesome. It is for those reasons—“Hee-Hee-Hee”—and so many more that I am grateful for you. Lori Tracy-Carter, you are positively, without a doubt, the sweetest thing in all of Texas. Amanda Young, my level 5. We understand one another so well. We are like two separate threads of the same spool. I love you. Mom, thank you for being my only friend and closest confidant way back then, when I was wonky and the bad kind of weird. Dad, for quietly loving fanciful words like “predilection,” and for innately passing this fondness onto me. Susan Olsen, for the roof over our heads, which has made this whole endeavor feasible. Diana Gabaldon, it is you who set that bar so impossibly high, who stretched and lengthened my tendons, and leaving me with no other choice but to reach even higher. I would also like to thank Becki Roy and Ellen and Lenny Kimura, for being excited for me, and several statements of “I know of someone . . .” Vicki Forman, for these wise words: “If we authors don't take the work as far as we can, who else will?” And Mike Messner for telling me: “No matter what, you should get the book published.” Ha, look I did!

  Goodness. I’m beginning to feel as though I’ve just taken the award for Best Actress. A little premature, perhaps, but I’m all right with that.

  There are three I have left to thank. The first—because He is—I am privileged to call Friend. He is my Savior, Jesus Christ. Father, you’ve given to me more than I could ever hope for myself. You spoil me. And it’s true—all things are possible through You. Bella, my snail. Mommy loves you so much. Your sweet, goopy eyes and your feather-duster tail. You have stolen my heart entirely and it’s quite possible I love you more than a human ought to love a dog. But we don’t care, do we?

  And Michael Olsen . . . Oh, for goodness’ sake! How do all those hats stay on your head?! To this day I remain leery of your origin; there is something supernatural at work and I intend to put my finger on it one of these days. Really, dear, it’s unfair to the rest of us floundering mortals. There are not enough praises I can sing for you. So, my husband, best friend, counselor, number one supporter, tear-collector, dream-enthusiast, editor, graphic artist, and all around human-extraordinaire, may I just say thank you for believing in me. I am Dumbo, and you are my feather.

  To my sensational readers:

  You’re incredibly brave, aren’t you? Perhaps once you’ve finished reading all 672 pages, my long-windedness will serve you as an ornamental dumbbell; or in the event someone you wish to stay put is getting away, merely place this book somewhere on their body and watch how effortlessly you incapacitate them. Surely the possibilities are endless, eh? I raise my glass to you.

  Your friend,

  The Loquacious One

  “To be nobody-but-yourself—in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else—means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting.”

  E. E. Cummings

  Prologue

  Inhaling deeply, I waited for the soft commanding pull just below my belly button, arranging one hand, then the other, to rest over the cool, ivory piano keys. Like gossamer strands, my fingers went taut for the barest of seconds before compelled into pliant submission. Starting at the tips of my toes, Chopin’s Nocturne in F Major pulsed through my body, whisking me away from the dissonance of the day to a place of peace. I could breathe.

  Exhale.

  Within moments, my spine had softened—a reed bobbing with the cadence of the piece. I embraced the dark, feeling my way through the music without need for sight.

  The song began as somewhat of a lullaby: sweet leisurely notes gently depicting tranquility. The high belling overtones danced, rising and falling, dropping and curving, all to present a picture in my mind of birds painting the sky with their flight patterns. Beneath the languid notes there remained a constant and much lower melody—another bird—barely spreading her wings; just enough to avoid crashing. This little bird, ordinary in shape and color, flew in a straight, steady line, far below the shortest trees. Careful not to disturb or disrupt the other inhabitants of the air, she was content to observe them, watching how they spun and quivered, soared and sang, lifting their voices and volant bodies in joyous proclamation. She observed their loveliness without envy or impulse, never deviating from her safe trajectory.

  By chance, a beautiful butterfly flew by and, taking pity on the pathetic bird, she tried to coax her, encourage her, nudge her away from the dismal ground. Astonished by the sight of a creature with capable wings she did not use, the butterfly flapped and fluttered, displaying her vibrant stained-glass wings; for this she received an appreciative hop, but the bird made no attempt to copy her. With one last appeal the butterfly executed a devastatingly lovely pirouette; she took her time with it, basking in the flaxen sunlight, knowing the entire world had paused to behold such a beauty.

  All but one.

  Upon finishing, the butterfly sought to find the
bird, certain her dance had inspired a flight. And though she searched both high and low, it appeared the odd creature had vanished into thin air. Soon the butterfly tired, fluttering away to join her friends, leaving that little bird—hiding deep within a berry bush—to her dull and empty life.

  And there she stayed for awhile, passing time, until it was safe once more to come out . . .

  Only, it wasn’t.

  Stormy notes, beastly in temper, rioted in rebellion. Where there was once peace and predictability, there now was only chaos and danger; and it was entirely the little bird’s fault. Flying with her head down, no more than a foot above the ground, she did not see him coming straight at her.

  A collision ensued and they tumbled to the earth.

  Seeing him, the little bird faltered.

  Darker than midnight and with eyes like the royal sky, he railed at her, furious and frightening. She tried to apologize, to explain: it was only an accident. Never had she expected to find another bird this far below the trees, hiding. But even accidents assume a price. And for this one she would pay dearly.

  She, just a small, ordinary bird, was no longer invisible.

  Chapter One

  There were times when I carried my imagination so far away with me that finding my way home was like swimming backward through a rainbow.

  ~

  Behind the stage everyone was very busy. All except for me, where I sat curled in a chair before a lighted mirror that made me feel like a fresh-from-the-oven apple pie resting on the windowsill beneath the noonday sun. Over the last hour sweat rings continued to expand down my ribs. Soon my grass-green t-shirt would be forest-green.

  My clawed-at nerves were not helping things. I glanced in the mirror, wondering when the person named Star would appear; she was to try and make me presentable.

  Stern, black-clad security-guards loomed like cumulonimbus storm clouds. Heavily caffeinated assistants shouted into headsets, their legs moving like centrifuges. Behind me, bands and their entourages continued to drift by in large herds before disappearing on the other side of the long, black curtain separating the stage. I kept my chin down and eyes cornered, pausing on each face captured briefly in the mirror.

  A robust blonde woman with leopard-frame glasses sashayed up to a clothing rack near me.

  Perhaps that’s her? I wondered and straightened up a little.

  She ran her tongue along the inside of her bottom lip, meditatively, sifting through each piece of clothing. “No. No. No. No,” she repeated in monotone, like a scratched record. The woman’s voice was deep and croaky, with just the right amount of hum.

  I waited to be noticed, flicking my eyes toward her every couple of seconds. Though I was only a few feet to her right, she didn’t seem to see me.

  Removing a vinyl skirt from the rack—the color of pink cotton-candy—she held it up, scrutinizing it. “You’re not perfect—that’s for sure. But a pair of thick, black tights could make you look darker. Yes,” she nodded definitively, “you’ll work.”

  A few seconds later, a tiny girl—whom I might have mistakenly thought to be no older than twelve, if not for the two features suggesting otherwise—walked up from behind. In the mirror I saw she was fair skinned, and her hair was also pink—a shade lighter than the skirt—and curled into an amazing confection of perfect tendrils.

  When I was younger I had a book about a doll that came alive just before the sun rose, who quietly went about a haunted mansion touching things and changing their color to pink. Her name, I was fairly certain, was Pink Prudence, and she might have been standing behind me.

  “Really, Max? I don’t know,” the porcelain girl replied, eyeing the skirt doubtfully. “You don’t think it will, like, clash?”

  Max laughed. It sounded like a fire being smothered with damp towels. She tipped her chin down and peered over the rims of her glasses, smirking. “Why yes, I do. This is BandSlam, Angel, not the ballet. Clashing is a good thing, you’ll see. Tell me, have I ever styled you wrong?”

  “No,” Angel replied, with a insouciant shrug. “But my mother says there’s always a first time.”

  “Well, your mother would know, wouldn’t she?” Max rolled her eyes and waved a hand. “Child, you need to trust me, k? They don’t pay me to be beautiful—that I give ’em for free. But they do pay me because I’m damn good at what I do. Before you were born, I was the one wrapping ascots around Elton John’s fabulous neck.” Leaving, Max snagged a pair of black velvet boots from an open trunk. “Did I ever tell you about the time I salsa-danced with Elton?”

  Just the thought of trying to walk in those boots made me dizzy. Alone again, I resumed mirror watching. How difficult could it be to find a Star?

  A ruddy man no taller than my chair came to a halt a few feet from me. It was as though a tall person had been shrunk, everything perfectly proportional. The collared white t-shirt swallowed up his arms, and the khaki pants rendered his legs indistinguishable. Scowling at no one in particular, he raised a megaphone to his lips and said, "Three minutes, people," terse voice ringing through the air. Then he extended three small, well-manicured fingers. "Three minutes!" Sweating profusely he mopped his brow, carefully navigating around the brown toupee precariously positioned on his head.

  This cannot be Star . . . can it?

  Frantically flipping through a clipboard, he trailed a finger down a list of some sort, looking up suddenly and turning his attention to me, glaring. “You!” he snapped, causing a jolt to pass through me. "Are you Foster Kelly?”

  “Yes,” I answered, my voice cracking the word in half.

  He strode forward, walking as fast as his legs could carry him, while I furtively read his nametag. Lionel - Stage Manager.

  Lionel sidled up next to me but didn’t look at me; he glowered at the clipboard. “All right, so here’s the BandSlam schedule,” he indicated, pointing. The tip of his finger turned white when he jabbed it against the board. “And here you are at seven-o-eight, got it? I'm squeezing you in between Coldplay and Green Day. Now listen. You have exactly four minutes—foh-oo-er,” he repeated, enunciating the word so well he managed to divide it into three syllables. “The clock will begin ticking starting from the second you step on stage. At the end of four minutes, I suggest you use those sticks of yours to hightail it off the stage. Got it?”

  I nodded immediately, but again he wasn't looking at me. Lionel’s head shot up and swung around. “Got it?”

  “Y-yes. I understand,” I said, my words breathy and lacking assurance.

  He gave me a cursory glance, his expression softening some. “You’ll be fine.” Lionel released the pages held back in his hand, and they flapped into place. “Just don’t waste time greeting the audience, or any of that blah-blah nonsense, all right? I can assure you, Foster Kelly, nobody out there paid a hundred and five dollars to watch some high school kid tap at piano keys. Even if you’re good—which I heard you are, so congratulations—they won’t care,” he said without malice. “Because they don’t know you from a used Kleenex.” He smiled at me. It was a nice smile: small white teeth embraced by full, freckled lips.

  With some effort I returned it.

  “You're on immediately after Coldplay,” he reminded me. “You now have”—glancing at his watch—“eleven minutes and seventeen seconds before you need to be on stage.”

  I knew it wasn’t possible to be physically knocked over by words; if it were, though, I would have been on the floor in a gooey puddle of flesh and bone.

  I blinked, recoiling at Lionel’s snapping fingers, inches from my face. “Now is not the time for daydreaming,” he growled. “Did you hear me, Piano Girl?”

  “Yes, I’m sorry, yes,” I replied. “I heard you. Eleven minutes and seventeen seconds.”

  “No . . . ten minutes and fifty-two seconds,” he corrected. Suddenly his face went slack, as though something had just occurred to him. Stepping closer, Lionel moved his eyes up and down and around my entire face, coppery brows merged together di
sapprovingly. I had no idea what was happening and decided it best to remain very still. Finally he whispered, “Why does your face look like that?”

  Lionel whispering was significantly more terrifying than Lionel shouting.

  I put my hands to my cheeks, trying to cover the object of his disgust. “Oh . . .” I understood I wasn’t especially attractive; still, few people tended to verbally remark on that fact. I continued to stammer, working to come up with a reason to explain my lack of beauty. “I haven’t—”

  “You should have makeup on,” he interrupted. “Where’s Star?”

  “I’m not su—”

  The megaphone was smashed against his lips before I had a chance to finish.

  “Star! I need you to report to wardrobe-six—immediately!” I cringed away from the shrill feedback ringing razors in my ears. When he appeared to be finished yelling, Lionel changed routes spontaneously, before I could cover my ears again. “And somebody bring me a Diet Coke. I’m dehydrated. Make it two, actually.” Lionel lowered the megaphone and smiled. Instantly his face was transformed into that of a lion cub.

  “She’ll be here shortly,” he told me.

  “Okay.” I nodded. “Thank you.”

  “I’m going to let the producer know we’re all set here.” Lionel walked away then; every couple of feet he brandished his sonorous weapon, shouting at unsuspecting passersby.

  I noted then that the backstage area cleared out pretty quickly.

  As Lionel left I strangely yearned for him to come back. Even belligerent company was better than the choking anxiety that invaded when I was alone.

  To my right, a rowdy group of men shuffled out from behind the curtain. They were obviously one of the bands Lionel had mentioned, but I couldn’t remember either of the names or whom I was supposed to be succeeding. With no sign of Star anywhere, I decided to take a peek at the crowd and see just how many people had turned out for the event, hoping to ease the all-over body trembling.