I walk toward the door. But that’s when I see my notebook, the one I was carrying at their party yesterday. It’s by Mr. Madison’s elbow.
“I believe this is mine,” I say. I reach for it.
“I beg your pardon,” Mr. Madison says. “This belongs to Trip.” He chuckles and taps his temple. “Smart boy that one. It’s a shame you don’t have any of his talent.” He flips open my notebook and shows me my own drawings. “That boy came up with a way to change my ad campaign. And it’s damn good, if I do say so myself. I’m rather proud of him.” He smiles at me and flips through my drawings, showing them to me one by one.
“When did he give you these?” I ask.
“This morning. He worked on them all night last night.”
Just then, Trip walks in the door. His smile falters when he sees me looking at my own notebook, at the drawings I made, at the plan I came up with. “Mr. Madison was just showing me your drawings,” I say. “I didn’t know you had it in you, Trip.”
“It’s funny what you can do when you have a few hours alone to think, isn’t it?” Trip adjusts his suit coat, looking nervous as hell. “I did it last night when I was waiting up for Emily to come home.” He shoots me a glare. He’s daring me to deny that Emily was with me. I won’t deny anything, and I won’t claim anything. Not today.
Trip smiles at me when I don’t respond. He thinks he’s won. But I can’t help it. I have to do it. I rear back and hit Trip in the f**king face as hard as I can. He falls to the floor like a stone, and Mr. Madison rushes from behind his desk. He calls for security, but they don’t need to come. I’m done here.
“Mrs. Madison,” I say as I walk past her. I refuse to run. I’m feeling too damn good right now. That f**ker is stretched out on the floor not moving, and I put him there. I’m feeling lighter than I have since he came to town.
Mrs. Madison smiles at me. “Logan,” she says, inclining her head. A smile tickles her lips, but she refuses to let it break. “Thanks for dropping by.” She covers her mouth when a laugh tries to burst forward.
“Anytime,” I reply. I let myself out. I’m done here. So f**king done.
But I stick my head back in at the last minute. “We’d like to have you for dinner tomorrow night, if you’re available.”
“What time?” she asks.
“Eight? I’ll have Emily send you the address.”
“We’ll see you then.” She nods at me again as I slip out the door. I shake out my hand. It hurts like a mother f**ker. But it was so worth it.
Emily
It’s late but I can’t leave yet. I haven’t finished listening to my textbook so I can get my homework done. I paid attention in class, and I even took some notes, but I have to listen to my textbooks, unlike most students. I sit in the library and have my text-to-speech program read to me. I am a good listener, and I can remember most things. It just takes me twice as long to listen to someone else read than it does for most people to read it themselves.
When I have a firm grasp on the material from today’s classes, I finally take the headphones off. I look over my notes and smile. I can do this. I am smart. And I have kept my secret long enough. All of my instructors are aware of my dyslexia, and while they’re not going to make anything easy for me, they are willing to work with me. It turns out that many musical prodigies struggle to learn in the traditional sense—or so says one of my teachers. He even confessed that he has an “undiagnosed processing problem” that makes learning hard for him. That’s why he turned to music in the first place. I like Dr. Ball a lot. He kept me after class to talk about my limitations. Or lack of limitations, as he termed it.
I tried to assure him that I can do anything he puts before me, and I think he got it. I want this. I want it so badly. I want to excel at something even though I read, in a traditional sense, at a first-grade level. I’ve kept my secret long enough. It’s time to let it be known. So that’s what I’m doing.
Dr. Ball is helping each of us plan our individual pieces for the showcase. I explained to him what I want to do, and he seemed intrigued by it. Logan can’t understand music. He can’t understand the rise and the fall of the notes, and he can’t understand the tempo or the beat, unless there’s a heavy bass. I want to translate music into something he can understand. Dr. Ball hooked me up with one of his other students who does audio-visual work, and he’s going to help me make a multi-layered presentation. I already know the song. I have had in my head for years. I wrote it when I used to watch my dad sleep. I would wonder why I didn’t measure up in his eyes. I know the song, and I know the notes. Now I just need to work on the actual presentation.
I look up when a man sits down across from me. Logan smiles, his breaths heavy. He props his head on his chin and blinks his pretty blue eyes at me. “Would your boyfriend be mad if I sit here with you?” he asks, his grin almost contagious.
“My boyfriend would kick your ass,” I say as seriously as I can. But a laugh escapes me. I look around when the librarian raps her desk with a ruler. I sign to Logan instead.
My boyfriend will kick your ass, I say again. You might want to get out of here. He’s a mean SOB when he’s provoked.
He laughs with no sound. God, he’s so handsome when he smiles. And when he’s not smiling. And when he’s sleeping. And when he’s awake. And when he’s breathing.