Page 33 of Grown

I look down at the fist I formed over my heart, nails digging into my palms ready to fight, almost daring him to touch it.

“Close your eyes,” he says. “And envision the moment this song first entered your heart.”

“I... don’t want to talk about it,” I whimper.

He frowns. “You afraid of me?”

“No.”

“Good. Then trust me.”

I close my eyes and hear the sea. Waves crashing against the shore. I smell Grandma’s sage and suntan lotion as the record skips... skipping again.

“We’ve worn this out, Chanty. How about you just sing it for us?”

A smile creeps on my face as I open my eyes. I take a step back, shaking my hands free.

“Aight. I’m ready.”

Korey restarts the song and gives me space, letting me take the stage alone. A wave of joy replaces the numbness, and my whole body comes alive.

“Arch your neck back,” Korey says over the music. “Relax the muscles trying to tighten your throat. The notes you need are stuck in there.”

I roll my neck around, feeling the weight of my head fall off my shoulders. My back arches, blood racing, smile widening. This is my favorite album, one of my favorite songs, why shouldn’t I smile?

“Where do broken hearts go?

Can they find their way home?”

“Use your arms,” he instructs. “You are begging for answers. Wheredobroken hearts go?”

I reach out to the ceiling lights, pretending I’m singing to Grandma again. I spin around and sing to Korey, watching in awe as he circles me. He moves closer, no longer hesitating. The notes I haven’t hit since I was a child come rumbling through me, shrieking like the trains through a tunnel. I pump my arms, a surge of victory taking over.

“Yes! Yes!” Korey cheers from beside me and I feel the need to sing to him and only him, inching closer.

“I look in your eyes,

and I know that you still care for me.”

The song ends and I gasp at the lightning that has replaced my veins. All this time, my heart has been beating, but this is the first time I’ve felt fully alive.

“Again?” Korey asks, breathless.

“Again!”

Chapter 21

432,000

432,000. That’s how many seconds have to pass before I can see Korey again.

Our back-and-forth texts are not enough. Our song volleying is not enough. Even stalking him on social media is not enough. Every second that passes without him—without singing—feels like I’m swimming through a swamp, the mud sticking to my skin, consuming me, pulling me under.

Send me a pic

“Who are you texting?”

I drop the phone on the floor, the carpet breaking its fall.