BooksBarbecue
Back Scars Like Wings
Chapters (55)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. 15
  18. 16
  19. 17
  20. 18
  21. 19
  22. 20
  23. 21
  24. 22
  25. 23
  26. 24
  27. 25
  28. 26
  29. 27
  30. 28
  31. 29
  32. 30
  33. 31
  34. 32
  35. 33
  36. 34
  37. 35
  38. 36
  39. 37
  40. 38
  41. 39
  42. 40
  43. 41
  44. 42
  45. 43
  46. 44
  47. 45
  48. 46
  49. 47
  50. 48
  51. 49
  52. 50
  53. Acknowledgments
  54. About the Author
  55. What’s next onyour reading list?

I didn't know he was right there next to me

giving up.

I didn't want to give up.

I wanted to fight—

So I started with this:

I would not be wheeled out

in the middle of the night,

an anonymous face under a white sheet.

I would walk out

on my own two feet.

When Linda came in the next day,

I was already on the edge of my bed.

"I'm ready."

26

I have less than a week to prep for my audition.

Cora helps me practice, telling me to feel the lyrics and let the words sing through me. I remind her it’s high school, not Broadway.

“I’m sorry, I’m just so happy you asked me.” She plays a scale on the piano. “You’ve been so busy since going back to school. I started to feel pretty useless around here.”

“Useless? You’re a one-woman pep squad.”

She laughs. I leave out the part where I only asked for her help because Piper is indefinitely grounded for her tattoo treachery. So Cora helps me practice my audition.

When I sing it for Cora, she stops playing midsong to grab a tissue.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s just…Glenn used to sing that to Sara when she was little. I guess your grandmother used to sing it to him.”

A flash of memory takes me back to my bedroom, Mom stroking my arm.

“My mom sang it to me.” I sit down on the piano bench next to Cora. She dabs at the bottom of her eyelids, careful not to smudge her mascara.

“You sound just like her.”

“I do?” I tap a key lightly with my finger, trying to remember the exact pitch of her voice. “Sometimes I worry I’m forgetting. Like one day I’m going to wake up and her voice will just be gone. She’ll be gone.”

Cora taps a key in time with mine.

“Me too.”

“I do have a voice mail she left me,” I say. “A deeply profound message about deodorant.”

Cora laughs and grabs her phone off the top of the piano. Sara pops up on her screen in a shaky, selfie video.

“Mom. Pick me up at the south entrance today,” she says. “Don’t forget. Sooouth. Opposite of north. You’ll know it’s me because I’ll look like this—” Sara makes a ridiculous duckface with her lips in a mock-sexy pout. “Also, you gave birth to me, so there’s that.”

The video stops, freezing Sara as she blows a kiss into the camera.

“You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve watched that,” Cora says.

I can’t help smiling.

“I bet I would.”

She lost a daughter. I lost a mother. But as we sit there side by side, the differences don’t matter.

Pain is pain.