I stare down at the words across the screen of my laptop. I’m on the admissions page for a community college near our apartment. If things go well, I might take a class this fall. My therapist said starting small was still a start, so.

I wait for the words APPLICATION RECEIVED to flash across the screen, and then I click it shut.

“I’m so ready.”

Gray twirls her keys around her finger and then tosses them in my direction. “You’re driving,” she says, and I catch them.

Because yeah, for once I am.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Jubilee

I WENT TO my first physical therapy session today, and it kind of sucked, so Jayla and Nikki are over trying to cheer me up. I’m a couple weeks post-op now, and everybody’s extremely happy with the results. I am too, I guess, but this big rush to get me back to playing just seems pointless now that I’ve missed my audition. When we told the conservatory what happened, they offered to reschedule to the end of the decision period, but I had to decline. I knew I wouldn’t be ready. Even if I was cleared, it would still take time to get back my technique.

Jayla shoves open my bedroom curtains and pushes up the window. The sounds of birds and traffic flood my room. The brightness is nice, but when it hits my cello case—highlighting a thin layer of dust—I swallow hard and go back to fiddling with the straps of my splint.

“Come on, Jubi, let’s go do something,” Jayla says, but I ignore her.

I don’t really do anything these days besides go to school and hang out in my room, and Jayla knows it. I haven’t been back to the shop since everything happened. Memories of Ridley cover every inch of it and I’m just not ready, and without that or my rehearsals and lessons, I find myself with a lot of free time. Too much, really.

Nikki flops down beside me while Jayla moves to open the second window. “Okay, no more moping. We can do anything you want, you name it.”

“I want my cello to not be covered in dust, and I want to play it.”

“No actual playing for at least two more weeks, doctor’s orders.” Jayla leans against the windowsill. “But we can definitely help with the first part. I wasn’t going to say it, but this room is disgusting.”

And so that’s how we end up spending a perfectly good Saturday playing “keep or toss” while cleaning my room. We toss all the old painkillers and antibiotics and keep the get-well-soon cards. We toss the now deflated balloons and keep my hospital wristband. We take it item by item until it looks less like a recovery room and more like my own space.