HE CAN SEE why Sally likes this music. It’s really good. It can be really loud and it can be really quiet, really fast and really slow. It can be violent. It can be chaotic. And it can be like a lullaby, almost. It makes him feel happy and sad within the same song—except they don’t call it a song, they call it a concerto. He already knew that. He knew they were called concertos before he looked up the cello stuff this afternoon.
This music can do one other thing, too, at least tonight: It can get Sally’s attention, up the beach a ways.
“Excuse me.”
He pretends to be startled at Sally’s voice. It’s actually not that hard to pretend, because he’s nervous, anyway. So it kinda works double like that.
“Sorry to bother you. Is this—is this Weilerstein?”
“Oh, um … is the music too … too loud?”
“No, not at all—”
“Sorry.”
“No, I love this music. You’re a fan?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs. “I don’t know much about it. I just … like it.”
See, he planned this out. He knew that if he pretended like he knew all sorts of stuff about the cello, she’d ask him questions he couldn’t answer. That’s an example that he’s maybe not so smart in school, but smart in planning stuff.
She laughs. “That’s all you need to know. People get so caught up in all the pretentious bullshit.”
“Yeah. It’s just so …” He leans forward. “Like you feel happy and sad at the same time, kinda.”
“I totally know what you mean. It can be so emotional, right?”
He can hardly see Sally’s face as she stands over him, but he can smell her. Fruit. She smells like fruit.
“I have … wine,” he says. “If you …”
“Yeah, I mean … if that’s cool.”
“Okay, yeah.” Still nervous. But that’s okay, because it makes him seem harmless to her.
She sits down next to him on the blanket he’s laid out, next to the Fun Bag with the wine bottle sticking out.
Through the speaker on his iPod, the cellist bursts out of a lull with a crisp flourish.
Holden pours some wine into a plastic glass and hands it to Sally. “It’s not … fancy or anything,” he says.
“No, that’s cool, whatever.”
He hopes she doesn’t notice his fingernails, all chewed up. But it’s dark.
They listen to the music. The smell of the ocean, the gentle rush of the waves, the berry scent of Sally’s shampoo …
“Now, this is paradise,” Sally says. “I mean, what’s better than listening to music like this with the waves crashing out here, the stars in the sky, and a glass of wine?”
The wind kicks up, plays with Sally’s hair. She has on a sweatshirt, but her legs are bare. He considers offering her a blanket—but better to stay low-key.
One concerto ends, Sally making a comment about the fluidity of the cellist’s bow strokes, and before long she has drained her glass. That should be enough.
“I’m Sally, by the way.”
“Holden,” he says.
She looks over at him. “That’s a nice name. Unique. Like The Catch—oh. Oh, wow.” She puts her hand on her chest, sits upright.
A new concerto. The cellist hits a climax early on, joined by other strings and some percussion.
“I think … I think something …” Sally lets out a low moan.
He lifts his face to the sky, feels the gentle breeze. “I think … it’s time,” he says.
“I—I feel funny.” Sally lets out a moan. She tries to push herself up, but it’s like the signals aren’t reaching her limbs. She can’t make her arms or legs work.
“I finally … get it,” he says. Warmth spreads through him, like a cup of hot cocoa.
There is a monster inside me. It can sleep for days, for months. But it will never go away.
“Help … help me.” Sally turns to him, her face tight with fear, her eyes searching his. He watches her face closely, the trembling lips, the wide eyes, the flaring nostrils, pure horror. So pure. So real.
She’s losing her motor functions. She can’t move her arms or legs anymore. She’ll have trouble speaking, too. But she can still breathe.
“I … pl-please …” Just a whisper now. Her arms give out and she falls prone on the blanket, the music dropping to a low point. Lots of highs and lows with this cello music. Like a roller coaster. Like his stomach feels sometimes.
Her lips are quivering and her eyes move frantically about. That’s going to be the extent of her physical movements until the drug wears off. By then, it will be too late.
He puts himself over her, lowers his face to hers. “Don’t be afraid,” he whispers, his voice feeling stronger now. “You can’t … move, but … you’ll still feel.”
Her trembling lips try to form a word.
“You’ll feel … everything,” he says.
54