Again Ella studied the images and looked intently at their faces. She didn’t recognize any of them. Whoever the people were, her parents must have lost touch with them. Ella tilted her head, sad for the loss. Everyone missed out when friendships died. And this one clearly had died a long time ago, because Ella had no idea who the people were.
The next few pages were more of the same. Beneath a few of the pictures, her mother had identified the couple as Tracy and Dan—but no last name. And every other picture was another darling shot of her and this Holden kid. Whoever he was, he had huge blue eyes. Familiar eyes, almost, and Ella wondered if some part of her brain somehow remembered back that long ago.
It wasn’t until a few pages more into the book that she reached a page that consisted entirely of an enlarged photograph of her and the little boy. The picture was of the two of them dancing, and it appeared almost professional. Beneath the photo —
Ella gasped. Her feet slid forward and she nearly dropped the book. “What in the world…?”
Beneath the beautiful picture, the caption read “Ella Jean Reynolds and Holden Benjamin Harris—age 3.”
Holden Harris? The same Holden Harris autistic boy at her school? It wasn’t possible, right? She and her parents had lived in New York for a decade. And before that they’d been all over Atlanta. They’d moved from Dunwoody to Duluth and finally to Johns Creek four years ago. There was no way the boy in the pictures could be the same kid who walked around Fulton flapping his arms. The boy in the photographs was normal. He was smiling and playing and dancing like a regular kid. His eyes had the look of someone fully with it, fully there. Not Holden’s vacant, spacey look.
But the longer she looked at his eyes, the more the truth became clear. The boy in the picture and the Holden at school had the same eyes. And slowly … like the most beautiful sunrise … the truth dawned on her. And as it did, she understood why Holden had seemed so familiar.
A lifetime ago, Holden Harris had been her friend.
She lifted the edges of the yellowed plastic protector and carefully removed one of the smaller pictures of Holden and her. She also eased from the page one of the photographs of their parents. Something was very wrong with all of this. How had their families met, and what had happened to separate them? Most of all, how come Holden looked normal in the pictures, when he was so far from it now?
Suddenly she remembered the card Holden had showed her the first day he came by her drama class. The card had two eyes and the words I see. He hadn’t acted like he knew her, and he certainly hadn’t said anything about recognizing her. But maybe there was a deeper meaning to the words on his flash card. Maybe he was trying to tell her he knew her, that he could see past the years to the little girl she’d once been. It was possible, right?
Ella had no answers. She put the photo albums back in the cupboard and found an empty folder from among her father’s office supplies downstairs. She slipped the photographs inside and hurried to the closest computer. Her research could take all night, but she didn’t care. She had to have answers about why Holden had changed, and how come they stopped being friends. This was one place to start. She positioned the cursor on the Google search line and typed in just one word.
Autism.
Nine
TRACY MANAGED TO ENTER AT THE BACK OF THE THEATER ROOM and find a seat without catching Holden’s attention. The room held about a hundred seats and a small stage —large enough for rehearsals, but nothing more. Tracy tried to still her nerves. This was Holden’s first day observing the class, and Tracy was grateful Mrs. Bristowe had granted her permission to join him. If Holden had an outburst, no one could help calm him better than she could.
She’d been looking forward to this all weekend. She’d even called Dan and told him the news. “Holden’s going to watch the drama class rehearse!”
Dan’s silence lasted a little too long on the other end. “Is that a good thing?” He didn’t sound sarcastic, just confused.
Tracy tried not to let his response dim her enthusiasm. “Of course it’s good. This is a mainstream class. Holden’s therapists think that maybe by listening to the music, he might open up a little more.”
“Really?” Dan must’ve been outside, because the wind howled in the background. “Well, then … that’s great.” An awkward silence slid between them. “Tell him I love him.”
Their conversation didn’t last long. Dan told her the shrimping still wasn’t that great. Not like the salmon back in July. Storms continued to batter the region, and his pneumonia wasn’t quite cleared up. By the time she told him good-bye and that she loved him, her excitement was almost forgotten.
But now that she was here and the class was about to begin, Tracy could hardly sit in her seat in very back of the room. Holden was sitting a few rows in front of her, but still far removed from the rest of the class. Tracy was glad Holden couldn’t see her. She didn’t want anything to distract him from this opportunity. She was still convinced Holden wasn’t merely noncompliant last week in the gym. He was dancing. Maybe in his mind he was dancing with his little friend Ella from so many years ago. He heard music in the drama class, he stopped to listen, and then a little later, with the music still in his heart, he must have started dancing.
What was so unusual about that?
She’d called that morning to tell Mrs. Bristowe her thoughts, but the woman wasn’t as quick to get behind the idea. “Dancing is a very social activity.” She had that tone again, the one that said her training was superior to any instinct Tracy might have as Holden’s mother. “Holden is at the place on the autistic spectrum where socialization is out of the question. He is completely noncommunicative.”
They’d been over this. “Except for the PECS cards.”
“Yes. Except that. But it’s a lot of therapy and distance from using an occasional PECS card … to understanding and wanting to dance. Turning circles, flapping … this sort of repetitive behavior is typical for students with autism.”
Tracy didn’t want to argue with the woman or waste time trying to explain Holden. Here, in the drama room, she could see for herself. She still had a couple of minutes, so she prayed silently for her son. Dear Lord, this is a chance … a beginning. Maybe the miracle I’ve been asking for is going to start here. Right now. So please, Father, be with Holden and don’t let him act out. If he does … well, if he does he won’t be able to stay. So please, Lord … please help him.
Take your position and stand firm … see the deliverance I will give you, my daughter.
The answer was strong and breathtaking. It filled her heart and soul and mind and left her anxious with hope. God was in this. She could feel Him working. Now she only had to stand firm and watch the next hour play out.
Mr. Hawkins walked to the front of the room and announced that they were going to work again on the Belle song. “This time, we’ll break into parts according to your character. You all know your roles. The baker, the bookseller, Belle …” He looked around and discouragement colored his expression. “Where exactly is our Belle? She should be here by now.”
Tracy studied the drama teacher. He seemed tired, like he doubted the kids’ ability to truly pull off a great production come spring. She let the notion pass. This wasn’t about the drama class, it was about Holden’s response to the music. She looked at the back of his light-brown head. His hair was darker than it had been when he was little, and it held just the slightest curl. But he wore it short so most of the time it was impossible to tell. Tracy willed herself to look beyond his hair and handsome face to the boy locked inside. What was he feeling right now? Fear excitement wonder? Like always, she had no idea other than the obvious. He was here, and he had chosen to sit quite a distance from any of the other kids.
Before Mr. Hawkins began to play, a beautiful girl ran into the room and took a seat in the front row. She pulled out her script, looked back at Holden and smiled. Tracy couldn’t see Holden’s reaction, but he seemed to look at the girl. Straight at her
.
Mr. Hawkins raised an eye in her direction. “Thank you for joining us, Belle.”
“Sorry.” She sounded truly upset with herself. “I had to go home for my script.”
“For the last time,” the teacher held her gaze.
“Yes, for the last time,” she repeated, clearly sorry. She kept her attention straight ahead and opened her script.
Tracy wondered if the pretty girl was the one who had pushed for Holden to have a place in the class. Why else would she have looked back at him when she first arrived? Tracy made a point to thank the girl, whoever she was.
The students rose to their feet as the music began. The girl who’d arrived late started the song, her voice clear and beautiful. Tracy smiled. She would do a wonderful job as Belle, Tracy had no doubt. Other kids sang out their lines on cue, and Tracy was impressed. If this rehearsal was an indication, the spring production would be very professional.
Tracy could only see the backs of the students, but she was so caught up in the song she almost forgot about Holden. As she turned to him, what she saw brought tears to her eyes. It was just like she’d thought. Holden was no longer sitting in the chair looking at the ceiling or studying the empty desk in front of him, the way he might’ve been. He was on his feet doing something that seemed absolutely appropriate given the music that surrounded them. To anyone else, it might’ve looked like Holden was turning in circles, acting out even. But Tracy knew better.
Holden was dancing.
AFTER A FEW TIMES THROUGH THE SONG, MANNY GAVE HIS drama kids a quick break. He was happy with the way the earlier song sounded, and it was time to do something new. He never taught the musical numbers in order. He taught them according to difficulty. “Belle” was a tougher piece for an ensemble group, so he wanted to follow it with a less time-consuming number. Hence, “The Mob Song” would be next.
He needed another copy of the rehearsal schedule. One for the mother of Holden Harris—so she might know when he should and shouldn’t observe the class. So far the boy had done pretty well. A little circling in place, but nothing too disruptive. Manny left the room and went to his private adjoining office. He found the schedule and stopped at the window. Two stories and a hundred yards away, the football team was practicing. An announcement this morning had told the students of Fulton High that their football team was undefeated. “You can be proud, students. Very proud,” the principal told them.
Manny squinted at the horizon. Just once—this one last time —he dared hope for something that hadn’t happened in his tenure at Fulton:
A musical that might make the students feel the same way.
He drew a long, slow breath and stared at the rehearsal schedule in his hand, the one he’d printed for Holden. Something about the kid’s presence breathed new life into him. New meaning. If his downtrodden drama program could help a kid like Holden Harris even a little, then his efforts here had to be worth something. Today, while the kids were singing “Belle,” Manny even allowed himself to feel enthusiastic. Hopeful. The students sounded wonderful. So maybe they had a chance after all. Word could get out. The school would get behind them. It might happen.
Once, a long time ago, Manny had been a praying man. But his prayers hadn’t done a thing to help him with his divorce or the custody battle that ensued. His girls lived in Los Angeles with their mother. They got his eyes, he liked to say, and her arms. He hadn’t prayed much since then. But today, with Holden turning circles in the back row, Manny had the impulse to talk to God. A stronger impulse than he’d felt in two decades.
He closed his eyes. Okay, Lord … here I am. Remember me? I’m the guy you forgot about. A pang of guilt sliced through Manny’s heart. Okay, maybe you didn’t forget about me. But it felt that way. It definitely felt that way. He struggled with the words. Lecturing never gave him reason to pause. But talking to God … This was harder. Anyway, Lord, … there’s this kid, Holden Harris. He loves hearing us rehearse, and I was wondering if … if maybe You could help him out. He has autism, God. So maybe if the music could unlock that little world he’s in, maybe he could be a different person. He felt guilty asking for the rest, but he’d committed himself. If God was really listening, Manny might as well give Him the whole list. One last thing, God … we won’t have a drama department next year if the kids don’t come watch. I don’t know how to make that happen, but I have a feeling You do. So if You could work that out, I’d be … well, I’d be amazed. Because both those things are going to take a miracle. Thanks for listening, God. Sorry it’s been so long.
He opened his eyes. “Amen.” He took a final look out the window and returned to the classroom. “Back to your seats, loquacious youngsters.” This was Manny’s schtick, his modus operandi. Talking as if he held a Shakespearean doctorate degree. “Enough waxing on. Enough intermingling.”
He caught the kids’ giggles and strange looks at his word choice. He loved that, challenging them to break out of their limited vocabulary. They loved it, too, even though it had been awhile since he’d cared. He looked out over the classroom. “Remain standing.” Thirty kids packed the first few rows in front of him. “How many of you know the music from this show?”
Just about everyone raised a hand.
Manny caught a quick look at Holden. He was standing, but he wasn’t turning circles anymore. His eyes were focused on the ceiling just above the classroom window, but every so often Manny swore he looked at him. Like he was taking instruction, same as the other kids.
“You are now villagers. I’d say Village People, but some of you would harken back to the seventies and think I intended something I did not. So you are villagers and you fear the Beast more than any creature you’ve encountered.” He flipped through the score on his piano. “As you sing this piece, I will hear fear and determination in your voices. Determination driven by fear. If I do not hear this, we will sing it again. We will sing it well into December, if necessary, but we will find our inner fear.”
The music was dark and foreboding, with a pulsing rhythm intended to replicate the stomping feet and slamming farm implements that would give the number its ferocity. Manny enjoyed this, getting his students to feel the emotion in the music. “Okay … five … six, five-six-seven-eight!”
For the most part, the students began on the same note, but they were hardly in unison. Manny stopped playing and faced them. He paused for a long beat. “Who can give me the definition of ensemble?”
Ella was the first to raise her hand.
“Very well, Miss Reynolds. What is the definition?”
“It means all the parts acting together as one.” She gave a slightly embarrassed shrug. “I did a report on it last spring.”
“Exactly.” Manny was impressed. The question had often stumped his previous casts. Usually they figured ensemble meant everyone other than the leads. Whoever was left. Manny paced in front of the students. “All parts acting as one.” He stopped and looked pointedly at the second row. “That means each word sounds like it’s being sung by how many people?”
The cast looked at each other, and then sort of mumbled.
“One.”
Manny shook his head and rubbed at his right ear, as if he wasn’t getting a clear read on their answer. “How many?”
“One.” This time their answer was both loud and together.
“Very good.” He walked back to the piano. “Begin again.” He counted off the song and they came in much stronger. Their diction would get crisper in the coming months, but he could at least understand the lyrics. “Louder!” he shouted over the music. “Make me feel your fear!”
Their voices grew, and with the sound came the terror that was essential for the song. “It’s a beast, he’s got fangs, razorsharp ones …” Then as quickly as the song built to a crescendo, it died off.
Manny stopped playing and turned around. Half the students were no longer singing, but watching Holden Harris. He was pacing up and down the side of the classroom, his hands folded near his c
hin, elbows straight out, pumping his arms like he was either in pain or very nervous. He looked like an anxious mallard duck, and a few of the students were giggling at him.
The thrill of the afternoon leaked from him like air from an old tire. “Okay, people. Back to your places.” He looked at Holden’s mother. “Can you help us?”
Tracy Harris was already making her way to her son. But Holden didn’t seem to hear her. He stopped suddenly and plummeted to the floor. Then, in a display more impressive than almost anything the jugheads out on the football field could pull off, he laid into a series of perfect push-ups. Absolutely perfect.
A few of the girls backed up. “That’s weird,” one of them whispered loud enough for the class to hear. “Why’s he doing
that?”
“I don’t know.” Another one chuckled quietly. “But he’s good
at it.”
There were seven minutes left in the hour, and Manny wanted desperately to get the students back on track. But now half the guys were gathered around Holden, counting off his push-ups the way they might in some locker-room machismo contest.
Holden’s mother stooped down, her hand on his shoulder. After a few seconds, she stood and politely motioned for the kids to step back, to leave her son alone. “He gets nervous. He needs his space.” Her tone carried an apology. “He’ll be okay. Just go back to singing.”
Manny was able to get the kids rallied for one last go at the “Beast” song. Holden tired of the push-ups and sat in his chair at the back of the class, breathing hard. His arm muscles pumped up, his blue eyes deep and intense, the kid was better looking than any of the guys in the cast. He’d be perfect for the Prince, Manny thought. The role of the transformed Beast was a brief, but important part. Manny hadn’t made up his mind which of the ensemble would play the role—mainly because no one looked like a prince.