Chapter Text
April Fooze sat at the upright piano in the corner of the sunlit living room, the evening light streaming through the floor-length windows, surrounding her in a golden hue of light, highlighting her aristocratic features: her oval face, straight nose and high cheekbones. Her lean fingers traced absent-minded patterns on the worn keys of the piano—the sole relic of her childhood—scuffed with age and use.
She loved the way the sun warmed her like a cat basking in the glory, a spotlight just for her, warming the warm wood beneath her touch. Music sheets lay scattered across the top of the piano—some crumpled, showing signs of frustration, others pristine and carefully marked with delicate notes and lyrics. Each sheet was a reflection of her passion, her endless pursuit of a dream that had once felt so far out of reach, yet so close it hurt.
They had once been her lifeline, and now they were finally her everything, the one thing that made her stand out, to shine above all else. She had always wanted to stand in front of a sea of people, her voice filling a stadium, her music connecting with souls, every note baring her heart for the world to hear. In those moments of daydreaming, imagining herself on stage, she felt untouchable, free.
The piano always brought her back down to reality, to harsher times when she wasn't a budding star, when no one knew her name, not even the help. She was just a Fooze. Just one of the many.
The large instrument was never her choice, she had wanted to play the guitar but she had been denied time and time again, "It's not ladylike," her father had told her as she watched her younger brother strum away on his own guitar, making a racket even after years of practise. Every day she asked, and every day she was denied.
It was never about music for her parents. It was about appearances and control. “At least you look pretty, you don't need good grades," her mother had told her when she had shuffled home with her B+. She had worked hard for her grades, she tried her best, but to them, it wasn't enough, so she stopped trying, why would she try if they didn't believe in her, little April Fooze, the middle child, ignored time and time again as another sibling was introduced to the world.
To her, the piano had started as a cage—a way to mould her into someone she didn’t want to be, but it was the closest she could get to her dream. The best she could do. After all, ladies play pianos,
But over time, music had become her escape, her rebellion. It was the only place she could express all the emotions she had been taught to suppress. She no longer played classics, she was capable of more.
Thankfully, eventually, she was completely overlooked, her parents had ten children, each one different. Unique.
Yet April always felt she was the odd one out—the disappointment. Her siblings had scattered across the globe, following the ambitious paths their parents had laid out for them. Boarding schools, prestigious universities, high-powered careers. Meanwhile, April stayed behind, clinging to a dream that, to her parents, seemed frivolous, a waste of potential.
Her mother had been the harshest critic. "You’re too emotional," she'd say, her words biting like ice. "Why can’t you be more like your brother? He’s a doctor now. Or your sister—she's top of her class." Every flaw was magnified, every slip a confirmation that April had failed to live up to their expectations. Her father, in his rare moments of presence, wasn’t much better. His absence stung, not just physically but emotionally, leaving April to navigate the disappointment alone.
She had learned early on to stop caring. Lowering her expectations of them became a form of survival. She no longer craved their approval, no longer sought their praise. The house, with its empty rooms and the lingering scent of cleaning chemicals from the daily visits of the housekeeper, had become more of a hollow echo than a home. It was always quiet, painfully so—except when April filled it with music.
But now, things were different. She didn’t care what her parents thought. She had grown older, wiser. Who cared about their judgment when she had made it? Her songs had blown up seemingly overnight, and before she knew it, she was sitting in an office, pen in hand, signing her first record deal.
Little April Fooze, the girl who had always felt like she was chasing after her family’s success, had made it in the world on her own terms.
Now, as she sat at the piano, she was trying to capture that next perfect melody. The familiar frustration of creating something new weighed on her as she tuned out the world around her, focusing on which keys to press, and which note to sing. Was it too high? Too low? Did the lyrics even make sense? She pressed a key, letting the note ring out before following it with another, experimenting with the rhythm.
As she lost herself in the music, her mind began to drift, as it often did, back to where it all started—back to the moment when she first found the fire to prove herself, to do better, to be better.
It was her twelfth birthday. Her father had allowed her to throw a party, a rare concession to make up for the fact that her family wouldn’t be there—too busy with their own lives to spend the day with her. Too busy to give her the time and attention she craved every day.
All of her classmates had shown up at the high-end restaurant her parents had reserved. How could they not? It was a luxury most of them had never experienced before. But April knew the truth. They weren’t there for her. They were there for the experience, the free food, and the towering cake, a confectionary masterpiece that loomed over her like a constant reminder of the disappointment she felt inside.
Her only real light that day had been Ray Pistone, her best friend, her constant companion. Ray had stood beside her, holding her hand, dragging her toward the expensive karaoke machine that sat in the corner of the room like a beacon of hope. Ray was always there, the one who lifted her up when she felt small, who held her hand when the loneliness became too much, who invited her for sleepovers when the silence of her own home became unbearable.
Vinny Pistone, Ray’s father, had been like a father to her too. He wasn’t just the man who drove them around after school or treated them to ice cream. He was the one who praised her, told her she was talented, told her she was good enough—things her own father had never said. Every time he met them at the school gates with that warm smile, April felt a brief glimpse of what it might be like to have a real parent, someone who truly saw her.
But on the day of her party, Vinny hadn’t been there. He had been called into some urgent meeting—something boring and irrelevant, something that felt like just another excuse in a long line of disappointments. April had tried not to let it affect her, but when Ray pointed out who would be her "guardian" for the night, she felt a thrill of giddy anticipation.
Bozo.
She had seen him in passing when she visited the Pistones, especially on the days when Vinny took her to work. He was the one who would let her tag along on “take your child to work” days, and each time, she felt a flutter in her stomach at the thought of being near him. Unlike Vinny, who wrapped her in a sense of safety and protection, Bozo was vibrant and daring, on the cusp of adulthood. She had to crane her neck to look up at him, his hair dyed a bold shade of pink that matched the blush creeping across her cheeks whenever he was near.
But now, when he walked into the room he looked imposing, slouched against the doorway, glancing around the restaurant with that half-amused, half-bored expression, April had felt small. It was as if the birthday girl herself might as well have been invisible. He seemed far more interested in Ray and the buzz of excitement surrounding the karaoke machine than in her birthday celebration.
April’s heart raced at the sight of that karaoke machine, its blinking lights and oversized microphone suddenly feeling like a stage she wasn’t equipped to stand on. She had no intention of performing—she wasn’t ready. But Ray, ever the cheerleader, grabbed her hand, insisting they sing together.
With her heart pounding in her chest, April found herself standing in front of her classmates, the microphone clutched tightly in her hands. Bozo was watching. His gaze made her feel exposed, but Ray’s encouraging smile pushed her forward. They started singing a duet of one of their favourite pop songs, and though her voice wavered at first, it began to strengthen with each verse, buoyed by the thrill of performing, of being heard. For a brief, beautiful moment, April felt invincible, as if she could finally be the singer she had always dreamed of becoming.
But then came the snicker. It wasn’t loud, but it pierced through the music, shattering her focus. Bozo leaned over to Ray, a smirk dancing on his lips, and muttered, “Well, she’s no Beyoncé, huh?”
In that instant, her confidence crumbled. The song faltered on her lips, and she forced herself to keep going, to finish the performance, but the magic was gone. All that remained was embarrassment—a burning shame that crawled up her neck, flushing her cheeks a deep crimson.
The applause from her friends felt hollow, like a formality rather than genuine praise. April smiled through the hurt, but inside, she was crumbling. All she could hear was Bozo’s snide remark, playing on a relentless loop in her head, each repetition digging deeper into her heart.
That night, long after the party had ended and her friends had gone home, April lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling. She replayed every detail: Bozo’s mocking smirk, the way her voice had faltered at the sight of him laughing. It stung more than anything her parents had ever said, a wound that cut deeper than she could have anticipated.
But buried beneath the hurt was something else—a flicker of determination ignited by that sting. She would prove him wrong.
She wasn't going to let anyone—especially a boy—make her feel like that again. She wasn’t going to be the girl with a silly dream, laughed at and dismissed. She was going to be someone. She'd show him that she wasn't just any little girl.
Her fingers flew across the keys, her frustration and determination blending with the music, every note ringing out louder, sharper. The familiar chords felt different today—more forceful, more defiant. The weight of her past was still there, simmering beneath the surface, but now, it was fuel for the fire that kept her going. Bozo’s mocking voice was just a memory now, distant and faint. He didn’t matter anymore. She wasn’t that fragile, uncertain twelve-year-old girl, crumbling under someone else’s scorn.
She had made it.
The world had heard her voice, and not just heard it—loved it. Praised it. She was no longer the girl standing in the shadow of others. April Fooze had stepped into the spotlight, and she was more than enough. More than enough for them, and more than enough for herself.
As the years passed, she had learned that Bozo, the boy who once humiliated her, wasn’t the villain she’d painted in her mind. He had faded from her life when she was occupied by more important matters. She switched schools, honing her newfound talents in a place where no one knew her past. When she crossed paths with him again, much older and wiser, he had changed. Time had mellowed him out. He wasn’t the cocky, smug boy anymore. He was just another face in the background—someone inconsequential in the grand scheme of things.
By the time she moved on, he became irrelevant. April was different now, sharper and more in control of her life. The timid girl had disappeared, replaced by someone with confidence, someone who knew how to play the game of high school hierarchy like a pro. She became the head cheerleader, the queen behind the scenes, the girl whose voice commanded attention both on and off the field. When she sang, people stopped to listen. When she spoke, they followed.
Boys, especially, had been easy to manipulate. She had learned that quickly. Her father’s cold words—the ones that once cut her down—she twisted into something that empowered her. "At least you look pretty" had been his backhanded compliment. But pretty was enough, wasn't it? Being pretty opened doors, smoothed over mistakes, gave her a weapon in a world where she often felt powerless.
She was pretty. And she could get good grades if she wanted to, really she could. But why waste her energy? It was easier to let the boys do it for her. Boys wanted to please her. They liked to feel useful, to feel wanted. April had mastered that game—charming them with a smile, a laugh, a soft touch on the arm, and soon enough, they were handing over their completed homework, offering to do anything she needed.
It wasn’t just about convenience; it was about control. For the first time in her life, she felt like she had it. Like she wasn’t that weak, overlooked kid anymore, starved for attention. Now, they were the ones trying to impress her. Boys tripped over themselves to catch her eye, hoping for even a scrap of her time or a glance in their direction.
Her father’s expectations, once so crushing, had twisted into a kind of power. His judgmental voice, the one that had always reminded her she was never good enough, had been turned on its head. She didn’t need his approval anymore—she had her own.
But even as she pressed the piano keys harder, as her fingers danced across the notes, the satisfaction felt thin. Hollow. The power she had learned to wield over others—boys, teachers, even some of her so-called friends—wasn’t the fulfilment she had once thought it would be. Sure, it felt good to be admired, to be wanted. The emptiness still lingered beneath the surface, gnawing at her, reminding her that this wasn’t the same dream she’d had as a little girl. It was close enough, but was it really enough?
Her real dream, the one that kept her going through all the noise and confusion, was music. It was the one place she didn’t need to prove herself to anyone, where she didn’t have to manipulate or charm her way to success. When she sang, it was for herself. No pretences, no masks, just her raw voice, pure and real.
As the melody slowed and her fingers hovered over the keys, a strange heaviness settled in her chest. For all the games she had learned to play, for all the victories she had won, there was still something missing. Something she couldn’t get from boys, or admiration, or even power.
Music had always been her true escape. It was the only thing that had never let her down. It didn’t mock her or demand something from her—it was just there, waiting for her to release what was hidden deep inside.
Her fingers stilled on the piano, and for a moment, the room was quiet. The golden light still filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow on the scattered sheet music, on the piano’s worn wood, and on April herself. The house was as empty as ever, but the silence wasn’t as suffocating as it used to be. Because in this quiet, she still had her music.
The memories of all the boys she had played along the way faded into the background as April leaned forward, her fingers finding a gentler rhythm on the keys. This was where she belonged—not in the shallow games of high school or the power dynamics she had grown too comfortable with. Here, in the soft notes of the piano, she was just April. Not a Fooze.
But as she lost herself in the melody, the shrill ring of her phone shattered the tranquillity. Vinny's name lit up the screen, and a wave of anxiety washed over her. There were only two people she would drop everything for, and he was one of them.
She answered, a smile creeping onto her face, the warmth of hope bubbling within her. "Hey!" she greeted cheerfully, thrilled to hear his voice—to connect with someone. Maybe he wanted to invite her over for dinner like he usually did, and for a moment, it felt like the sun was shining just a little brighter.
But then his voice cut through the lightness, steady yet laced with urgency. "April, listen."
Her smile faltered, the warmth dissipating like a morning mist. "What is it?"
"There’s been an accident."
The words hit her like a cold wave, stealing the breath from her lungs. “Accident? What do you mean? Are you okay?” Panic surged within her, a tempest of worry crashing over her as she awaited his response.
“I’m fine. It was Ray.” His tone, though steady, carried an undertone of concern that sent shivers down her spine. “She’s banged up, but she’s conscious. I thought you should know. She was in a car with Jagger when it happened.”
April’s grip tightened around her phone, knuckles whitening as her heart raced. The cheerful melodies of the piano faded into silence, replaced by the thundering drum of fear echoing in her chest. “What happened?” she pressed, her voice trembling like a leaf in the wind.
“Just a fender bender,” he explained, his words measured, each syllable a lifeline amidst the chaos in her mind. “They got patched up on-site, but they’re coming to the shop now. I thought you might want to check up on her too.”
“I’m coming,” she said quickly, rising from the piano bench as adrenaline coursed through her veins, igniting a fire of urgency. “I’ll grab my jacket and meet you there.”
“Good. I’ll see you soon.”
As the call ended, April stood frozen for a moment, the weight of worry pressing down on her like a heavy blanket. Images of Ray’s laughter, her bright smile, and their countless adventures together flooded her mind, vivid and unyielding. She couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to her best friend.
With a determined shake of her head, she dashed to grab her jacket, her heart racing not just with fear but with the fierce resolve to be there for Ray. This was her moment to return the support Ray had always offered her—through the highs and lows, through laughter and tears.
As she pulled the jacket on, a flurry of thoughts rushed through her mind. She could already picture Ray’s eyes sparkling with mischief, the way they had tackled challenges together, side by side.
But as she stepped out the door, she had no idea how much everything was about to change. The world outside felt surreal, colours muted and sounds distant as if she were moving through a dream. She clutched the jacket tightly, the fabric grounding her, yet her heart raced with an unspoken fear that something deeper lay ahead.