Ballad (2 page)

I knew it sounded guilty, and she must’ve thought so too, because she said, “Oh, it wasn’t? Then why were you all the way out here?”

I had it. I looked past her, toward the hills, and her eyes darted along my line of vision. “We were waiting for you.”

Dee looked at me sharply, but not in the way Linnet did. Linnet looked angry, or afraid. For a long moment she didn’t say anything at all, and then, finally, she said, “I don’t think any of us should be here right now. Let’s go back to the dorms, and I’ll just forget this whole thing ever happened. It’s a terrible way to begin a school year, anyway. In trouble.”

As Linnet turned to lead us back to the school, Dee cast an admiring glance in my direction, and then rolled her eyes toward Linnet, thoughts plain: she’s crazy!

I shrugged and allowed Dee half a grin. I didn’t think there was anything wrong with Linnet’s sanity, though. I think that I wasn’t the only one who had gone running out to meet that music.

James

Day eleven (11) (
onze
), according to the ticks on my left hand. The first week—all coy introductions in class and fluffy assignments—was over, and the second week was showing its teeth. Out came the giant homework assignments, the writing-upon of boards, and the general rending of garments that go with high school. It was funny—I’d really thought in the back of my head that a school filled with music geeks would be different from a regular high school, but really the only thing that was different was that we played our roles according to where we sat in the orchestra. Brass players: jerks. Woodwinds: snobby cliques. Strings: overachievers with their hands up all the time. Percussion: class clowns.

Bagpipers: me.

The only class that didn’t change much the second week was Mr. Sullivan’s English class: first period, Tuesdays, Thursdays, Saturdays. Bring your own caffeine. He let us drink coffee in class. It would’ve been hypocritical for him not to.

Anyway, Sullivan had started out the school year sitting on his desk and playing music on the stereo as he taught. While the other teachers buttoned down and buttoned up and got serious in week two, Sullivan stayed the same, a young, knobby diplomat for Shakespeare and his ilk. He’d assigned us murderous reading assignments in the first week, and those didn’t change either. We might’ve cared more about the murderous reading assignments if we hadn’t been allowed caffeine and to shift our desks around as we liked and to swear when needed.

“We’re going to be studying
Hamlet
,” Sullivan announced on day eleven. He had a huge travel cup in his hand; it made the whole room smell like coffee. I’d never seen him without coffee. As a junior faculty member, he lived on campus and doubled as our dorm’s resident advisor—his wife, rumor had it, had left him for a CEO of a company that made crap like My Little Ponies or something. The hall by his room always smelled like a shrine to caffeine. “How many of you have read it?”

It was a small class, even by Thornking-Ash standards: eight kids. No hands went up.

“Heathens,” Sullivan said pleasantly. “Well, it’s better if you’re all
Hamlet
-virgins, I suppose. Surely you’ve at least heard of it.”

There were mumbling noises of assent. I hadn’t read
Hamlet
, but I was on good terms with Shakespeare. From the moment I heard, “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players,” I’d been okay with Shakespeare. No fanboy stuff or secret handshakes or anything like that. But if we passed each other in the hall, we’d probably nod at each other.

Sullivan pressed on. “Well, let’s start there. What do you guys think of when you hear ‘Hamlet’? No, Paul. No hands. Just call it out.”

“A small village,” said Eric. Eric technically wasn’t a student. I think he was supposed to be a teaching assistant but damned if I’d ever seen him assist Sullivan with anything. “Right? Like a tiny hamlet in the Swiss alps or something.”

This was such a stupid answer that the rest of the class immediately relaxed. The bar had been set low enough that we could shout out just about anything.

“Ghosts,” Megan said. She was a vocalist. Vocalists irritated me because they were hard to classify into orchestral personality groupings in my head.

“To be or not to be!” shouted Wesley, whose name was also Paul and so had adopted his last name in the interests of clarity. It was nice of him to offer, considering that my roommate Paul’s last name was Schleiermacher and I couldn’t begin to spell it, much less say it.

“Everybody dies,” Paul added. Somehow, that made me think of the antlered figure behind the school.

“Suicide,” I said, “and Mel Gibson.”

“Mel Gibson?” Eric demanded from behind me.

Sullivan pointed at me. “So you
should’ve
raised your hand, Mr. Morgan. You
are
familiar with
Hamlet
.”

“That’s not what you asked,” I said. “You asked if we’d
read
it. I saw part of the movie on TV. I thought Mel Gibson acted better when he was wearing a kilt.”

“Which is an excellent segue. The movie part, not the kilt comment. We’ll be watching the movie first—not the Mel version, sorry, James—and then reading the play.” Sullivan pointed to a television screen behind him. “Which is why I brought this in. Only—”

He looked around the room, at our desks pulled into a circle around him, all of us waiting for wisdom to flow from his mouth. “Only I fear your butts will get flat from watching a movie in those chairs. We need something better. Who’s got good arm muscles?”

So we got the two sofas from the second-floor lounge. It only took four people per sofa to carry them down the hall, past the closed doors of the other classrooms, and into our room. Sullivan helped us shove them against the wall and draw the blinds so we wouldn’t get glare on the screen. It turned the room dark, so the fact that it was morning didn’t seem as important.

We piled onto the sofas and Sullivan turned a chair around backwards and sat next to us. We watched the first quarter of
Hamlet
(who took himself way too seriously) and Sullivan let us crack jokes about the more melodramatic bits (which was all of it) and for the first time since I’d arrived, I felt like I sort of belonged.

James

Another painfully beautiful fall day in the land of hyphenated schools; the trees were still green in the basin, but on some of the north faces of the hills and mountains surrounding, the leaves were beginning to burn red and orange. The combination made it look fake, like a model train layout. I had the car stereo set to “obnoxiously loud,” which was probably why I didn’t hear my phone ring; it was only when I caught the glow out of the corner of my eye that I realized someone was calling.

Maybe Dee, finally.

I grabbed it from the passenger seat and looked at the number. Mom. Sigh. Putting the phone on speaker, I set it on the dash. “Yeah.”

“James?”

“Yeah.”

“Who is this?”

“Your darling son. Fruit of your womb. Sprung from Dad’s loins after twinkling in his eye for God knows how lo–”

Mom cut me off. “It sounds like you’re in a wind tunnel.”

“I’m driving.”

“In a wind tunnel?”

I leaned forward and slid the phone closer. “You’re on speaker phone. Better?”

“Not hardly. Why are you driving? It’s during the school day, isn’t it?”

I wedged the phone into the sun visor. It was probably still a little noisy, but it was the best she was going to get. “If you knew, why did you call?”

“Are you cutting?”

I squinted at the street signs. There was a small sign that said, “Historic Downtown Gallon, VA” (I thought the VA was redundant, as any visitor who had gotten this far should remember what state they’re in) and had an arrow pointing to the left. “No, Mom. Cutting is for losers who go to jail after being unable to get a job.”

Mom paused, recognizing her own words, especially since I’d delivered them in a high-pitched voice and her faintly Scottish accent. “That’s true,” she admitted. “So what are you doing?”

Peering at the picturesque but economically deficient main street of Gallon, I answered, “Going to my lesson. Before you ask, it’s a piping lesson. Before you ask, no, Thornking-Ash doesn’t have a resident piping instructor. Before you ask, I have no idea why they’d give scholarship money to a kid whose main instrument was the pipes, considering the answer to unasked question number two.” My peers at Thornking-Ash and I were required to take two credits of Musical Performance in order to flex the musical muscles we’d need to successfully woo universities. Hence, piping lessons.

“Well, who is this guy? Is he any good?” Mom’s voice was doubtful.

“Mom. I don’t want to think about it. It’s going to be hugely depressing and you know I like to project a fearless and happy face to the world.”

“Remind me again why you’re there, if not for the piping?”

She knew darn well why, but she wanted me to say it. Ha. Double ha. Fat chance of that. “Use your motherly intuition. Hey. I think I just found the place. I’ve got to go.”

“Call me,” Mom said. “Later. When you’re not so glib.”

I parallel-parked in front of Evans-Brown Music. I was beginning to think giving places hyphenated names was a tradition in this town. “Right. I’ll schedule a call when I’m thirty, then, shall I?”

“Shut up.” Mom’s voice was fond, and for a moment I felt a tremendous, childish sensation of homesickness. “We miss you. Be careful. And call me later. Not when you’re thirty.”

I agreed and hung up. Getting my pipe case out of the back seat, I headed into the music store. Despite the sickly green exterior, the inside was warm and inviting, with dark brown carpet and golden-brown paneling on the walls behind rows of guitars. An old guy who looked like he’d not done too well with the ’60s sat behind a counter reading a copy of
Rolling Stone
. When he looked up at me, I saw that his silver hair was braided tightly in the back, into a tiny pigtail.

“I’m here for a lesson,” I told him.

He looked at something on the counter; while he did, I studied the tattoos on his arms, the largest of which was a quote from one of John Lennon’s more radical songs. He asked, “What time?”

I pointed to my hand. He squinted until he saw the bit of writing that pertained.

“Three o’clock? You’re right on time.”

I looked at the clock on the wall behind him, which was surrounded by fliers and postcards. It said two minutes to three. I was peeved that my earliness was being rounded up to the closest hour, but I didn’t say anything.

“Upstairs.” Old Hippie Guy pointed toward the back of the shop. “Whichever lesson room Bill’s in. He’s the only instructor here right now.”

“Thanks, comrade,” I said, and Old Hippie Guy smiled at me. I climbed the creaking, carpet-covered steps to the second floor, which was hotter than Hades and smelled like sweat and nerves. There were three doors on the dark, narrow corridor, and Bill was behind door number two. I pushed the door open a little wider, taking in the acoustic tiles on the walls, the old wooden chairs that looked like they’d been used as scratching posts by baby tigers, and the dusty-haired man sitting in one of them.

He looked an awful lot like George Clooney. I thought about telling him, but decided it would be too forward. “
Hola
. I’m James.”

He didn’t stand up, but he smiled in a friendly enough way, shook my hand, and gestured to the chair opposite. “I’m Bill. How about you get your chanter out and you play me something so I know where you’re at? Unless you’re nervous—we can talk a bit, but a half hour is a pretty short lesson if we talk much.”

I set my case down and knelt next to it, snapping open the latches. “Nope, sounds good to me.” While I dug next to my pipes for my practice chanter, I glanced up at Bill. He had his head turned slightly to the side, reading the bumper stickers plastered all over my case. While he read
Be Careful Around Dragons, For You Are Crunchy & Good with Ketchup
, I gave him the once-over. His chanter lay next to his chair, shiny and clean; mine was battered, with multicolored electrician’s tape partially covering some of the holes to make it perfectly in tune. His shoulders were straight; one of mine was always a little higher than the other from playing the pipes so often. His case was still almost-new looking; mine looked like it had been through hell a few times. I was beginning to get the idea that this was a waste of time, especially when his eyes widened at my practice chanter.

I set the chanter back down in my case. The humble practice chanter is a slender plastic version of the chanter on the full-sized pipes, and its primary virtue is that it’s one thousand times quieter than the actual pipes—making you one thousand times less likely to be stoned to death while practicing indoors. It’s also a heck of a lot easier to play, physically—none of that huffing-puffing-blow-your-bag-in thing. It also sounds like a dying goose; for sheer impressiveness, you really need the actual pipes. So that’s what I reached for now. “Um. Do you mind if I play a tune on my pipes, instead? It’s hard to find a place to practice on campus, and it feels like it’s been ages since they were out of this box.”

Bill looked a little surprised, but shrugged. “Sure, there’s no other students right now. Whatever you’re most comfortable with. What are you going to play?”

“Not sure yet.” I took my pipes out; the smell of leather and wood was as familiar to me as my own. The drones fit neatly onto my shoulder as I filled the bag; the moment the drones began to sound, I realized just how loud they were going to be in this tiny room. Should’ve brought my ear plugs.

Bill watched me tune for about twenty seconds, observing my posture, listening to how even I kept the tone while I tuned. My original plan had been to start off slow and then end with a tune so transcendent he kissed my shoes, but the pipes were so loud in the room that I just wanted to get it over with. I ripped into one of my favorite reels, an impossible, finger-twisting, minor-key thing that I could’ve played in my sleep. Fast. Clean. Perfect.

Bill’s face was blank. Like, no expression whatsoever. Like I had blown his expression away with the sheer decibel level of the pipes. I took the pipes from my shoulder.

“I have nothing to teach you.” He shook his head. “But you knew that when you came here, didn’t you? There couldn’t possibly be anyone in this entire county that could teach you anything. Maybe not in the state. Do you compete?”

“Up until this summer.”

“Why’d you stop?”

I shrugged. For some reason, it gave me no pleasure to tell him. “Hit the top. Seemed boring after that.”

Bill shook his head again. His eyes were studying my face, and I could guess what he was thinking, because it was what they always thought:
you’re so young (and I’m so old)
. His voice was flat. “I’ll get in touch with the school, I guess. Let them know so they can figure out what to do. But they knew all this before they took you on, didn’t they?”

I lowered my pipes to my side. “Yeah.”

“You ought to apply to Carnegie Mellon. They have a piping program.”

“I never thought of that,” I said. He missed my sarcasm.

“You should consider it, after you’re done here.” Bill watched me put my pipes away. “It’s a waste for you to just go to a conservatory.”

I nodded thoughtfully and let him make more intelligent remarks, and then I shook his hand and left the room behind. I felt disappointed, though really, I shouldn’t be. I’d gotten just what I’d expected.

There was a girl sitting on the curb when I emerged from the music store. In my fairly foul mood, I wouldn’t have given her a second thought if she hadn’t been sitting two inches from my car. Even with her back to me, everything about her groaned
bored
.

I put my pipes in the backseat with much noise and scuffle, thinking she’d get the picture—you know, that I’d
drive over her
if she didn’t move by the time I tried to leave my parking spot.

But she hadn’t moved by the time I’d finished my scuffling, so I came around the car and stood in front of her. She was still sitting motionless, chin tilted up, her eyes closed against the afternoon sun, pretending not to notice that I was standing there.

Maybe she was from one of my classes and I was supposed to recognize her. If she was a student, she was definitely not within the dress code—she wore a skin-tight shirt with cursive handwriting printed all over it and bell-bottomed jeans with giant platform clogs poking out from the cuffs. Still, her hair was very distinctive: sort of crumpled, or curly, blonde hair that was long in the front but cut short and edgy in the back.

“M’dear,” I said in a cordial way, “Your butt’s blocking my bumper. Do you think you might move your loitering five feet to the south and let me leave?”

Her eyes flicked open.

It was like I was drowning in icy water. Goose bumps immediately rippled along every bit of my skin and my head sang with an eerie melody of
not normal.
The events of last summer came rushing into my head unbidden.

The girl—if that was even what she was—flicked her incandescent blue eyes, made even more brilliant by the dusky shadows beneath them, toward my face, looking intensely bored. “I’ve been waiting for you for
ever
.”

When she spoke, the smell of her breath clouded around me, all drowsy nodding wildflowers and recent rain and distant wood smoke. Danger prickled softly around the region of my belly button. I hazarded a question. “‘Forever’ as in several hundred years, or forever as in since my lesson began?”