Our Song (6 page)

I decided to pop in right after dinner.

I also told myself that I wasn't really doing anything wrong. If I'd gone to the infirmary when it was open, Mrs. Teagle or some other Camden staffer would have happily given me the ointment and bandages. But they'd probably be accompanied by a lecture, a concerned look, and finally: “I'd better discuss this with your grandma.”

And that couldn't happen.

My resolve increased as I gingerly got dressed for dinner, sucking in my breath every time a bit of fabric grazed my blister.

I became even more determined as I walked across campus and smelled a hint of steely forge smoke in the air.

In the dining hall, I pretended to be chilled by the air-conditioning and crossed my arms over my middle, hiding the burn against my body.

I'm actually doing the Camden staffers a favor,
I told myself as I headed for my table.
Why should anybody go to the trouble of helping me, when I can help myself?

Chapter
Six

F
rom the moment I made
my decision about the infirmary, everything went perfectly.

At the vegetarian table, I ended up sitting between two of the aloof older girls. They spent the meal talking about college-y stuff and ignoring me, and they definitely didn't notice that I was awkwardly eating with my left hand and hiding my burned right hand beneath the table.

Then there was homemade butterscotch pudding for dessert, which almost made up for the fact that dinner had been yet another casserole, this one involving cream of mushroom soup and green beans. After dessert, everyone cleared out, some for a twilight nature walk and the rest for the nightly sing-along in the great hall upstairs.

All those activities left the corridor outside the infirmary empty. The only other rooms along this hallway were the front office and the kitchen. The office was closed, and when I pressed my ear to the kitchen door, I heard the loud clatter of dishwashing in full swing. It was the perfect moment for a break-in.

Except it's
not
really breaking in,
I reminded myself.
I'm just helping myself to something they'd be giving me anyway.

Then, trying not to feel shifty and evil, I slipped one of the bobby pins out of my hair and poked it into the little hole in the doorknob.

I twisted it. I wiggled it. I jabbed it in and out of the knob several times. But I didn't hear a pop.

Sighing, I squinted into the tiny hole. When I saw nothing but blackness, I tried the bobby pin again, maneuvering it this way and that.

“What are you doing?”

I yelped and straightened up so fast, I knocked my forehead on the doorknob.

Great,
I thought.
Injury number two.

When I saw that it was Jacob who had snuck up behind me, I didn't know whether to be relieved or doubly panicked.

“Um, hi!” I said. “What are you doing here? Don't tell me you want seconds of that green bean casserole.”

I gestured lamely at the kitchen door, then laughed even more lamely.

Jacob wasn't fooled for a second. He looked at the little red sign on the door:
INFIRMARY, SEE STAFF FOR HELP
.

“You're trying to break in,” Jacob said, his eyes widening in shock.

“No, see, it's not breaking in.
. . .
”

I started to explain my logic to him, but I knew if I said it out loud, it would sound . . . not very logical. And not very sane. So I just said, “Listen, it's not how it looks.”

“Well, it looks pretty bad,” Jacob said. He folded his arms over his chest, and his face went hard. “I bet it's also futile. I seriously doubt you'll find anything stronger than Tylenol in there.”

“Wait a minute,” I gasped. “Do you think I'm here for
drugs
? Are you crazy?”

Jacob looked confused.

“Well, why else does someone break into an infirmary?”

I held up my right hand, showing him the raw, blistery welt on the edge of my palm. He winced.

“I need
Neosporin
,” I blurted. “And some super-duper Band-Aids.”

“What happened?” Jacob asked. I dropped my gross hand to my side so he would stop staring at it.

“It's nothing,” I said roughly. “I just had a little accident in blacksmithing class.”

“And they didn't have a first-aid kit in the barn?” Jacob demanded. “I mean, that kind of thing must happen all the time.”

“I don't know if they have a first-aid kit,” I said. “I didn't ask.”

“Why not?”

“Jacob, I'm
supposed
to be assisting in your fiddle class,” I said. “That's the whole reason my family shipped me out here against my will.”

“And you're not supposed to be a blacksmith?” Jacob asked.

“I'm sure that's what Nanny thinks,” I said. “And I
know
that's what every guy in my class thinks. Probably the teacher, too.”

“I think Annabelle would call that sexist,” Jacob said. His face had lost its accusatory hardness. It was even warming into what looked like a pre-smile.

“ ‘I don't think so, actually,” I said truthfully. “I think they'd like me just fine if I were built like Rosie the Riveter instead of Olive Oyl, or if I could teach them a swear word they'd never heard of. But trust me, these guys know a
huge
number of swear words. I can't compete.”

“So your thinking is, all they need to kick you out of the class is proof that you're not up to the challenge?”

I slumped against the hallway wall and nodded.

“But you
want
to stay in the class,” Jacob went on, cocking his head and raising his eyebrows.

“Why are you so surprised?” I said.

Now it was Jacob's turn to look squirmy. He shrugged.

I straightened myself up and squinted at him.

“Oh, I get it,” I said. “
You
think I'm a quitter. Just because I didn't want to be Nanny's fiddle assistant.”

“No . . . ,” Jacob trailed off. He wouldn't meet my eyes.

“Listen, Jacob,” I said. “I'm not
quitting
fiddle. It's not
mine
to quit. Do you get what I mean?”

“But it
is
yours,” Jacob insisted. “You're a Finlayson. Don't you know how lucky that makes you?”

“Now you sound just like my grandmother!” I sputtered.

Jacob started to retort, but then closed his mouth and looked sheepish.

“Um, you're right,” he said. “Your grandma is, well, she really gets into your head.”

“What you're saying is she's a brute,” I said with a grin. “How did she torture you guys today? Did she make you do scales until you cried?”

Jacob held up his left hand.

“I literally got a cramp in my pinkie,” he said. “That's never happened to me before.”

“Yeah, Nanny always does that on day one,” I said. “It's hazing. Students' pain amuses her.”

Jacob laughed, but then gestured to my hand.

“Does that hurt a lot?” he asked.

I shrugged. My hand was throbbing, but he didn't need to know that.

Jacob glanced at the doorknob.

“Maybe that's why you're having trouble popping that lock,” he said thoughtfully.

“It was a dumb idea,” I sighed. “I mean, I'm clearly going to get kicked out of the class one way or another. I might as well just go get Mrs. Teagle and tell her what happened.”

With my good hand, I started to shove my bobby pin into the pocket of my cutoffs. But Jacob stopped me by grabbing my elbow.

“Wait,” he said.

I wouldn't say I
gasped
when Jacob grasped my arm. But I definitely inhaled sharply. Jacob's cool, dry hand on my skin felt good—a kind of good that I'd never felt before. The pressure of his fingers was somehow strong and whispery all at once. It made the throbbing in my hand whoosh its way into my chest.

When he pulled his hand away, it left a tingling imprint on my skin. The tingle seemed to travel to my brain, blanketing it in fuzz. That must have been why I didn't react when Jacob took the bobby pin out of my hand and went to work on the doorknob himself.

I should have stopped him, of course.

I could have pointed out that a girl who couldn't even pick a lock had no business in a blacksmith shop anyway.

I might have channeled Annabelle and told Jacob not to treat me like a damsel in distress.

But instead I just stood there, feeling my arm tingle and staring at him. As he bent over the doorknob, Jacob's T-shirt clung to his back, which had just the right ratio of skinniness to muscle. A lock of his glossy dark hair flopped over his forehead in a perfect swoop.

What with the swooping, the tingling, and the staring, I sort of forgot how wrong this was. This boy was breaking into the Winnie J. Camden infirmary for
me
.

Then I heard the unmistakable sound of Mrs. Teagle's voice. And very quickly, I
did
remember how wrong this was.

Her voice, warbling a few lines of a hymn, was coming from the dining hall, and it was getting louder. Any second now, she would turn the corner and spot us.

“Jacob!” I whisper-shrieked.

Pop!

Jacob turned the knob and the door creaked slowly open. But slowly
anything
wouldn't do, not when we were milliseconds from being caught.

I crouched low and
sprang
at Jacob. Together we tumbled into the moonlit infirmary. Jacob landed on his side with an “
Oof.
” And me?

I landed right on top of him with such momentum that I tipped him over onto his back. When we finally stopped moving, a few things became instantly clear.

(1) My body was stretched out on top of Jacob's. That meant our noses were touching. Our lips were within an inch of each other. And all sorts of other body parts were touching too.

(2) I'd hit Jacob so hard that I'd knocked the breath out of him. So while he could stare at me in shock, he couldn't quite form words. This turned out to be a lucky thing, because . . .

(3) I could hear the
squeak, squeak, squeak
of Mrs. Teagle's practical, rubber-soled shoes coming down the hallway.

I sprang off Jacob with catlike coordination. Clearly, complete mortification plus mortal terror had given me superhuman powers.

I skittered back to the door, then made myself screech to a
halt before I smoothly but swiftly swung it closed. The last bit was the hardest—painstakingly untwisting the doorknob so it didn't click into place.

I did a pretty good job keeping this maneuver quiet.

But was it
silent
?

Not even close.

Mrs. Teagle's shoes stopped squeaking. She had paused, I was almost certain, just outside the door.

I looked around wildly for a place to hide. But the infirmary was lined with open shelves. There wasn't a single closet. There weren't even curtains on the small window. We had no cover whatsoever.

Our only option was an almost-empty corner behind the door. This corner was so tight, there was no room to store anything there except a couple of brooms and an umbrella.

I made like a broom and wedged myself into the corner, motioning for Jacob to join me. He was still sitting on the floor, still out of breath. He gaped at me, gave his head a quick shake, and mouthed,
Impossible
.

But then the doorknob made a quiet clickety sound. It was the sound of Mrs. Teagle placing her hand on the knob and turning.

He had no choice. Jacob scrambled to his feet and, with a single leap, landed in the corner with me.

The door opened.

I tipped my head back, sucked in my stomach, and stood on my tiptoes—anything to somehow make myself take up less space.

With no wall left to melt into, Jacob pressed back into
me
. Hard.

This time, I couldn't spring away from him like a spooked cat. I could only stand there and feel his back, hard and warm, pressing against my torso. I was also aware of his taut legs covering mine. And of his forearms, grazing my hips.

Most of all, I could smell Jacob. He smelled like sun-warmed grass, with a tangy hint of sweat and a bolder dash of citrusy deodorant. He pretty much smelled better than anything I've ever smelled before, even fried chicken.

I closed my eyes, awash in that scent and the exquisite discomfort of him squashing me. Somewhere in that haze, I remembered to pray for it all to be over; for Mrs. Teagle to miss us and move on.

It was definitely a long shot. Even with all that willful flattening, there was only room for the door to open halfway. If Mrs. Teagle pushed it any farther, it would knock into us. We were a human doorstop.

I felt Jacob tense from head to toe. I bit my lip and held my breath.

By some miracle, the door stopped just before it connected with Jacob's nose. He jerked his head backward, lightly bonking me on my forehead.