Nightingale n-1

by David Farland

  Bron felt blood rush to his face. He wanted so badly to impress Whitney.

  He'd once heard that if you were shy about speaking in public, all you had to do was imagine the audience naked. One glance at Whitney, and his blush deepened.

  So he imagined that he was in the barn, playing to the open fields, and to the elk and the cattle.

  He swept into the intro, and let instinct take over. With eyes closed, he played by touch, never looking at his fingers or the strings. Whitney fell in, and she took his lead on the rhythm, singing:

  "I see you coming, babe, and panic creeps—

  why can't I breathe?

  You say 'hello' and walk right past me—

  why can't I speak?

  This happens every day, five times a day—

  what's wrong with me?

  And on the weekend I'm alone at home,

  and I dream...."

  At first, Whitney was hesitant, and she listened as much as she sang, as if they were a duet, her voice with his guitar. Most listeners wouldn't have heard the clumsiness or recognized that the timing was off by milliseconds, but when Whitney's voice merged with the guitar, they gathered power, creating an overtone.

  It was as if an electric arc shot through Bron and into the crowd. The audience responded with gasps of surprise, sighs of relaxation, feet tapping in time, a shuffling and swishing as people began to sway. Someone near the back of the crowd called excitedly, "Hey, you guys, come here!"

  This is the way Stevie Wonder experiences music, Bron realized. He can hear when the audience captures the joy, can feel how he moves them. They blended seamlessly on the chorus:

  "You'll text me when you're waiting outside.

  I'll climb out the window, down that old drain pipe.

  We'll paint the town red in my daddy's blue beat up Ford.

  And long after we should, we'll race the dawn back home.

  And no one will ever know."

  Bron gave himself to the music then, as Whitney cycled through the verses. When she finished with the bridge, he hit the guitar solo and didn't even think about fingering, just capturing the joy of the tune, enhancing it. It was a complex piece, worthy of Slash or Keith Richards.

  In it, he stripped Whitney's song down to its bare essence, like a humble cottage stripped to its foundation, and then he rebuilt it stone by stone, turning it into a castle bold and majestic, towering above the hills.

  It was perhaps more complex and intricate a piece than he had first imagined, but he purposely embellished it, hoping to impress Whitney.

  As Olivia had warned, he had just been too good.

  In the silence, one young man whispered in awe, "Damn, you can grind that ax!"

  Then the applause began, people hooting and clapping. Whitney grabbed him and kissed his cheek, and said a heartfelt "Thank you," with tears in her eyes. He gave her a brief hug, but she kept clutching him, as if she never wanted to let go.

  Students surged forward to slap him on the back and tell him, "That was sooo great!" and he heard one girl tell a friend, "No wonder Mrs. Hernandez wants to adopt!"

  Her friend answered, as if he were a puppy, "Oooh, I want him, too!"

  Amid the congratulations and fist bumping a young man asked, "Can I get your autograph?"

  Bron was so startled he said, "No one has ever asked me for that before."

  The young man shoved a pen and paper his way. "Can you write on it, 'To Joel, my first autograph'? Then put the date on it?"

  Bron signed the paper, glanced up at the crowd, wondering how Justin Walton might have reacted to the song, but he was gone. Bron imagined that he had just sulked off in anger.

  A boy who looked too young to be even a freshman asked, "Where did you learn to play like that?"

  "Uh, Guitar Hero," Bron lied. Other kids began to ask for autographs. The bell for first period rang, and people hurried off to class.

  A young man with curly hair, beefy in stature, got Bron's guitar case and opened it, and then laid Bron's guitar in reverently. "Wow," he said as everyone else was leaving. "I think you're going to be the most popular guy in school."

  Whitney smiled at that. "I think he will."

  The young man stuck out his hand to shake. "I'm Kendall. I've got a band. Want to join?"

  Kendall stood shyly, almost as if he were overwhelmed to be in Bron's presence, and Bron couldn't just say no. It would have broken Kendall's heart.

  "Your band any good?" Bron asked.

  Kendall shrugged. "With you in it, it could be great."

  Bron nodded. "I'll give it a try." He glanced at Whitney, expecting a smile, but saw panic instead. He realized his mistake. "So long as it doesn't conflict with playing for Whitney."

  Kendall nodded thoughtfully. "I think we can reach an amicable agreement."

  Whitney clutched Bron all the harder, and her smile spread across her face, encompassing her entire body—eyes, skin, soul.

  Bron reached for his guitar case, but Kendall swooped it from the table. "Allow me, sir." He took the guitar gingerly, as if it were a treasure. "I liked your playing," he said. "It was as if you ... took the essence of her song and stripped it bare. At first, I thought that you would hold it up for ridicule, something so weak and so pop, but instead you clothed it again, more majestically than I could have imagined, and then you just gave it back to her! Damn, that was righteous!"

  Bron smiled. He appreciated the criticism, but he had to wonder: Is that what I was doing? He realized that in part, the young man was right.

  "So what's the band called," Bron asked.

  "Wasteland," Kendall said. "When we play, we all act like we're wasted. It's not a cultural statement or anything, just theater."

  Bron peered at the guy curiously. Kendall was beefy, like a lineman on a football team, with dark curly hair and a killer's pale blue eyes.

  I don't just have a band, Bron realized. I have a fan and a valet. Kendall walked with a dangerous swagger, as if he might beat up anyone who imposed on Bron's time. The kid seemed like a follower, one of those clingy ones who latch onto rockers and movie stars.

  What am I getting myself into? Bron wondered.

  Chapter 19

  Warning Signals

  "Once we give into weakness, others will define us by our weakness."

  — Lucius Chenzhenko

  Olivia and Bron took separate cars that day. To avoid recognition, she drove Mike's pickup, and wore sunglasses, arriving at school later than usual. She checked the parking lot for any sign of strangers before she got out of the truck and hurried in. The broad walkway was set beside a creek, and every hundred feet or so, she had to leap up some shallow steps.

  She had just reached the plaza when she met Mr. Petrowski, the dance instructor. He was eyeing students as they practiced their dance routines.

  He jutted his chin toward Bron, who was just walking into the building, while Kendall McTiernan lugged his guitar. In a mild Russian accent Petrowski said, "You just missed a wonderful performance. Your foster son astonished the school, and he won the admiration of ... Mr. McTiernan."

  A chill crept over Olivia. Kendall McTiernan had been the subject of more than one faculty meeting this summer. Not everyone at Tuacahn was a devoted artist. Some teens were special cases. Tuacahn was so new, it hadn't quite maxed out its attendance, and the administration had been pressured into taking a couple of students who didn't quite fit in elsewhere. The hope was that these students would thrive at Tuacahn. Kendall was one of these test subjects.

  Kendall was trouble. Several teachers were trying to figure out how to save him. Others just hoped that his explosive temper wouldn't go off at school. Some said that Kendall was just another Columbine, waiting to happen.

  "Are you going to warn your son to stay away?" Mr. Petrowski asked.

  Olivia wondered. Kendall had his good points. He'd transferred from a rough neighborhood in Dallas, one where he'd watched his older brother get stabbed to death in a senseless gang battle. Ever since
then, he'd been toughening up.

  He was brilliant, ruthless, devoted. Mostly devoted. It came from watching his brother die. He'd never gotten into a fight where he wasn't protecting someone else.

  His guitar skills were almost non-existent. Olivia had him pegged to become a roadie for a couple of years, then graduate to becoming a band manager, maybe even a record producer.

  Kendall has a mobster's mentality, Olivia thought. He should do well as a record producer.

  "I'll have a talk with Bron," Olivia promised.

  Olivia didn't see Bron for the rest of the morning, didn't even really have much time to think about him—aside from the fact that half the school was talking about his "awesome guitar skills." The air was electric in the hallways. Tryouts were going to begin for the Hyperion Club. A bevy of students ran the club, but as the faculty advisor, Olivia's opinion carried tremendous weight.

  At the auditions this afternoon, Olivia could just about guarantee a student's acceptance into the club with the slightest nod of the head, or send them packing with even a bit of a frown.

  She didn't take such power lightly. These kids worked and prayed and dreamed for this. Entrance into the club got them extra training for their careers. It helped seal them spots in plays, and since so many of her students ended up going to work on Broadway, she'd need to take special care today.

  She stood outside on the plaza and listened to the students reciting lines in their own private worlds, singing openly, or practicing dance steps. She knew that timid students often did not perform at their best when put under pressure. So she studied them as they practiced, when they thought no one was watching.

  She felt it important to begin developing her opinions on each student now—before the actual audition. If she found someone who needed a confidence boost, she could give that later. What she wanted today was to gauge their real talent.

  So she spent time on the plaza, and patrolling the halls, and peering into the various darkened theaters and onto the dance floors to find the students lurking in the shadows.

  She had made her way upstairs, when she halted abruptly: Marie Mercer stood in the office, Galadriel in tow.

  Galadriel waited at the principal's desk, lithe and blonde and beautiful, and it seemed that the air went out of the hall. Kids were whispering to one another, "Who's that?"

  Galadriel had transformed. She stood taller, and had a more commanding presence, as if she owned the school. Even her expression had altered: there was a fierceness to her eyes, determination, as if someone else had taken over Galadriel's body.

  She was easily the prettiest girl in the school. It was as if a handsome caterpillar had just burst from its chrysalis, and sat in the morning sun stretching its wings, scintillating and sparkling in the sunlight. What she had been was forgotten. What she could become was heartbreakingly beautiful.

  She spotted Olivia, rushed up, and with boundless enthusiasm she asked, "Where's Bron?"

  As Galadriel said it, she actually leapt into the air a little. In anthropological circles the move was known as "the bounce." Females around the world did it. It was a subconscious display, one that drew attention to one's breasts, and it signified her willingness to mate.

  Instantly Olivia knew: Galadriel had come to this school just to be with Bron.

  "I'm sure that he's around somewhere," Olivia said. "Are you ... transferring schools?"

  Galadriel beamed. "My mother always said I should be a movie star. So I thought I'd give it a try. It's not the kind of thing that you can learn just anywhere. This is the place to do it."

  "Well, good luck," Olivia said. She wondered how long Galadriel might last here.

  "I thought maybe you could help," Galadriel said. "I read online that there's this audition today, for this thing called the Hyperion Club? So I need to try out. But I've never had an acting lesson or a singing lesson, and I want to be great!"

  Olivia opened her mouth, trying to fill it with something intelligent, but nothing would come. This girl wanted her to stop everything and teach her to be a Lea Michelle. "I, it takes a lot of work, Galadriel." She decided to be honest. "Most of our students study for years before they make it into the Hyperion Club. There's not much that I can—"

  The bell rang. "Oh, sorry," Olivia said. "We'd better get to class." She smiled graciously, relieved to make her escape.

  News of Galadriel Mercer's arrival at Tuacahn surged through the school like a tsunami.

  Whitney Shakespeare heard bits and pieces of it in the hall as she walked between classes. Girls were whispering, "Have you seen the new girl?" and despairing whimpers of "She's so beautiful!" and "Who is she?"

  It was Dia Sosa who supplied the answer in a ghetto accent. "She live next to Mrs. Hernandez. Funny thing, she's never wanted to come to this school befo'."

  Whitney stopped in her tracks. Dia hung with a crowd of girls, talking to them, but her gaze was fixed on Whitney.

  A chill ran down her spine. Whitney understood instantly. This girl, Galadriel, hadn't come to the school looking for an education.

  "That's right, sista'," Dia joked. "You got the fight of your life on your hands. Want I should borrow you a razor, or something, to cut her face up?"

  Just then, Dia nodded, jutted her chin toward the stairwell. Whitney followed her gaze.

  A gorgeous blonde in a stylish pink shift came down the steps, seeming almost to float. She reminded Whitney of a water lily, resting on a glassy pool, so perfectly vibrant and wholesome.

  For a moment Whitney forgot to breathe.

  With everyone else wearing their school uniforms, the girl's outfit was completely out of place. The teachers were letting it slide for her first day.

  Whitney felt a pain in her palms, glanced down. Her fists were clenched. She'd pressed her fingernails into her skin so hard, she'd nearly drawn blood.

  In second period that day, just before lunch, Olivia found that Kendall McTiernan had unexpectedly transferred into her class.

  He was a singularly odd young man, with broad shoulders and arms so long that he should have been able to walk on his knuckles. She wasn't sure if he gelled his curly hair, or if it was just oily. He had a brooding expression, as if he was sad and angry, but Olivia studied him all through class and realized that his heavy brows just cast deep shadows. His brown eyes were really quite gentle and inquisitive.

  When class finished and the kids were grabbing their backpacks, she called, "Kendall?"

  He looked up in alarm, as if he expected her to yell at him. "Yo, Mrs. Hernandez."

  "Could I speak to you in private, please?"

  He shrugged, as if to say "fair enough," and waited for the other students to leave. Not wanting to cut into his lunch time, she got right to the point. "I saw you with Bron this morning. You plan to hang with him this year?"

  "The guy's a freakin' genius," Kendall said. He shrugged apologetically. "I thought maybe some of it might rub off. With a little luck, I'll pick up a bouncer."

  "A bouncer?"

  "You know," Kendall explained. "Pretty girls throw themselves at him, one bounces off, and maybe I pick her up."

  Olivia nodded her head wisely. "Ooooh. Good plan."

  "That all?" he asked, seeking permission to go.

  Olivia licked her lips. "I wanted to talk to you about Bron. You see, he got in trouble at his last school...." she figured that Kendall could relate. "I don't know all of the details, but there are some young people who have been looking for him, and they might come here." Kendall immediately stiffened, and his right hand strayed toward his back pocket. She didn't want to know what he kept there.

  "In any case," Olivia said, "if anyone comes around asking questions—"

  "I'll handle them, Mrs. Hernandez."

  That was the problem. This boy might be good in a fight, but he wouldn't stand a chance against a Draghoul. "No," Olivia said, "I don't want violence. Just make sure that you warn me. If any strange people come onto the campus, I want to know about it immediat
ely. You run straight to my class, or to my office—whatever it takes."

  "Sure thing, Mrs. Hernandez," he offered. "I'll tell the boys in the band to keep their eyes out."

  She'd seen the boys in his band—a ragtag team of losers and dreamers who could somehow seem frightening when they got together.

  "Thank you," she said. "That's all that I was hoping for—a few more pairs of eyes on the lookout."

  Chapter 20

  In Enemy Hands

  "A wise person recognizes that sometimes there is no difference between a friend and an enemy. Both can destroy you with equal delight."

  — Olivia Hernandez

  The day at school had started out so well for Bron, but all too soon he felt as if he wanted to hide. All through his first class people had asked if he would play again at lunch. He couldn't really keep a low profile.

  Since he didn't have a locker at the school—those were reserved only for freshmen, and came with the fear of scorpions creeping into your gym shoes at night—Bron had to carry his guitar from class to class.

  Within an hour he was so famous that at the beginning of second period, social sciences, his teacher announced, "I've had several requests for Bron to play for us today, and so if you're all quiet and attentive for the first hour, I will ask our guitar virtuoso to play."

  The entire class was angelic, so Bron played.

  He felt conflicted. Olivia had warned against attracting attention. She wanted him to keep a low profile, but he'd never felt popular before.

  He wondered if he should come up with a cover for his new-found skill. After all, it had come out of nowhere. But no one here knew him. Back in Alpine, at the Stillman's, he'd played only in secret. As far as anyone knew, he'd always been talented.

  So he made sure to hit a wrong note in class, just so that folks didn't get too excited.