She tried to snap back into teacher mode, and asked Bron, "I noticed that you used the word 'was,' when you described your sculpture. Did you sell the piece, or give it away?"
Bron shook his head regretfully. "It got busted at my old school. Some kid busted it."
"But you have other pieces?"
Bron shook his head. "They always got busted. I quit sculpting."
"Jealousy," Olivia explained. "It happens often at other schools. You won't find it at
Tuacahn. All of the students are creative, and they'll respect your paintings and sculptures."
Do I dare take him? she wondered. Do I dare risk it?
Her people had been in hiding from their enemies for more than a thousand years. If a tenth of the stories that she'd heard were true, the Draghouls were unimaginably evil.
I could get myself killed, she thought, but only if I'm lucky. The Draghouls can do things that are far worse than just killing you.
I should let him go. I should let them have him.
She swallowed hard, made her decision.
She glanced at the social worker. "I like Bron's honesty. An artist needs that. I like his talent, too.... I want to adopt. I don't want anyone else to have him."
Mr. Bell smiled. "I'd love for you to adopt, but it will take time: your husband needs to meet Bron. There will be a hearing before a judge, a mandatory waiting period...."
"I understand," Olivia said. "E-mail the forms. Mike and I will fill them out...."
Yet every instinct in her warned: this could be the biggest mistake you'll ever make.
Chapter 3
Mother and Child
"Love can be nurtured, but it must never be forced. To try to force it is to destroy its very foundation."
— Olivia Hernandez
Mr. Bell had Olivia sign some papers which gave her temporary parental rights.
Bron noticed that she was left-handed, just like him.
"There will be a lot to do," Mr. Bell offered as the three of them began walking toward the front door of the school. She'd want to get Bron on her insurance, set up ground rules for him so that he'd know what was expected. Mr. Bell assured Olivia that it was always difficult for kids to adjust to a new school, new family. He promised counseling services to help them through this "initial phase."
Bron figured that Olivia was going to need some counseling. He'd met women like this before, women so desperate for a child that they'd latch onto the first one they could.
Where the hell is her husband? Bron wondered. Doesn't he even want to see me?
The fact that Olivia had gone kid-shopping without Mike told Bron that his new foster parents weren't in this together. They might fight if Olivia took him home. At the very least, Mike would spend time pouting. Yeah, Olivia needed counseling.
Yet Bron didn't dare object. The school, he decided, was pretty cool. Olivia seemed generous, and Bron wouldn't have to slave to take care of other people's children.
If he had to spend the next two years someplace, this might be a good one. He didn't want to mess up this chance.
He could put up with a cold foster father, or with a woman who was dumb enough to think that in two years she could become a real mother to him.
Mr. Bell assured Olivia, "You're going to like Bron. I think that he's going to be perfect for your little family. You know, a lot of times, I do my best to match people up, and it just doesn't work. But sometimes this is a great job. Sometimes I find a kid and a family, and they fit perfectly."
Once the three passed out the door, the scenery smote Bron again. Tuacahn High School was situated on the edge of a state park. Overhead on either side of the school were gorgeous rock walls that rose fifteen hundred feet almost straight up, in columns of hoodoos that, in the angled light, seemed like giant sculptures of ancient kings, their faces eroded by wind and rain. The rock walls formed a canyon that wound back behind the school in a V for more than a mile. Lush green trees and brush lined the rocky creek bed, until gradually the creek climbed up into the hills.
The lawns on campus were vibrant green, and next to the high school was a professional theater, the Tuacahn Center for the Performing Arts. The architecture had been fused into something of a modern Aztec flavor, made of stone colored to match the reds and tans of the native sandstone in the region. Much of the area between the schools was left open to the air, but soon gave way to a covered area for picnic tables, snack booths, and some shops that sold knickknacks to tourists.
Along the walls of the buildings, huge posters announced the summer season's plays at the theater: "Tarzan," "Cats," and "Crazy for You."
As the grounds transformed gracefully from the school building to the courtyard and theater, it seemed as if the school and Broadway were somehow physically connected.
Though it was early afternoon and the next play wouldn't be starting for hours, a snack shop was open. He could smell fresh popcorn.
Bron stood just peering around. Something was missing.
Mr. Bell asked, "What are you looking for?"
"Litter," Bron said. "There's no litter anywhere. It's not like some of my old schools."
"Hey," Olivia teased, "we can sprinkle some around, if you feel homesick."
He smiled, and they walked to Mr. Bell's car. Bron pulled out his guitar, and then flushed with embarrassment as he withdrew his battered Army-green backpack and the t-shirt stuffed full of clothes, like the torso of a scarecrow.
Olivia glanced at the t-shirt. "Looks like you could use some better luggage."
Bron smiled sheepishly.
She thought, then asked, "Is there anything in here that you really feel... emotionally attached to?"
Bron shook his head no.
"Do me a favor then," she said. "Toss this in the garbage. We'll do some shopping before we go home."
Bron hesitated. Some foster parents would come on strong at first, be so happy to have him. But it didn't last. He wanted new clothes, but he didn't want to risk throwing his old ones away and then not having anything at all.
"Go on," Olivia said. "Scoot."
Bron nervously wrestled the lid off the nearest trashcan. Stuffing in the t-shirt was like trying to dispose of a body. Bron manhandled it in, and Olivia threw the pack on top, then replaced the lid.
As he prepared to leave, Mr. Bell gave his standard warning to Olivia, "I'm sure that Bron will work out wonderfully, but if you have any problems, give me a call. You've got my card. Call anytime, day or night. If you are ever faced with a situation that you don't know how to handle, let me handle it with you."
Mr. Bell shook hands firmly, and stared Olivia in the eye, as if he were sure that trouble would come.
They waved goodbye as Mr. Bell drove off. Bron watched him go with a mounting sense of loss. As Mr. Bell's car receded into the distance, Bron felt more and more ... abandoned, resigned to his fate.
Olivia took Bron back into the school. As they got online, she said, "It's a shame that we didn't get you registered a couple of months ago. I'm afraid you won't have much choice of classes, but I'll see if I can call in a few favors."
Students at Tuacahn got to choose areas of specialty—such as visual arts, dance, or musical theater. Depending upon the specialty, the student was put into an "academy" with a tailored track for graduation, one that prepared the student for training or employment in his or her specialty.
Bron hesitated for a long time, trying to choose his academy—visual art or music. He settled on music.
Olivia smiled. "You can try them all, you know. We encourage students to experiment. In fact, you might want to enroll in an acting class this fall, or theater tech. We have drama rehearsals each night after school, so I'm often here until midnight. You'll have your own car to drive, of course, but you'll be free to drive home with me after rehearsals, if you like."
That perked Bron up. He had his driver's license, but hadn't driven much since his driver's education class. "I'll have a car?" She nodded. "What kind?" He imagi
ned an old car moldering in her garage.
"We'll have to go to a dealer and pick one out."
That was extravagant for any foster parent, and even more so in these tough times, what with the recession. Between clothes, school supplies, and a car, this was going to put a monumental dent in the Hernandez's savings.
"Are you sure?" Bron asked. "Don't you need to talk to your husband about it?"
Olivia smiled. "Well, there are some costs that you can't really get around. Raising a son is expensive. Mike knows that. It's sort of like getting a hamster. Even if you get the hamster for free, you still have to buy food for it, and a cage. Even a free hamster is expensive."
Bron wasn't sure how he felt about being compared to a hamster, but he got the point.
Olivia smiled eagerly. "Let's get started."
She took him back into the office to see the secretary, Allison, and said, "We're going to need school shirts for Bron."
Allison led him into a storage room, where the uniforms were laid out—shirts in seven colors, with Tuacahn's logo on the chest, a golden sunrise casting rays of light toward heaven as it climbed over a mountain.
"So," Bron asked, "all of the creative people in this school dress exactly the same?"
"We want you to worry about your art," Allison groused, "not what kind of rags to wear." He'd struck a nerve.
"If we're all dressed the same," Bron asked nervously, "how are the rich kids going to know who's best?"
"Talent," Olivia replied. "Here at Tuacahn, the guy with the most talent is the biggest stud."
"Let's try a large." Allison tossed Bron a shirt. He turned away, stripped off his shirt, and caught a glimpse of Allison grinning at his washboard abs, shooting a look toward
Olivia, and mouthing the word, "Nice!"
"Are you into sports?" Olivia asked.
"I did a little wrestling last year," Bron said. "Mostly I just like to run."
"That's the one problem with Tuacahn," Olivia said, "we're too small to support sports programs."
They took Bron's shirts and dropped them in Olivia's car trunk. It was still early afternoon, and it was in the low-hundreds. Olivia gave Bron the nickel tour of the grounds—showing him the green theater beside the school, the tables out under the pavilions where he'd eat lunch, the outdoor lockers used only by freshmen. Older students like Bron would have to carry their books in backpacks. Olivia led him under some awnings. Light rock music was playing. A couple of the little shops were selling souvenirs for plays, along with wall decorations, statuary, and exotic treats.
"This is the professional side of the complex," Olivia explained as she led him to the outdoor amphitheater where plays and concerts were held.
In the background above the stage loomed a massive wall of red rock. The ceiling was an azure sky filled with glorious sunlight, and Bron imagined it lit by smoldering stars at night. As he walked toward the open-air seats, he felt humbled.
Olivia explained, "There's something showing almost every night, mostly plays, but sometimes music concerts. Next week we have Styx playing."
"Will J.Y. Young be there?" Bron asked.
"You've listened to his music?"
"A little. He plays on a Stratocaster, with a special pre-amp."
"Do you know what it's called?" Olivia asked.
Teachers like to test you, Bron knew. They liked it even better when you knew the answers. "It's called a Yoshironator. It was hand-made for that guitar, and it's the only one in the world."
"Wow," Olivia said. "You do know your guitarists. Who's your favorite?"
"Living or dead?"
"Let's stick with the living."
"Joe Satriani."
"He's pretty avant-garde."
"He pushes the instrument," Bron said. "I like that. A lot of people can handle a classical style, but I like to hear artists do new things."
Olivia smiled. "I met Joe once, years ago. I even gave him a couple of lessons, down in
L.A."
"No way!" Bron said.
"I make it a point to meet guitar players, listen to them seriously. I'll tell you what. I'll get an extra ticket for you for the Styx concert. Heck, you can probably have Mike's. He usually falls asleep at rock concerts anyway."
Bron didn't trust his luck, but since Olivia was in a giving mood, he kept quiet. Olivia waved down at the amphitheater.
"Tuacahn keeps three theatrical performances running each season. The stars of the shows are hired out of New York or London, but if our high-school actors are good enough, some get parts. Every year, we have several students who go straight to Broadway. Talent scouts come and look them over. Disney makes a trip out each year looking for talent, too. That's how we got the contract to have the first performance of the new 'Tarzan' musical. Disney thought that our outdoor theater, with its unique backdrop, made it the most perfect place in the world for an opening."
With that, Olivia led Bron back to her white Honda CRV. As he was about to get in, she tossed him the keys. "You drive?"
"Me?" he asked. "Now?"
"It's a good way to learn the roads. Besides, I'm going to need to see how much I trust you with a car."
Bron got in nervously, adjusted the seat and mirrors, turned the key, and headed out of the theater complex. The road led down past a gate into a desert. Nothing grew here but mesquite bushes and a few Joshua trees. The road was empty, lazy.
"That sculpture you made," Olivia said as he drove, "'Becoming.' Are you afraid of what you're becoming, Bron? Do you feel torn between being a god or a monster?"
"I wouldn't quite put it that way," Bron said. It sounded so pretentious, talking about monsters and gods. "Every decent person ought to be worried about what he is becoming."
"You know," she said, "I'm not worried about you becoming a monster. I think ... we should let our passion shape our lives. We decide that we want to do something grand, and then shape our lives with our will and wit."
Nice sentiment, he thought. Let's see if it lasts. New parents often went through a "sweet phase," where they'd ask about his favorite foods and television shows. If he was lucky, they might buy him something.
It had been too many years since he'd been in the sweet phase, though. Melvina had never had one. She'd announced when they first met, "You'll eat what's put in front of you and wear what you're told."
Bron had admired her refreshing honesty. He'd learned long ago that you can never trust the sweet phase. All that niceness, that pandering, would fade in a week.
Pretty soon, he thought, Olivia will figure out that she can't make me love her.
Yet he'd missed having anyone care for him. Melvina hadn't spent any money on him in years; getting a few new clothes would be welcome. Bron didn't expect Olivia to deliver on everything she promised.
She'd take him home, talk with Mike, and he'd say something like, "Why spend all of that money on some kid that we might end up shipping off next week?" The promises would blow away like dying cinders riding the night's wind.
If Bron had been a different kind of person, he would have made sure to get as much as he could from Olivia, as fast as possible. But he didn't need much to get by. So he'd let them give what they wanted, and they could take it back to the stores later, if they felt like it.
"Bron..." Olivia began in a tone that was both confidential and serious.
Ahead, a cottontail bunny raced onto the road. "Slow down," Olivia said. "We have a rule in our house. You kill something, you get to eat it."
Bron tapped the brakes. The rabbit peered at the car, dashed for cover. It was cute, and reminded him of something....
When he was a child, he'd lived with a family who seemed all warm and caring at first. The Golpers. They'd smothered him with affection. But then one Christmas Eve they'd been on the way to the store to buy a turkey and some pumpkin pies, and some old gray-haired women had been sitting out in front with a box of kittens. One kitten had been striking—with long smoky-gray hair and white paws. Mrs. Golper fell
in love with it instantly, and got it "for Bron."
He'd loved that kitten, had slept with it every night, but after a week, it still hadn't managed to get trained to go in its litter box. So on New Year's morning, Mr. Golper had taken Bron to "get rid" of the kitten. He'd tied it into a burlap bag and carried it to a bridge that overlooked the Provo River. Then he'd told Bron to throw it in.
The kitten meowed plaintively in its bag, and the gray swirling waters roared and thundered over the rocks. Snow and ice crept down to the bottom of the gorge, and Bron's timid breaths came out in little wisps of fog.
"No one wants a kitten like this," Mr. Golper explained, scratching his balding head, "one that's too stupid to poop in the right place. So we have to get rid of it. We can't just pawn our problems off on someone else. Since it's your kitten, it's your job to do it."
Bron had cried and refused to throw his kitten off the bridge, promising to work harder to teach it, and Mr. Golper had spanked him and told him to "cowboy up." After twenty minutes of beatings, when Bron refused again and again, Mr. Golper had finally let out a string of profanity and tossed the bag into the river.
The kitten's meowing was frantic for a few aching seconds, and then the floating bag had tumbled over a rock and gotten swallowed by the dark flow.
Bron had stood in disbelief, watching the kitten disappear, and he seemed to have an epiphany.
I'll be smart, he told himself. I'll study harder than anyone in school, so that no one throws me away.
So he'd learned to read that year, better than anyone in kindergarten, and he came up with the coolest art projects, and began to learn how to add and subtract.
It didn't matter. The Golpers, so loving when they took him in, junked him at the end of the school year.
Now Olivia was buying him a new wardrobe.
Bron smiled weakly and told himself, Enjoy it while it lasts. She'll junk you soon enough.
Chapter 4
Nightingale Page 4
