24

Before she and Billy parted company, he to the gym, she to rehearsal with Polly, who played cello, he said, “I’ve got a little plan to mess with the collective minds of the staff.”

“What sort of plan?”

“It involves a bit of photography.”

“I’m on a scholarship. I have to behave myself.”

“Don’t worry. I’m the perp. I’ll do the time. I just need someone with a good camera to direct me.”

“It’s a likely no, but talk to me later.”

“Are you going to watch Miro at lunchtime?”

She generally preferred to spend lunchtimes reading, but since Lou was Miro’s lead singer, she had planned to make an exception. “Yep.”

“I’ll catch you there.”

Polly looked at her, wide-eyed, as Billy gave Vân Ước’s hand a good-bye squeeze and left. “Since when has that happened?”

Vân Ước shrugged. “I know.” She shook her head, no less mystified than Polly.

Unraveling knots in the Handel grand concerto—in G minor for two oboes, two violins, cello strings, and continuo, the focus of their rehearsal—was a welcome break from the strange new world of Billy-likes-Vân Ước.

As soon as they finished, as she stretched her neck, wiped her oboe, pulled it apart, and packed it inside its case, she felt the weird new excitement bubbling up in her chest. How was this going to play out? What would the limitations on her newfound charm be? Was there an expiry date? She couldn’t even revisit how the hell was this happening? It was too much to get her head around. It did not bear scrutiny.

Now that Billy had pinpointed the exact moment of noticing her, his sudden fascination could logically come down to one of two things. Either her wish had come true, or jumping up and down in front of someone you liked could create an instant attraction where none had existed before. Neither scenario seemed remotely plausible.

She was honest enough to admit to herself that in planning to enjoy this, at least for a little while, and going with the wish theory, she was saying yes to living a probable big fat lie: Billy was being duped. For once the joke would be on him. It was simply too tempting, and too intriguing an experience to forgo. But she had the horrible feeling that this would be akin to her childhood habit of saying yes to the giddy thrill of the playground whizz-around, despite knowing for sure that afterward she’d feel sick, stagger, and fall.

At lunchtime she headed for a spot under a shady tree to watch the year-eleven band, Miro, who were just finishing their sound check for the lunchtime concert. She couldn’t see Billy yet, so that gave her a chance to experiment. Would he find her and come to her?

“Taken,” said Tiff coldly as she was about to sit down, not even very close. “Sorry. We’re saving spots.” It was amazing the way these girls managed to say “sorry” in a tone that so clearly meant “piss off.”

She went to the next tree over and sat alone. From the stage, which was just an elevated paved area at the north edge of the quad, Lou gave her a little wave, and she waved back. A knot of tall boys emerged from the Kessler wing and mooched toward the trees. They stopped near where Tiff had saved space. A couple of them sat down, but Vân Ước saw Billy looking around. He smiled when he saw her and headed straight over, throwing himself down next to her. At least six sets of eyes from the next tree along stared in disbelief and frank hostility. She knew exactly what they were thinking. He’s our friend. What is our friend doing with her?

She let herself have a moment of triumph, looking back at them. Taken. Yeah, that’s right, me, I’ve taken Billy. From you. He’s choosing me. This was like being in a formula that was being chemically altered. The next thing Vân Ước saw was Sibylla virtually dragging Michael, with whom she’d been sitting on a bench, over to her.

“Hi,” Sibylla said, glaring at Billy. She sat herself down between Vân Ước and Billy, a squeezy small space to settle in, and left Michael standing, looking uncomfortable and bemused.

“Dude,” said Billy. “Are you going to sit? You’re kinda blocking my view.” Michael sat down hastily and started opening his package of sandwiches.

Miro was playing their warm-up-the-audience opening number, something thrashy. Vân Ước was grateful for the musical distraction.

Billy was looking at her with regret—their brief time together intruded on. Sibylla was giving her a significant look: I’ve got your back, sister.

And Michael decided now was as good a time as any to ask her a detailed question about their calculus assignment. They had to have the exchange at high volume because of the music.

Sibylla shushed them, saying, “Would you listen to Lou? She’s amazing.”

The four of them sat, eating lunch and listening, for the next three songs. Any time Vân Ước glanced toward Billy he was looking at her. Sibylla, in turn, was looking suspiciously at Billy looking at Vân Ước. She’d have to tell Sibylla and Lou that the landscape had changed. What would they make of it? She barely believed it herself. Plus, she didn’t really know what “it” was.

The band ended the set with a cover of the Vance Joy song that had been everywhere a couple of years earlier. Their version had a bit more of a trance vibe than the original, and Lou’s melodic, wide-ranging voice suited the song beautifully. She sang the line about a girl running down to the riptide. Vân Ước let herself lie back on the grass, plant herself into the heart of the song, and be that girl, the girl who inspired dreamy lines in pretty songs.

Just as Billy was her fantasy real boy, the lead singer of that band was her fantasy celebrity. She hated the official clip for the song that featured a clichéd victim-smudged-makeup woman, but she’d watched a live version on YouTube until she knew it by heart. She knew the water bottles, the little furry monkey, the Howard Arkley portrait of Nick Cave.

She imagined herself in that student house—it didn’t matter if it was real, or if an art director had dressed a set: it was real to her. She’d hung out in that room, at dim parties with good loud music that made the neighbors shout over the fence, and fairy lights strung on the walls merging through open windows with the stars strung across the sky, and people not caring, and caring too much, and drinking cheap wine, and breathless kisses in dark hallways.

She loved Vance Joy’s voice. It gave her goose bumps. One day she might even get to see the band live. Meanwhile, she’d enjoy those parties—as an artist, she fit right in—in that room in her imagination.

She was still in a delicious half doze when Billy got up, stretched, and said, “Party’s at mine on Saturday, after the regatta. Welcome, any friends of Vân Ước’s… et cetera.” He was looking at Sibylla and Michael.

Vân Ước took his outstretched hand and stood up.

“Only, Holly will probably be there…” he added, looking at Sibylla.

“Who?” Sib asked coldly.

“Come if you want to. I guess if you can avoid each other at school, you can probably manage it at my place, too.”

“You’ll come, won’t you?” Billy said to Vân Ước. “I know you can’t make the regatta, but you’re not working at night, are you?”

“I don’t know if I’d be allowed,” said Vân Ước.

“I’ll be there,” said Sibylla, looking Billy in the eye with a mildly threatening manner. “If Vân Ước goes, I won’t be far away.”

“Go-od,” said Billy, apparently unsure what he’d done to deserve such stern looks from Sibylla.

It was lovely that Sibylla was prepared to protect her at Billy’s party, particularly because it would involve social contact with Sibylla’s former best friend and now, surely, her least favorite person in the world, Holly.

“Whatever’s going on, I will see it,” Sibylla added.

“Cool,” said Billy, understandably a bit confused by Sibylla’s intensity.

As the bell for the end of lunch blared, Billy whispered into Vân Ước’s ear, which gave her an unexpected little shudder of pleasure, “Meet me in the common room after last period.”