MY BACCHAE PAPER WAS DUE THE next morning. As I walked to the library, two scenes flashed in my head: Jarvis’s study and Carlton’s office.
I stopped to look at the glass case with books by Oakhurst alums and photos of the authors. Two of them were by grads from the last twenty years: a woman who’d hit on a young adult theme involving paranormal romance and a guy who’d discovered lots of new fish in the Amazon. All the others were written by alumni from another age. There were pictures of them. All old and all white.
Instead of heading for a sleepy chair, I sat down in a cubicle, turned my computer on, and just wrote a story: about a school, somewhere long ago, where the headmaster was a king, living in a castle, and the kids ran into the woods to escape his rule. It was almost like writing a song. Whatever came into my head, I put it down.
In the end, the kids rebelled and burned the place down, then stood amid the ashes, wondering what in the hell to do next. Then they put it back together, only better.
I had no idea what Bruno would think, but at least it had come from me. It was mine.
• • •
Back in my room, I checked the internet window: open. I had four new e-mails: from Luke, from McGregor, from Jill McGregor, and from Caroline. Ten minutes ago.
I opened McGregor’s first: Jack—Thanks so much for asking me to hear your music. I wish I could give you better news, but my duties at Oakhurst Hall are clearly outlined and defined by my job description. To step outside of that box would set, at the very least, an unusual precedent. Jill and I wish you all the best in your endeavors.
No surprise there.
Then I opened his wife’s: Dear Jack: Just wanted you to know that I thought your symphony was beautiful. Well, actually I thought it kicked, um, ass. And this is from an original Phish freak (I camped out at the Clifford Ball in Plattsburgh). I have passed my opinion of your music on to the powers that be. Good luck.
Luke was the usual: Jints lose to the goddamned Falcs cuz eli throws an INT to a fuckin DT? University is the yoozsual: tight-assed. No new babes. Want to go Iggles game over xmas break? Now that yr a futbal star?
Caroline’s words proved I’d saved the best for last. Got best time on the team today! Miss you.
I answered in a microsecond. I miss you too. To put it mildly. Which took a lot of restraint. So I threw out the restraint. Want to have a quick meet beneath the maple?
It was about thirty seconds before she shot back, See you in five.
I whipped off an e-mail to my dad: You coming up for the last game?
I got an instant answer: If I’m not there, a stretch Cayenne will be. Can’t beat that, right?
Right.
• • •
I was sitting beneath the tree when she came out dressed in a loose hoodie and, for the first time, a pair of really tight jeans that actually showed that she had a body. She flopped down next to me. “Any news on the band?”
“Not good. McGregor passed. And Carlton really shot me down. Like, in no uncertain terms. But I swear, we’re going to play anyway.”
“What if they boot you? How would I get through the rest of the year?”—and then she leaned her head on my shoulder, and right then, the band didn’t matter. The history paper didn’t matter. Ward and Carlton didn’t matter. I did give a thought, though, to playing it cool as I slowly put my arm around her shoulder, then slid it down her side, then slipped it under the bottom of the sweatshirt—to feel nothing but soft skin. Her waist.
She didn’t yank my hand away. So I just let it sit there. The silken warmth of her skin felt unbelievably sexy. I lightly stroked it, that little patch of her stomach.
Neither of us said anything else for a few minutes. Then I turned my face to hers. She looked at me . . . smiled slyly, and hopped to her feet in one sudden, fluid motion. She looked down, smiled again, a little more slyly, and ran back up her dorm steps. If it was a tease, it was a tease I could live with.
I couldn’t help seeing how naturally she ran, loping, like some forest animal, all in rhythm.
Of course, that wasn’t all I noticed.