I wanted to say something like "thanks for the hot tip," but it's damn difficult to be snarky when you can't say anything. Plus, even though I thought she was the scariest thing around, hell, she was hot today. All sun-drenched streaks in her hair and freckled sharp nose and sarcastic mouth. Tight black T-shirt with just the word grudge on it and jeans riding low enough on her h*ps for me to see a shiny scar across one of her hip bones, right where her shirt met her jeans.
I must've been ogling or she must've been reading my mind, because Nuala said, "I'll admit, for once, I actually like what I look like. Normally, you tragically talented musicians prefer me to look all wishy-washy and delicate." She knelt next to my pipe case and looked inside without touching anything. "But you want me to look kick-ass, and I like it."
I knelt and pretended to twiddle with my pipe reed, turning my back to my audience. I still couldn't say anything without them hearing, but I could at least not look like an idiot staring off into space.
Nuala sat back on her haunches, knees poking through her jeans, and grinned at me. "Don't tell me you don't like the way I look."
She looked good enough to eat, but that was totally besides the point. It was vaguely creepy that she was dressing just to turn me on.
"Not just dressing," Nuala said. I realized, with an unpleasant jolt, that she didn't cast a shadow. "My face. I only look like this because it's what you want me to look like. Someone like you—when I get close to you, I change, to become more appealing to you. I can't do anything about it. And believe me, sometimes it's really awful what musicians fantasize about. For once, though, I actually feel like I look on the outside like I look on the inside."
But I didn't want her to look like anything. I just wanted her to get the hell off my hill.
"You really want me here, or I wouldn't keep coming back." Nuala's smile looked like a snarl.
"Nerves, James?" Sullivan called.
"Don't flatter yourself!" I called back. I shoved my chanter back into my pipes and stood up, turning my back on Nuala. I was afraid that she was right—that I was so obsessed with my music that I would eventually break down and beg for her help.
I shouldered my pipes and played a strathspey difficult enough to take my mind off Nuala. My E doublings were crap today; at the end of the tune I strung a bunch of them together until they sounded crisper.
"They sound fine. You're obsessing. You're friggin' brilliant, like you are every other day," Nuala said. She was right by my ear; I held very still as she blew her flowery breath across my face while she spoke. "Here's a free tip for you, ass**le. Ask Eric to go get his guitar. That's not cheating, is it? Just a little suggestion. Take it or leave it."
I hesitated. I watched the white clouds race over the top of the hill, massive, towering secret countries made of white and pale blue, and with my eyes I followed the shadows they cast on the endless hills. It wasn't cheating. It wasn't saying yes.
"Eric," I said, and Nuala's mouth made a shape like pleasure. "Why don't you get your guitar?"
Eric looked up from his book, and the pleasure on his face was a much simpler and more innocent brand than Nuala's. "Yeah, man. Hold on!"
He jumped up and headed back to the school, and while he was gone I struck into a set of jigs so happy and neverending that Nuala couldn't say anything else, just glower at me for silencing her.
Then I saw Eric slowly climbing the hill, guitar case in hand, and beside him, a girl carrying an amp. The grin threatening to spread across my face forced me to stop playing. Nuala was wrong. If she really looked like what I wanted, she'd look just like the girl who was climbing the hill with Eric.
Dee, cheeks red from sun and the climb, grinned at me and said, a little out of breath, "Think you could maybe practice a little closer to the school next time?"
That evening, when I ran out onto the hills in search of the antlered figure's song, I got closer than I ever had been before. I got close enough that I could see each individual thorn on his antlers silhouetted against a violently red sunset. Close enough to see the dark material of his cape flattening the grass behind him. Close enough to hear the melody of the song better than ever, in all its agonizing beauty.
I could hear every word he sang, too, though I still couldn't understand what it meant.
I just knew I wanted it.
It took me a long time to go back to the dorms after he'd gone. In the ordinary night he'd left behind, I sat on the hill, the wind whispering through the long grass that surrounded me. I stared at the stars and wanted more than what I was and more than what the world was and just—wanted.
James
After Sullivan had failed to give me a demerit for sleeping in, I thought that I’d escaped further retribution, but apparently I was wrong. The next day, before class, he caught my arm in the hall just before I went into the classroom.
“I’m giving you a pass today, James,” he said.
The smell of coffee wafted from inside the room. “I’ll miss Hamlet.”
“You weren’t worried about that last class.”
“Oh, God, is this still about last class?”
Sullivan gave me a look that would fry eggs and released my arm. “Only indirectly. You’re getting a pass today because you’re going to go meet with Gregory Normandy.”
The last time I had seen the name “Gregory Normandy” it was on the bottom of a business card in my Thornking-Ash acceptance packet, with the word “President” underneath it. I felt like a cat presented with a full bathtub. “Can’t I just write out ‘I will never again miss class’ one million times?”
Sullivan shook his head. “What a waste of your highly trained fingers, James. Go find Normandy. He’s expecting you. In the admin offices. Try and keep your vitriol to a manageable low. He’s on your side.”
I had actually been looking forward to Hamlet as a low-stress introduction to the morning. I thought it was pretty unfair of Sullivan to deliver me to an authority figure before lunch.
I found Gregory Normandy in McComas Hall, a small, octagon-shaped building with windows on every single side. Inside, my sneakers squeaked on the wood floors of the octagon-shaped entry hall. Eight men and women with varying degrees of frowning and baldness looked down at me from portraits on each wall. Possibly founders of this proud institution. The whole place smelled of flowers and mint, though I couldn’t see evidence of either.
I checked the brown plastic nameplates on each of the seven doors until I found Normandy’s name. I knocked.