The House of Grey- Volume 5

by Earl, Collin

  Most of the more prominent music students performed over the next hour or so, during which the Coren University dance became a movie set for Dirty Dancing: The Remix. Monson watched in fascination as the students fell into a sort of foot-stomping collective, enjoying the freedom gained in the absence of the prying eyes of parents, staff, reporters and teachers. The students popped and clicked, jimmied and jived, swayed and swaggered, to every kind of music imaginable, from hip-hop to modernized-classical. The scene was one of excitement and life, and one that Monson enjoyed very much.

  It was during this frenzy that a new and profound phenomenon came to his attention: slow dancing. This was not something he had seen or experienced before so it took him some time to figure out.

  Couples held each other close, usually to a ballad or love song, swaying to simpering declarations of eternal love and devotion. At first Monson thought the whole thing was silly—what a boring way to dance. Then he saw the potential behind these actions. He reconsidered. Sometimes it was difficult to tell someone your true feelings or even really work out what those feelings were, but this “slow dancing” provided an opportunity for physical closeness and a certain degree of emotional intimacy. Intimacy that would be important as the relationship forged ahead.

  “You should write a book.” Dawn’s voice echoed in an irritatingly disjointed fashion, but clearer than it had been recently. “Love according to Monson Grey! It has a nice ring to it, no?”

  “Stop listening to my internal monologues; it’s annoying.”

  Anyway, the couples on the dance floor looked so happy as they engaged in this particular mating ritual and Monson found that he was happy for them. To love and be loved must be a wonderful thing; maybe the most wonderful thing.

  The dance also highlighted, once more, how different his friends were. Despite, or perhaps because of a frequently disappearing and reappearing Christy, Casey seemed to be having a great time, dancing and flirting with a dozen or so different girls from their class and the grade above them. He would pull one in and whisper something to them, touch them lightly on the arm and laugh outrageously at his silly behavior. Not that things were all wine and roses. There were a tense few minutes when Kylie and her date, Jason Mauller, were dancing nearby, just in the line of sight of Casey and their group. “Dancing” might have been a liberal interpretation of what Jason and Kylie were actually doing, and Casey took the opportunity to dictate several colorful descriptions of the movements. A Casey/Kylie face to face, which did not occur completely by accident, almost gave Monson and Artorius a heart attack—visions of screams, kicks and a tree-breaking flash fist readily coming to mind. Thankfully, the worst that happened was a flippant remark by Mauller where the word “schlub” was thrown out more than once. It took Monson a bit to figure out that “schlub” was in fact an insult. Thank goodness for Grayson the human dictionary.

  Artorius stuck to Indigo’s side, grooving like it was the world’s going-away party. Artorius might not have been the most graceful, but he made up for it in enthusiasm. His infectious enjoyment spread to the rest of the group and was the primary reason for their complete craziness out on the dance floor. Even the controlled and prim Marie broke loose once or twice; she was even a good dancer!

  “Is there anything that girl can’t do?” asked Casey between gulps of bottled water. He gestured to Marie who was out shaking it with Indigo. Christy was absent again, but Casey did not seem to notice, or care for that matter. “Dude, Grayson, if she can cook, you should just go ahead and marry her because I don’t think you’ll find anyone better than her.”

  Applause filled the air and drowned out any possibility of hearing Grayson’s response, which he probably did not offer anyway. Instinctively, Monson and the others looked towards the stage for Mr. Gatt, who was again front and center with mic in hand.

  “So, I would like to inquire once again,” started Mr. Gatt, only to be manhandled by a wave of sound. The students, it seemed, were now having a very good time. Mr. Gatt grinned playfully. “Well then, are you ready for the final stage of the Solstice?”

  More cheers erupted from the crowd.

  Mr. Gatt continued. “As you well know, the Imperial Showcase is a long-standing tradition of Coren’s Spring Solstice. This gives us commoners—”

  Everyone laughed.

  “An opportunity to truly appreciate those special ladies who have been chosen as representatives of our school.”

  Monson nudged Casey. “You know, I’ve been wondering about something. Why don’t the guys have a showcase? And who actually picks the winner of this thing?”

  Casey faced Monson and stared. “I swear, Grey…I seriously have to wonder if you’re even listening to us half the time.”

  Casey shook his head but nevertheless continued. “Dude, we voted weeks ago for the royalty. As a matter of fact, they probably have everything ready to go. From what I understand, it’s tradition to announce the winner right after the last showcase performance.”

  Monson’s expression matched Casey’s incredulous tone. “So what’s the point of the showcase if it doesn’t have anything—”

  “Stop right there Grey,” interrupted Artorius, pointing up at the stage. “Your question will be answered even before you ask it.”

  A curvy chocolate-skinned girl with massive golden hoop earrings stood in the middle of the stage with no fewer than twenty people behind her. She snapped her fingers once and a spotlight appeared. She snapped twice and all of her dancers ran to her side. She snapped three times and a big, bouncing bass arose behind her. She started to groove.

  ***

  For the most part, the showcases were pretty good. Amber Summers, better known as Baby Beyoncé, performed two R&B songs, during which she and her dancers eventually took over the majority of the cherry wood dance floor. Her act was catchy and made you want to stomp your feet and sway along with the thumping music. Next was Mary Braden, who performed a dramatic monologue from some Shakespearian play. Monson was not impressed. It was not necessarily the acting; that was just fine. It was the choice of monologue. Monson did not know much about Shakespeare but if all his stuff was like that, then he would avoid it in the future.

  Kylie’s performance came as a surprise: She played the violin. Not merely played, but drew that bow across that fiddle with incredible ease and skill. There was an unknown factor at work, an air about her as she played. Perhaps it was the combination of the long, tight red dress, blood-colored lips, and straight blond hair that fell every so often into her flowing bow. Monson could not say, but Kylie looked and sounded incredible. Applause broke out, filling the space completely as she finished her piece. Everyone clapped like maniacs, cheering at the unknown and unexpected talent. Monson smiled at the enthusiasm. Kylie obviously enjoyed the music and seemed particularly enraptured by the piece she had just completed. A very real statement—the music seemed to give her some sort of explicit joy, a joy that was shared by just about everyone in the room.

  It was not lost on Monson that Casey was not clapping, his sour demeanor a sharp contrast to the rest of the crowd. Casey looked pissed, as only he could.

  “Dude,” started Monson. “What crawled up your butt and died? That was a beautiful song—”

  “I know,” countered Casey angrily. “I wrote it.”

  Monson started to ask but Casey stopped him, shaking his head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Monson sighed…more of the same.

  A dressed-down version of Taris Green appeared next. She walked onto the stage as Kylie exited, nodding her acknowledgment as she passed. A simple white, short-sleeved dress clung lightly to her, but in no way diminished the drama of her appearance. In reality, the simple white brought out the color of Taris’ hair; hair that flared in anticipation. Her face materialized on one of the large screens, which exposed the surprising nervousness and tension in her eyes. A guitar sounded as Taris pulled up a chair and sat, elegantly crossing her legs at the ankle. On cue, another stage l
ight zeroed in on her. She stared out at the crowd and with a solemn smile, started to sing.

  ***

  “Bitter trials

  Sordid reflections

  Colored emotion

  Distinguished pain

  I suffer, in the silence of the night.

  “Ravaged mind

  Reaching fingers

  Broken heart

  Echoed footsteps

  A body broken, in the silence of the night.

  “Streaking lines

  Gathering bunches

  Blotted corners

  Dripping droplets.

  “Tearful moments, in the silence of the night.”

  Taris Green walked off the stage, not even waiting for the applause, the aching hearts of hundreds of students reaching out to her as she moved away. Discordance of soul and spirit, hollowing cries of breached defenses, overwhelming emotion wrapped in a protective cocoon of confidence, beauty and popularity and begging for a glimpse of freedom, a freedom that failed to come.

  Monson felt wetness at the corner of his eyes pushing away his own sorrow. I am so sorry, Taris. I am so sorry for not noticing.

  “Dude, what’s up with Taris?”

  Casey stood at his side whispering. “I’ve never heard that song. I thought my heart might fall out of my chest.”

  Indigo trotted up to them, Artorius trailing behind. “So what. The cow can sing—”

  “Indigo,” said Monson firmly. “Please, not now. I’m trying to figure out….”

  Monson trailed off as an awestruck silence filled the room. Casey spotted the reason for the commotion.

  “Dude, turn around. Turn around now. You are so not going to believe this.”

  Cyann walked towards the center of the stage wearing an icy blue dress. Monson, Casey, Artorius and every other person in the room with eyes stared openly at her. She was beautiful, but that was not why they stared. It was her demeanor, her determination. What had gotten into her?

  She moved in almost total silence. No cheering, no catcalls, no one seemed to want to interrupt the moment. A couple of steps behind her walked Boston Timberland, who looked—

  “Hey Case.”

  “Yeah Grey?”

  “Is it just me or does Boston seem even more smug than usual?”

  Casey squinted at Boston, who was grinning outrageously. Casey studied him briefly. “Now what do you suppose he knows that we don’t?”

  Artorius piped up. “Maybe he was finally able to catch Cyann without dropping her.”

  They all laughed.

  “Come on—let’s get better seats.”

  Monson and the others pushed through the crowd to the forefront of the circle of people surrounding Cyann, who had jumped down from the stage after a wordy introduction and taken up a starting position in the very center of the dance floor. The student’s pushed back away from the center standing in a large circle watching expectantly. Pockets of whispered conversations were popping up all over now as Mr. Gatt’s voice spoke up in his final introduction of the evening.

  “Ladies and gents, I give you our last Imperial Showcase at this year’s Spring Solstice. Cyann Harrison.”

  From lambs to lions in an instant, the student body at Coren University broke out into their loudest burst of appreciation yet. Cyann started to move to the beginning notes of the piano.

  One step, two step, three step, four. Twirl, skip, jump…

  Something was wrong—Monson could feel it. Something was wrong.

  The music. It was not the same as it was the time he and his friends spied on Cyann. It was not that piece; it sounded like—

  “Equilibrium.” Monson turned to Casey. “Why are they playing—”

  Without warning the power died, leaving Cyann in mid-turn.

  She stopped, glancing around at the crowd and then up at the stage. Behind the glass box, the DJs were scurrying around frantically, trying to figure out what was going on.

  A few people started to snicker.

  “What the heck is going on?” asked Monson. “Why did the music stop?”

  Casey glanced around the room. “While we’re on the subject, where the heck is Boston?”

  A buzzing from his phone momentarily distracted Monson as a text from Grayson appeared.

  FROM: Grayson G

  Someone is messing

  with the power

  to the equipment

  11:07 pm

  Monson typed back with frenzied fingers. “How do you know?”

  Grayson’s response came quickly.

  FROM: Grayson G

  I’m in charge of the AV club

  it’s my equipment they’re using.

  I set my pocket PC to send me status

  updates and log any issues.

  The log shows there’s

  an error in the power management coding.

  11:08 pm

  Monson reread the message in amazement. He tried to stay focused.

  TO: Grayson G

  Why would someone

  try to mess with the power?

  Whats the point?

  11:08 pm

  Monson tapped the send button and waited for the response.

  FROM: Grayson G

  How should I know?

  Whatever viral code

  disrupted the power

  it waited until now to execute.

  Maybe someone is

  trying to embarrass

  Cyann. That seems

  like the only

  logical conclusion.

  11:09 pm

  Monson swore. The power was on the fritz and Boston was nowhere to be found. He did it. He had to have done it, but why?

  A replay of a small hand smacking the arrogance off a flamboyant face popped into Monson’s head.

  He arrived at his conclusion: Boston was trying to get back at Cyann and doing it in the worst possible way. He searched for something, anything, to improve the situation. What could he do to help? Was there anything? Would Cyann even accept his help?

  Monson found his eyes glued to Cyann, who stood stationary among the restless, simmering students as girls pointed and gestured towards her. Monson focused on her face, which was staring up at a man in the balcony.

  A man with silver-black hair and a regal disposition leaned over the balcony, appearing concerned.

  “Her father,” said Monson aloud. “That has to be her father.”

  He swore again. The next time he saw Boston Timberland, it would not be a pleasant encounter for Boston.

  Monson began to move towards Cyann. He had no idea what he was going to do but he had to help her. He had to try and do—

  “Grey, I know what you’re thinking.”

  Casey and Artorius both gripped him much as they did the first time they saw Cyann’s dance routine in The GM. Casey spoke again. “You can’t yet.”

  “Let go of me, Casey. I need to—”

  “Do something?” interrupted Artorius. “And what are you going to do, Grey?”

  Monson replied in a low, inaudible mutter.

  “What was that, Grey?”

  Monson didn’t answer. He did not have a plan and they knew it.

  “I have an idea, Grey, but you’re going to have to trust me.”

  Monson grimaced. Again, he hated when people—especially Casey—said stuff like that.

  Casey nodded to Artorius. “Listen carefully, Grey. I want you to wait two minutes and then walk out to Cyann.”

  “But why would—”

  Casey put up a hand. “Trust me, Grey.”

  Monson held his tongue. Casey and Artorius disappeared, moving away at a breakneck pace.

  Monson returned his attention to Cyann, who was still looking up at the balcony. He saw her tremble slightly, the desire to run away crawling over her smooth skin. She was trying to be strong, trying to finish the project that had held her captive for so long. It was all so wrong, all of it. It was not supposed to happen this way.

  It was then that the
unthinkable occurred.

  Someone started to boo Cyann. The booing was low at first; starting as individual voices around the room, but it grew louder and louder as time passed.

  Monson scowled. Oh how quickly they turn on you.

  The pluck of a guitar sounded as a voice rang out—a voice that Monson recognized.

  Casey stood up onstage in front of the mic, guitar in hand. Behind him was Artorius on the keyboard and Kylie on the violin. What in the—?

  “Monson Grey. Paging Mr. Monson Grey. Can you please come to the center of the dance floor? Ms. Harrison is waiting for you.”

  Monson’s jaw dropped! This is your brilliant plan, Casey?

  In one giant movement, every face in the room turned and looked straight at Monson. He stared back at them, all of them, for an extended second. Silence pressed in upon him and he muttered to himself.

  “Casey, you are SO dead. I am SO going to kill you.”

  Monson hesitated, but undid his jacket and pulled at his tie. He made his decision.

  “So it’s a dance you want?” whispered Monson under his breath. “Fine, it’s a dance you’ll get.”

  He took a shaky step, and then another, and watched as those around him parted to let him through. They cleared a path slowly at first, then more quickly as they realized what was happening.

  “What are you doing?” Cyann whispered as he closed in.

  “I’m coming to dance with you.” His gaze did not betray a single drop of emotion. “I’ll watch you for the changes—show me when you want to come back together. Open up a bit, would you? This isn’t going to work if we aren’t connected…oh, and try not to be afraid.”

  “Afraid? What are you—”

  Monson walked right up to her, coming incredibly close. It surprised her. He grinned slightly at her discomfort.

  “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

  She threw her hair behind her, starting to tremble with indignation. She squeezed her hands together then shook them out for a moment before grabbing his hands and placing them on her hips. She stepped closer to him, putting her own hands on his chest.