by Mia Miller
I tuned them out for the duration of our way back to Brittany Hall, wondering what was waiting ahead and trying, but failing, to will my heart back into a normal rhythm.
Chapter Three
Oscar
Now
I smacked the door of the auditorium hard, walking out without looking back even once. I felt a small jolt of pain in my fingertips. Not the first time when Cordelia Buchanan made my blood pump so hard I couldn’t even hear my own thoughts.
Had I known who she fucking was? Of course I had.
I’d seen her eyes; I’d seen them on her as a child and the life and the spark in them hadn’t diminished over time. Her gorgeous, dark eyes. Fixating me with that instant lust and want that made her pupils dilate. The moment she met my gaze, I was done for.
I’d barely stopped myself from touching my fingers against her lip. It had trembled when I’d raised my eyebrow, questioning her identity.
I’d heard that melody in her voice that had obsessed me for years.
Seen her shape beneath her baggy, weird clothes. Seen the woman she’d become. She was a goddess able to set everything on fire and torch me into the ground. Not that I’d let her. Not again.
How dare she? Coming back into my life so serenely . . . and what was she playing at? I’d seen the flash of recognition that was followed by a pain seemingly so harsh it almost knocked her off her feet. Then she’d turned blank. It suited her better.
Shaking my head, I swallowed back the bitter node forming in my throat. I checked my phone again for directions and went into the building’s basement. It looked like the school had decided to maximize all its spaces, even the musty ones. There were a few small audio rooms and what looked like a theater prop and make-up room beneath the building.
I assessed what appeared to be my destination. There were three guys my age, maybe a couple of years older, loitering around. One of them had a shaved head and he had his face resting against a set of drums that looked so old and decrepit I wasn’t sure how many songs they still had in them. The one with the dark hair was tuning his guitar with his eyes closed, lost in space. And a blonde guy in a corner who never spared me a look was writing something frantically.
“Are you the ones looking for potential band members?” I asked instead of a hello. Hellos were so overrated.
The guitarist and the drummer spared me a single glance.
“Yo!” said the drummer, only lifting his eyes, and not the rest of his face from the hard surface.
“You Enzo?” I barked my question, not really feeling like wasting my time. Singing in a band was not on my list of priorities. It was just a hook-up my buddy insisted on me to take. That these guys were “good.” I didn’t see it. “We spoke on the phone, I’m Oscar, I said.” That gave me some attention.
“Oh, he’s the piano player I talked to you about,” Enzo said, this time in a livelier manner. “Man, you have no idea how rough the last hour has been. We’ve auditioned some pretty lame guys. I just don’t think I have it in me to instruct one more person on how they should tune their own shit.” He stood from his small stool and gave me a vigorous handshake. “I play drums, Corbin is guitar and voice. We’ve tried singing as a duo last summer but I wasn’t keen on the sound. Too much like the White Stripes, know what I mean?” I nodded as took back his place behind the drums. “Ajax over there is a brilliant bass player who doesn’t want to say yes to any of our pleas for him to join us, but he agreed to listen to our auditions today. As you can see, what we’ve heard so far has sent him into depression,” Enzo said softly.
They don’t know depression.
I lifted my chin toward Enzo and took out the portable board and patches before looking for a plug.
Corbin whistled. “He brought the right kind of toys,” he mused. There was something in his baritone that gave me pause. I couldn’t quite place it but my ears never failed me. My gut, maybe. But my ears? They were golden.
I grabbed a stool from a corner, took a seat and freed my shoulders. When Corbin and Enzo nodded, I placed my fingers on the keys, alternating them and pressing them all along with rotating, exaggerated movements. Warming up was necessary always, but all the more important when I used the electronic board instead of the piano.
“We’re auditioning because we have something scheduled with a guy who has the power to help us make a name for ourselves. If we want it. In the beginning, we just want to make sure we’re compatible—you know?”
“Which guy?” I asked him, my curiosity peaked enough for me to stop touching the keys.
“Micky Barrett,” Enzo said proudly. I didn’t want to show it, but I got excited. I knew Micky Barrett; I’d heard records of his piano solos and having his name dropped made this whole band idea more appealing.
“What do you want me to play?”
“If we get the gig,” Corbin said, “we’ll need to do mostly covers. We’ll throw in a few of our originals, gradually, and see if they stick.”
“You write?” I asked him.
“I have a few songs I wrote; and a few that Ajax wrote for us that we can rehearse together,” Corbin answered and came near me.
His dark eyes had a light in them that was familiar enough to make me believe I was making connections where there weren’t any.
What was the name of her brother? She had spent hours talking about him, but for the life of me, I could dredge it up. I remember they had been really close, so if she was here, it was a small . . . very small possibility that this guy was him. It was far more likely that he was just some guy with no relation to her.
“So, if we’re doing covers, can you learn them on a weekly basis?”
“Dude, any song after The Stones came to play and I’m good to go.”
He smirked.
“Hit me with your best shot.”
I heard the double entendre in his voice and fired away the first verse of Pat Benatar’s song, without even looking at the keys. I paused, caught his approving grin and the suddenly relaxed look on Enzo’s face. Then I added my voice to the key sounds. After the last note, I didn’t pause.
“Give me another.”
“Let’s do “Hotel California,” and we’ll join you. I want to see how well we can synchronize. Ajax?” Enzo said, hopeful tone in place. Ajax didn’t stop his writing.
Enzo hit his sticks together, Corbin started humming songs and I played along. I played along so well, I forgot where I was. We went through five different styles and double the number of songs. These guys were good. They had the advantage of being tuned in to each other’s styles after years of practice, and Corbin’s deep voice reminded me of a young Michael Hutchence from the 80s rock band, INXS.
“Man, you have some vibrato!” I complimented Corbin during a water break.
“They’ll teach you how to do it during this semester—you’re a freshman, right? “Corbin said and I nodded. “My little sister’s a freshman too. Cordelia Buchanan. Lives in Brittany. You’ll meet her in Essay,” he said next, and sent my heart into a faster rhythm. There it was. Small world after all.
“Yeah, I kind of know your sister.”
If I was going to play with this guy, I had to give it to him straight.
“We met like a thousand years ago, in a camp. But I doubt she even remembers my name,” I said and bit my tongue at the questioning look that shadowed his face.
“Auditions are over!” Enzo yelled toward the door. There was a guy lingering there, studying the water-stained ceiling and wearing what was probably the same look I had earlier.
“Okay, well, if you ever need a new sound, I play the trumpet,” he shot to nobody in particular, then turned his back at us. There was a spectacular brass hanging on his shoulder. Too bad, I kind of wanted to listen to him.
I turned back from my reverie and checked out the guys, a question coming up.
“Do you have a name?”
“Nah, we’re undecided whether we’re gonna be a band or not,” Enzo said quietly. He’d come to the center of the ro
om and laid his arm on Corbin’s shoulder. They were blatantly discussing me in hushed tones.
“But if you want to come rehearse with us at the Clive Institute for a few nights this week before we get ready for Micky, we’d be happy to have you.”
A small weight lifted from my chest, one I would never have admitted, but one that felt good. Recognition in any form did my soul good.
“Sure, man. I’d love to,” I answered.
“Welcome to the no name thing!” Enzo boomed, while Corbin came toward me to shake my hand.
“So, are we playing anything original today, or tomorrow?” Ajax gritted from the corer. His raspy voice had something from another era in it.
“I will record you on my phone so I can reproduce it later, okay?”
The next couple of songs they gave me were so complex in their beats and so unique in sound that I started to think I was really in the right place and at the right time.
“Stunning outro!” I hollered toward Corbin. “Can I do one of mine now?”
“Sure, dude. We’ll try to sync with you.”
It was Ajax’s response. At some point, he had come out from his corner and joined us.
I stroked the keyboard in a lazy movement. My heart sang with just one song. I’d written it at seventeen, and it seemed fitting to share it right then.
“Aw, man, that’s cool!” Enzo said loudly, over the rapid rhythm of my intro. Corbin had his eyes closed and was counting my angry r & b beats as I led them into the lyrics.
I don’t even know who’s the Judas,
You or him
You left me speechless on that bus,
I don’t even know why I care,
You two can shove your god-damned pair
You and him . . .
The chorus came with force and I cried out the lyrics that were slicing through my heart with the same burn that I’d tried to bury so long ago.
There’s only hate, hate, hate,
Best fuel in the world,
And I can’t even retaliate,
I’m irremediably unfurled.
I closed my eyes, my forehead lifted toward the ceiling. I heard the three guys in the background slowly catching up to my sound. I kind of liked it. I left my fingers work the keys in ways they’d memorized long ago. And I saw the beautiful face of the treacherous girl I’d met a lifetime ago.
Chapter Four
Oscar
Then
It was cold that morning, too cold for that time of the year, and I could see fog coming out of my mouth while I waited at the bus. To pass the time, I tried to make circles come out of my mouth but only managed to contort my face into funny expressions.
I had counted my steps around the back of the bus which drove my supervisor crazy.
“I need you to stay put or enter the bus, or else I’ll never know where you are,” she told me using that serious tone of voice all the adults seemed to use when they wanted to make you do something.
I went to the side of the bus and shoved my luggage into the compartment that the driver was just opening. I went back to the front of the bus and paced.
“That’s it, Oscar. Get!” My counselor pushed me almost forcibly into the bus, not caring about my protests.
I couldn’t believe it. I looked straight ahead, to the headrest of the chair in front of me and counted internally. Mother had taught me to count in order to calm down, right when she’d given me my first metronome.
I tapped my fingers on my knees. Tap-tap-tap.
I couldn’t believe it!
The door closed and the bus pulled away.
I couldn’t believe that this was the end. Life wasn’t fair.
I looked to my right, and saw the boy sitting next to me was already asleep.
I looked to my left and saw we were passing the forest. Our forest. Our pond. There were curtains hanging at the window and an eerie silence on the bus. Kids had resumed their interrupted dreams.
I pressed my forehead against the cold glass, letting the curtain hide my head from the rest of the passengers. My heaving breaths fogged my view and it was like a barrier lifting. I let go of all of my tears.
Oh, how I’d miss her.
Chapter Five
Delia
Now
“Sorry for acting strange earlier, I was kind of caught off guard,” Leigh said to me while I was putting on my makeup. I glanced at her in the mirror and gave her a sincere smile.
“Nah. I’m sort of used to seeing girls go gaga over my brother.”
She giggled and grabbed her purse from her bed.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come with us? Corbin can explain some ins and outs of the places and introduce us to okay people,” I offered.
“You’re a darling, but perhaps tomorrow. I have a date tonight.” She carried on whispering, “He’s sort of famous . . .”
“Okay.”
I didn’t know what to do with that. First, she was whispering when we were the only two people in the room, and second, this morning she looked ready to jump my brother.
“Is he one of the guys who helped you move in earlier?” I asked tentatively and she snorted.
“Haha. Those are just some freshmen who were hanging around the lobby. I flashed them a smile and they jumped to help. You can’t resist the baby blues, can you?” she said, in a teasing voice, flashing a white smile at me. It did look pretty irresistible.
“Is he . . . a teacher?” I continued my guessing game, hoping that she’d say no though.
“Better!” she yelled her exhaltation over the prospect. “A. Big. Shot. Agent!”
I saw the hope in her eyes and I sympathized. I had no idea if this was just a bad idea, a monumentally horrible idea, or maybe fate smiling on her from the get-go. I shot her an encouraging smile. Time would tell.
“Have fun!”
She blew me a kiss from near the door.
“Listen, Cordelia, before I go, I just want you to know that I really want us to be friends this year,” she told me in a honeyed tone.
For a girl who wanted to be an actress, she didn’t manage to convey the right emotion when she said that. Quite the opposite, the dancing of her eyes told a different story than her words did. I wondered if she knew. I nodded to her, and she waved with just the tips of her fingers, and I was left alone to finish brushing eye shadow over my lids.
***
Parties weren't my thing. There were three years separating me from Corbin, which meant I was a freshman in high school when he was a senior and he didn’t want to take me anywhere he went. This wasn’t high school, and it was clear he was willing to make up for that. What my brother failed to understand was that I was so used to being just me and a canvas that I didn't even know what I was supposed to do at a party. Dance, I guessed. Except, I didn't really dance. I had texted Kayla in hopes of drawing her out, but by the time we'd left from Brittany, I hadn't heard back from her. So there I was, regretting the cleavage that was a hint too deep for me and the looks it drew from various guys, standing awkwardly as close to a plant as I could, not knowing what to do with my hands. What did people do with their hands at parties?
Fortunately, I didn’t have to wonder for long. Strong hands grabbed my waist from behind and I was spun around. My initially startled giggle turned into full-on laughter when I turned and saw it was Dalton from my essay class.
“Damn, girl, you clean up nicely.” He told me, and I grinned.
“So do you.” I took him in. He’d traded the tunic for high-waisted pants and a belted blazer with nothing underneath. His ebony chest was sculpted and looked like an open invitation. The guy really had flair in color accessorizing. He also looked like he didn’t give a damn about anyone’s opinion in particular. Forget about teaching me small talk. That was what I wanted to emulate. In that particular crowd, he fit in.
“I could say the same to you.”
He bowed in a theatrical manner, leaning with a grace that suited him perfectly.
&nbs
p; “You know, I am in cinema studies,” he told me.
“We’ll have a group project to prepare until the first break, and they don’t flat out tell you, but the more specialties mixed together, the more credits we receive.” Corbin had actually told me the same thing the first day I got here, so I nodded.
“Yep. Wanna hook-up?” I asked, wiggling my eyebrows. “I mean, uh, you know, for the project—”
“Yes, child, I need an art director! And don’t worry, I don’t swing that way, at least not this year.”
I stuck my tongue out at him and winked at the same time.
“Okay.”
“We should sit together next week and make a plan. Oh, my—” His words cut off and his hand finds my elbow. “Isn’t that Blazing Bangable Hottie from earlier, piercing holes through your skull?”
I looked in the general direction of where Dalton had just been scoping out, only to find Oscar standing there with his arms crossed. They didn’t hide the inscription on his shirt entirely, that I read: “Sarcasm. Just another one of the services I provide.”
I rolled my eyes and turned back to Dalton, ignoring the slitted eyes Oscar was throwing my way.
“Yes, yes he is.”
“What’s his problem?” Dalton asked, dragging me toward the dance floor. I silently prayed he had moves flamboyant enough for the both of us.
“When I figure it out, I’ll let you know,” I grumbled and moved, acutely aware that people were looking at us. I tried to shake my shoulders and hips in rhythm to a new, electronic beat that I wasn’t familiar with. It bugged me that I didn’t know the lyrics. Lip-syncing was half the job of making a song come to life, and everyone knew that. Dalton raised a bottle of beer and howled. I startled and took a step back, regretting it the moment I hit a wall of hard muscle, heat, and anger.
I didn’t even need to turn to know who it was, but I did because it was better than staying pressed against him.
“I can take over,” he told Dalton, spinning me around and placing his hands firmly on my hips, just as the song changed to a slower one.