Cheers erupted from the class, and the three stood together, took a bow, then sang in harmony, "Remember: Hyperion Club Auditions begin tomorrow!"
They left amid applause, and Bron asked the gum-chewing girl, "What is the Hyperion Club?"
"It's a club for musical theater," she said. "You have to be a triple threat: singer, dancer, actor. Only the coolest of the cool make it in."
Bron frowned. He was just getting ready to take beginning dance. He'd never sung in public, and his acting experience consisted of playing The Great Pumpkin in a Charlie Brown play in third grade—if you can call rising from a pumpkin patch acting.
I'll never make it, he thought. At least not this year.
His second class was mathematics, and Mr. Hayward, a bespectacled old gentleman, explained that, "I know that you all think that you're artists, and you'll never need math, but as artists of course you'll need to learn to invest your money wisely. So this semester, I'll be adding a lot of interesting story problems to the curriculum. You will learn, for example, how movie studios use legal loopholes to steal money from both their actors, directors, and their investors."
That led to a lively discussion and demands from students for examples, so the entire class became a blur of story problems based upon things like, "How Arnold Schwarzenegger landed a cool deal on Terminator 3," and "How Peter Jackson learned, after he directed Lord of the Rings, never to take money on the back end."
The teacher had students nearly in tears as they begged for "story problems," which taught as much about cutthroat entertainment practices as they did about math.
Bron decided that the class he had expected to be the one most likely to put him to sleep would now be his favorite.
In the midst of a story problem, three teenage girls entered the room dressed as witches in black, with very dramatic green makeup, and presented a "musical memo."
The girls sang a cappella. In a mock-operatic tone, one witch warned, "There are scorpions in the lockers!" while the next young lady chimed in during mid-sentence, "And rattlesnakes in the halls!"
The first shrieked her lines as soon as she was done, so that the warnings came in French Rounds, growing louder and more frantic.
Then the third girl sang "Don't get bitten! Don't get stung!"
As they kept up the rhythm, the girl's lines began to change to warnings about how tarantulas and gila monsters seek shelter from the cold in the fall, and then the trio ended up singing an admonition:
"If you get hurt,
don't be shy:
run to the nurse
before you Die!"
When they finished, they urged the class to come to madrigal tryouts on Wednesday, then departed amid fervent clapping.
As class finished, Olivia came down and delivered Bron's new iPhone, along with $10. He was delighted by the phone, and lunch money. Other kids came to admire it as he opened the box. All of the kids seemed to know Olivia, so it wasn't too weird to have your "mom" handing out presents at school. But he was hungry, so he went outside to the concession stands to buy lunch.
Whitney Shakespeare had never believed in love at first sight, but her mother had warned her that it could happen.
It happened that Monday. At the Green Show Theater, during lunch, she was singing with her band. She had a drummer, a base guitarist who wanted to play lead, a keyboardist who only hit the right notes about ninety-eight percent of the time. She hoped to recruit some better musicians with a tune that she had written three weeks earlier. "I see you coming, babe, and panic creeps-why can't I breathe? You say 'hello' and walk right past me— why can't I speak?
This happens every day, five times a day— what's wrong with me? And on the weekend I'm alone at home, and I dream...
The song had a country pop beat, and Whitney sang with a youthful innocence. She drew from several inspirations—Taylor Swift, Katy Perry, maybe even a hint of Adele. The song required a lot of emotional range—longing one instant, hurt and pleading the next.
Choreographing the song to dance required Whitney's total concentration. She was lost in the music when she saw Bron.
Suddenly her heart began thumping to a whole new beat, and she remembered something her mother had once said: "When you see a boy and fall in love, don't hide your feelings. Just try to claim him as a friend. That way, even if the feelings don't stick, you might still have a bud."
She instantly recognized Bron. All morning, she'd heard how Mrs. Hernandez had adopted a hunk, and rumors were flying. Some said she was adopting him because he was a fantastic sculptor, others said it was because he was a tortured soul. Whitney's old boyfriend, Justin, had warned that Bron was a loser, already in deep trouble with the law.
Whitney took one look, and saw something amazing: Bron was handsome,
heartbreakingly so, yet he had a timid smile. There was no sign of the conceit that had ruined her relationship with Justin. More than anything, Bron looked a little lost and frightened.
But there was something more. Bron watched her sing, but he wasn't just looking at her. He was connecting to her song in a way that few people did. He was nodding in rhythm to the music, as if he'd captured the beat of her heart, and when he looked at her, his eyes focused off in the distance, as if he could see through her.
Whitney sang her second chorus, then stepped backward while her guitarist, Damien, took the lead.
Damien couldn't quite keep up. He normally just played base. The whole reason for playing on the green today was to try to attract a new lead guitarist, and maybe someone for keyboards. Damien had the rhythm down, but he tried a couple of flourishes in his solo and tripped over his own fingers.
Bron was deep in the music, too, zoned out, and suddenly Whitney saw a gleam in his eyes, and he smiled.
He sees how to make this better, Whitney realized.
It wasn't a great song, she knew. It was what the Germans called an ohrwurm—an earworm—a. piece of music whose rhythm gets stuck in your head. Most musical hits aren't masterpieces of composition, but simple earworms.
Whitney launched into the third verse, and when she reached the chorus she did something bold. She danced up to Bron and sang to him:
"I'll text you when I'm ready inside.
To climb out the window
down the old drain pipe.
We'll paint the town red in my daddy's blue beat up Ford.
And long after we should
we'll race the dawn back home.
And everyone now knows.
As she sang, she put her hand up and made the phone signal, and got in his face.
Whitney was pretty, she knew: with cinnamon-colored hair, a dazzling smile, and a lithe body. As president of the Madrigals, she had to be a triple threat. She'd worked hard to reach her position.
But she wasn't wealthy, not since her father's suspicious death. In fact, she was so poor, sometimes it hurt, and she was afraid that Bron would look into her eyes and see right through her.
It took him a minute to realize what she was asking, but his eyes widened and he pulled a new cell phone from his pocket and handed it to her. She quickly pulled up his contact list, and was glad to see that it was empty.
She typed in her name and number, put herself on speed dial, handed it to him, and sat next to Bron.
"Wow," she said, "a brand new phone, and only one person to call. That should make life easy."
Bron grinned shyly, as if girls never threw themselves at him.
"Just a minute ago," Whitney said. "I saw light bulbs going off over your head."
He was at a loss for words, so he just said, "What?"
"There were great big ones!" she went on. "Like the flash on a camera. There were beams of light shooting out your eyes, too, and rainbows flowing from your ears. So what were you thinking about?"
"I..." Bron had a hard time responding. "I was thinking about the song, the guitar riff. I might have a way to make it better." He went on with guitar-geek speak. "The problem is, the guitar is punch
ing out the words with strong beats when it should be flowing into the phrase. The focus is all wrong. It should be a pickup, not the destination, you know?"
Whitney nodded, interested.
"The guitar needs to keep moving, keep telling the story. You lose momentum during the solo and the song never really recovers. It can be done, but the guitarist has to choose his notes more carefully, make them count."
Whitney smiled, "I can see that."
"Yeah," Bron continued. "So you over-compensate vocally to try to regain the magic. You start pushing, but it's already gone at that point."
"So what should I do?"
"You need a better bridge into the solo, one that builds momentum and launches the solo like a rocket. Then the solo needs to keep the groove going while soloing in the margins. Then the guitar has to stop once it's had its say and give it back to you."
Whitney stared at Bron, measuring him up.
"Most importantly, the guitarist has to keep his focus on the story and the vibe and connect with the audience without losing the connection. He's too... self-conscious. The song isn't about him and his guitar solo. The song is the story."
"I'd like to hear what you've got in mind," she said, wondering if she'd just found a new lead guitarist, or maybe a composer. "Where's your ax?"
"At home," Bron apologized. "It's just an acoustic."
"Tomorrow then," she said. "Play it for me at lunch." She smiled wide, leaned in close, and as he glanced down at her chest, she had a revelation.
"You're not gay!" she said.
"What?"
"Some guys were having a debate in the hall," she said. "They thought you must be gay, because your hair is too cool for a straight, and you're too buff. Without much in the way of athletics in this school, we don't have many hunks. Still, we couldn't be sure. But just now, you were checking me out."
Bron looked as if he was going to deny it, but admitted, "Right on all counts, I guess. I'm straight, and you... definitely check out."
"I'm Whitney," she said. "Whitney Shakespeare." She stuck out a hand to shake. He had a firm grip, callused hands. She held his for a bit longer than was necessary.
"Bron," he said.
"Bron Jones," she corrected. "You're living with Mrs. Hernandez." She smiled secretively. "You're going to love her. She's my favorite teacher." She leaned in, gave him a bump with her shoulder.
"Yeah, she's great," Bron said, and as the band packed up, they got lost in conversation. Bron's face, his voice, were dizzying. Whitney told him about her old home, down in L.A., and her father's business as a film financier, before he'd died. They talked about their favorite pizza, and she found herself taking his hand and leading him like a puppy as she strolled back into school, down the hall to Room 205.
She clung to his hand self-consciously. There were a lot of pretty girls in the school, heavy competition, and she wanted to signal that "this one is mine."
Whitney's stomach rumbled from hunger, but she decided to skip lunch in order to be with Bron.
As they began to enter the classroom, Bron suddenly looked up with a start. The little room was nearly full of students, some sitting along the back walls.
"What's this?" Bron asked.
"The Star Wars Club," she said. "You should join." She pulled him into the room, and they took a place against the back wall, since all of the seats were fall.
The teacher, Mrs. McConkie, stood at the front, next to a television with a built-in Blu-Ray. "We're going to start the semester with Star Trek, the J.J. Abrams version. Notice how it starts with the birth of a hero, who is also the son of a hero, in the very oldest of Greek tradition. Yet in reinventing the Star Trek universe, J. J. Abrams is doing what mythmakers have always done, adapting the tropes of the past to our day...."
She flipped on the television, and within moments Whitney felt lost in the story. From time to time, the teacher would make some comment: "Here's where Kirk proves that he's a hero. He gives his life in order to save his crew. Note also that in losing his life, it ensures that his son will have to come back and face the villain that destroyed him." Or, "Notice how Young Kirk is lost, impulsive, and self-destructive in this scene. All young heroes are shown this way, almost always with these same flaws. These aren't flaws in character so much as the foibles of youth...."
This wasn't just vapid entertainment. The teacher was explaining how this silly story connected with a wider world, and as she watched it, Whitney glanced over at Bron and wondered, Could he be the son of a hero?
He looked the part. He had a strong chin, a noble brow.
Bron glanced to the side, saw Whitney studying him. She smiled as if to say, "Ah, you caught me."
"Were you just checking me out?" Bron asked.
She grinned.
"Well?"
"No, we're way past that," she admitted. "I was more... admiring."
Bron couldn't wipe the grin from his face after that. Upon seeing Whitney, hearing her sing, it had seemed that joy just gushed out from her, like clear water from a mountain spring. He imagined instantly that she would be the most popular girl in the school.
There were a lot of pretty girls at Tuacahn, and he was definitely standing next to one of the hottest in the school. Whitney, with her cinnamon-colored hair, sea-green eyes, and dancer's physique was awesome, and she was holding his hand.
He'd never held hands with a girl before.
But there was more. When she'd sung, he felt that he connected on some deeper level. They were both the same inside—hurt, longing, alone, in need.
Life seemed good.
The movie had to be halted partway through, and Bron said goodbye to Whitney. She walked a few steps, turned back and caught him staring. She made the "call me" sign, and turned away.
He put it on his to-do list, promised himself that he'd call her tonight, after school.
After that, third period was a blur. Something about a Spanish class? He was so mesmerized by Whitney, he didn't remember much. She had such an astonishing effect on him that it drove out all of his concerns from the weekend, all of his worries.
The teacher was explaining how to conjugate the verb ser, to be, when the door burst open and a young man came into the room, dancing and spinning with a boom box on his shoulder, playing Owl City's "Fireflies." The teacher looked stunned and shouted for him to leave as he danced around, seemingly oblivious to her shaking fist.
Seconds later, a young man came tumbling into the room and began to breakdance, spinning on his head on the floor, followed by a ballerina.
The teacher kept shouting for them to get out, and they all ignored her, until Bron realized that it was all an act, and the teacher was in on it. A fourth girl danced into the room bearing a sign, "Dance Club Auditions: Thursday!"
The room erupted into enthusiastic applause and whistling, and the dancers whirled from the room, taking their show on the road.
Bron's last class of the day was beginning dance, his first and only real "arts" class for the semester. Most of the classes had already been full when he registered, and Bron felt silly in this class. Though it was a beginning class, Bron was less than a beginner. He'd hardly danced before. One bad experience had left him never wanting to dance again.
If he thought that this might be like any of the dance classes he'd seen at other schools, the teacher, Mr. Petrowski, quickly dispelled all illusions. One girl whispered, "He danced with the National Ballet in Moscow."
When Mr. Petrowski entered the room, he came in black tights. The man had thighs like a weightlifter's but managed to walk with the grace of a doe. In a thick accent he said, "This dance class will be toughest in your life, both on emotional level, and on physical realm. We have musical events to prepare for. The first one comes with the Renaissance Feaste, on October first, six weeks from now. We need dancers to perform in medieval costume. The Christmas Dance Recital comes in December, fourteen weeks from now.
Auditions for performances start Wednesday."
; This caused a stir in class. Many girls had a hopeful gleam in their eyes, and Bron realized that this was one of the big events at the school.
A young lady at his side whispered, "Don't worry. You've got a good shot, so long as you don't trip over your own feet. They always need guys."
"Yeah, but this is a beginning dance class. We won't have a chance, will we?"
She smiled up at him. "Petrowski is always looking for beginners to put in the show. He wants the upperclassmen to know that there is always someone younger nipping at their heels."
Bron nodded.
Petrowski introduced four older students who would be working as teacher's aides, two guys and two girls. Bron recognized one of the boys—tall, broad-chested. He'd been talking with Whitney in the hall, earlier in the day.
"You any good?" the girl at his side asked. She was studying his arms, his abs. Bron knew that he was pretty ripped. Most days this summer, he started the morning with a hundred crunches and ended the day with two.
"I've never even tried dance," he admitted. "Sorry."
"You're an athlete, though?"
"Wrestling and cross-country. I wasn't that good."
"Wrestling is a lot like dancing," she whispered. "If you can learn how to do a takedown, a dip will be easy. If you're used to running, you should have good wind. All we really need to find out is if you've got rhythm and attitude."
The girl wasn't pretty so much as seductive. She was shorter than a dancer should be, with exaggerated curves. There was intelligence in her brown eyes, a quick wit.
She smiled up at him provocatively. "Tell you what, I've had a year of ballet when I was a kid, along with a little Jazz. I'll give you private dance lessons, if you teach me how to wrestle."
Bron smiled self-consciously. "Are all the girls in this town so forward?"
She grinned mischievously. "Do the math: we have 274 students. Of those, only 87 are guys. Of them, 12 are gay. That leaves 75 guys. Only nine of them are really cute. Eight of the nine have girlfriends. That leaves only one. You."
Nightingale Page 14