Fever Pitch

by Heidi Cullinan

  Giles started crying again when he heard his dad had, without anyone telling him, gone to make sure Elijah was okay at the hospital.

  They got to go themselves the next morning. Though the campus was declared secure by nine, none of the students wanted to leave each other, so security brought over some pillows and blankets from the Red Cross, and everyone hunkered down in the music building. Occasionally people napped, but mostly they talked, hugged and cried. Nussy and Allison appeared with doughnuts, orange juice and coffee in the morning, but not a lot of people ate.

  As soon as the word came down they could visit Baz, they decamped and headed out. Since traffic was a mess because of the national TV networks, they walked the seven blocks to the hospital together, one great big mob taking up the entire middle of the side streets.

  “They’re never going to let us all in,” Karen pointed out as they strode in silence.

  “They’ll let some of you in,” Mrs. Mulder said.

  Nussy nodded. “I’ll do what I can. I’ve heard he’s stable and conscious. If we can bring him out to the lobby, we will.”

  “So he’s okay?” This came from Mina, her voice breaking.

  Dr. Allison put a hand on her shoulder. “Yes. The bullet hit the plate in the back of his shoulder and loosened one of his titanium ribs. He was lucky in the way it struck him—all the damage is surface and some shifting of his metal skeleton. He’s sore, and he’s lost some blood, but he’s fine. He’s already out of surgery to stabilize the plate and the loose rib. All he has to do now is slow down enough to recover.”

  Baz had titanium ribs? But yes—he’d said as much in the White House kitchen the day they talked about making armor. Apparently Baz had literal as well as figurative.

  Titanium ribs and shoulder plates. Jesus, no wonder he loved that fucking song. Giles tried to laugh, but all he could see was blood splattered on the snow.

  When they got to the hospital, they were taken to a kind of auditorium where they were told to wait. Dr. Nussenbaum said Mrs. Acker was coming to see them and give them an update. In the meantime, they had to wait. Again.

  Aaron drew Giles to him, hugging him tight. “It’s okay, baby. It’s over now.”

  Wasn’t Giles supposed to be the one comforting? He searched for the words he was supposed to say, but everything leaked out of his head. “Are you okay? Really?”

  Aaron smiled—wearily. “I’m good. I’m alive. So are all my friends. And we’re safe.” His grin widened, going dark. “And my dad is in jail.”

  Giles sat up. “What? How did I miss this?”

  “You were in a bit of shock, hon.” Walter plunked into the row in front of them, and Kelly sat on his lap. “We were worried about you for a while.”

  Now Giles felt embarrassed. “Why is Mr. Seavers in jail?”

  Aaron’s expression was steel. “Because he fought the security guard and kept him from tackling Mr. Prince before he fired the shots. He was so busy having his fit he almost got Elijah and Baz killed. And maybe you and I too. And Walter, and Kelly, and everyone else standing around us.”

  Holy. Shit. “Are they—? What will they do to him?”

  “Probably nothing.” This came from Walter, who cradled Kelly close. “He might get a fine, but he’s a lawyer. None of this will stick. If he stays in jail overnight, I’ll be shocked. Though I don’t think Bob will be bailing him out. He was pissed at him already—so were a lot of other people. This won’t do Jim any favors at the firm.”

  Giles turned to Aaron. “Are you okay with all this?”

  Aaron gave him a funny look. “With my dad getting a taste of his own? Yeah. I’m fine.”

  Giles couldn’t stop touching his face. “I almost lost you.” Blood on snow. “That could have been you. You could have been dead.”

  Aaron kissed his lips softly, then again, lingering. “Nobody’s dead. You didn’t lose me. I’m right here.”

  Mrs. Acker came in—she was tall, polished and gorgeous, and pretty fucking collected for a woman whose son had just been shot. She stood at the podium at the front of the room and explained Baz was completely fine, that after a few more tests and some observation he’d be allowed to leave, probably in a few days. At this point, her lips thinned in irritation. “I want him to come home to Chicago, but of course he won’t listen to me. He says he wants to go home to the White House. Which I’ll allow, so long as you promise to not let him party as he insists he’s going to.”

  “We’ll keep him in line, Mrs. Acker,” Marius said, his deep voice breaking a little. “Just like always.”

  Mrs. Acker went to Marius and enveloped him in a deep embrace. “I know you will, baby, and thank you. He keeps asking for you. And Aaron, and Giles, and everyone.” She arched an eyebrow and leveled a finger at Walter. “He wants to see you too, but he told me specifically to tell you to keep your big mouth shut.”

  Walter held up his free hand and smiled weakly. “Understood. He can tell his secrets in his own time.”

  Mrs. Acker gave him a wink. “Good.” She pressed her hands together in a soft clap. “All right. Who’s going to be first?”

  The room erupted in shouts, but Giles didn’t join them. He turned around to his mother, but she read the question in his eyes before he could even ask.

  “Come on. I’ll take you to Elijah.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Elijah’s room was small, empty and quiet.

  Aaron was glad to see Dr. Mulder waiting for them there, smiling at them from his post beside Elijah, holding the boy’s hand. Aaron remembered when it had been him needing comfort, how much Giles’s dad had helped. He hoped Elijah could learn to trust the same quiet space Aaron had.

  Elijah seemed to have found something, because when they came in, he just sort of blinked at them.

  “They’ve given him a sedative,” Dr. Mulder explained. “He’s awake, but he’s still a little upset. Everyone agreed he’d do well with a chemical assist for a few hours.”

  When Elijah saw Aaron, he held out his hand and spoke in a slur. “Roomie. You okay?”

  Aaron went to the bedside, bringing Giles with him. “I am. We all are.” He read the fear and sorrow in Elijah’s face and added, “Baz too.”

  Elijah’s eyes fell closed, not even the drugs he’d been given able to wipe out his pain. “He shouldn’t have done that.”

  “The hell I shouldn’t have.”

  That voice, weak but still sharp, came from the doorway. Everyone turned, and Elijah sat up as Baz was rolled into the room by Marius. Damien and Mrs. Acker were behind him.

  “Baz.” Elijah’s eyes filled with tears, and he recoiled as Dr. Mulder gave up his space so Baz could be parked beside the bed.

  Baz had his glasses on again, but they were his indoor ones, and his eyes crinkled through the tint. He looked right at Elijah. “You okay?”

  Elijah gave him a fierce, furious glare.

  Baz laughed, then winced and touched his shoulder. “I’m fine, really. The docs are pissed because I insisted I come over here, but other than overprotection, I’m aces. We’re all good.” He leaned forward, fumbling for Elijah’s hand in the bedclothes. “He’s gone. Okay? For good. Not hurting anybody now. In jail, and they won’t let him out. No bail.”

  Elijah blinked rapidly. “My—mom?”

  “Is at the police station too. Don’t worry about her. She doesn’t matter. You do. We got you, and you’re okay. You got it?” He gripped Elijah’s hand tighter. “We are all okay.”

  Elijah nodded.

  Baz’s mother poked her son lightly in his uninjured shoulder. “There. You’ve seen him and probably torn several stitches. Back to bed with you.”

  “Yes, Empress.” Baz sagged into his chair and touched his bandage. “I think you’re right about the stitches.”

  “Going to tan your damn hide,” she murmured, kissing him
on the head before wheeling him out.

  They weren’t allowed to stay long with Elijah, either—a few minutes after Baz left, the rest of them were shuffled out. When they went back to the auditorium, Kelly’s parents were there too. Walter had to step out to have a long phone conversation with his mom and another with his dad. There were a lot of hugs, a lot of people asking if everyone was okay.

  They spent that night in a hotel—Giles and Aaron, Giles’s parents, Walter and Kelly, and Kelly’s parents and his sister. The five kids were in one room, Kelly’s sister Lisa on a rollaway, the parents in an adjoining room next door. They stayed up pretty late, eating pizza delivery and talking—weirdly, little about the shooting. In fact, they conversed mostly about Walter and Kelly’s wedding.

  “Did you decide how you’re going down the aisle?” Mrs. Mulder asked.

  Kelly grinned slyly at Walter. “Yeah. But I don’t want to spoil the surprise. Though—you gave us an idea.” He leaned on Walter’s shoulder. “About our last name.”

  Vanessa raised her eyebrows. “Oh? What’s that?”

  Walter’s eyes danced. “We plan to have kids someday, and you’re right. There’s something special about all sharing the same name. Which is why when we get married, I’m going to become a Davidson.” Walter kissed Kelly’s hair and looked at Aaron. “I still want to talk to you about the groups singing. Though obviously not right now.”

  Aaron hated the reminder of now. But once invited, it crept back in, and he sat up as he realized a huge problem. “Semifinals. They’re next weekend.” He turned to Giles, reeling. “We can’t possibly go.”

  Giles held up a hand. “They had a meeting—the Drs. Nussenbaum and the group leaders. They’re pulling out, both groups. The ICCA has to make a ruling about whether they’ll have to pay the penalty of not competing for a year, but they’re doing it no matter what.”

  “Surely this is a reasonable exception,” Mrs. Davidson said, clearly ready to go do battle with the ICCA, even though she equally clearly didn’t know what that was.

  “I’m sure it will be,” Giles said. He leaned on Aaron. “Nobody would be able to make it through. Even if Baz was recovered enough to perform, everyone is too raw.”

  Raw was right. It hit Aaron as he went to bed that night, wrapped in Giles’s arms. They fumbled with each other a little, both wanting to get off but unwilling to do it with everyone else in the room, needing touch but unable to get what they wanted.

  It was a running theme the next day. They snuck into the bathroom early in the morning and got each other off, but all that did was bleed some of the strange energy away. The parents lingered, insisting they would stay, offering to take people home, but no one wanted to go. Aaron itched to get to the White House, to see everyone, see them healthy and okay and collect hugs. Talk with them, be with them. He’d connected with one family, but now he needed his other one. His real one.

  As they sat at the continental breakfast, Aaron’s mother called.

  He answered absently, thinking it must be someone from college or the police, but it was his mom. Crying and apologizing and basically making no sense. It threw him, and he didn’t know what to say. His chest started to hurt, and his gut churned.

  “Who is it?” Giles asked.

  When Aaron mouthed, My mom, the whole table fought to take the phone away from him.

  Dr. Mulder won, mostly because he calmly came up behind Aaron and pulled the phone from his hand whereas everyone else bumped into each other in the front. He took the phone away, then stopped and looked Aaron in the eye.

  “Did you want to speak to her, son?”

  Guilt tried for purchase, but Aaron pushed it aside. He’d been shuttling thoughts of her aside for over twenty-four hours, closing off the parts of himself hurt over all the parents comforting their children, none of those parents his. Now she wanted to talk on the phone—or rather, cry at him on the phone.

  Aaron shook his head. Not yet.

  Dr. Mulder winked at him and walked away into the hall to finish his conversation.

  Eventually they checked out of the hotel, at which point they headed over to the White House, which was in some kind of reverse party. Half the music department was there, including the professors. Elijah was due to get out Monday afternoon, same as Baz, and Giles’s parents were sticking around to see Elijah safely discharged and settled into the dorm, though Baz kept trying to get him moved to the White House. Aaron had heard a rumor that Pastor Schulz would take him in.

  The White House was probably too full for comfort right now. Half the choir and orchestra were in residence at all times. Food seemed to magically refill itself in the kitchen, same for coffee and soda. Booze was weirdly absent. It wasn’t the usual rowdy choir and orchestra gathering. Everyone was quiet, careful.

  Raw.

  Wrong.

  “We need to get back to normal,” Aaron said to Giles. They’d escaped to the ballroom, which was mostly empty, everyone congregating in the living room and kitchen instead. He gestured to the room. “We need to get in here and play, and sing, and dance.”

  Giles laughed, weakly. “You want to riff off, now?”

  He hadn’t meant it that way, but maybe yeah. Maybe that’s what they needed. “We need to get rid of this bad energy. What the hell good is it doing to stand around and talk? Words suck right now. All we say is Are you okay? Yeah, I’m okay and It’s all fine. Fuck that. It’s not fine. We’re not okay. This is hell. This was nearly a nightmare. We could have been dealing with a bunch of funerals, even our own. But we’re not. We’re alive. We’re here.”

  We’re free.

  I’m free.

  The realization pulsed through him, and he rose, taking Giles with him. “We’re alive. Your mom’s right: they attacked us, but we survived. We won. All we do is win, Giles. Let’s fucking celebrate it.”

  “Sure, I’m down—but what do you have in mind?”

  Grinning, Aaron told him.

  Sunday afternoon, they put the plan into action.

  Aaron and Giles worked well into the evening, arranging music as if the hounds of hell were at their heels. Damien and Karen helped, as did Jilly and Mina. Marius tried, but when he saw what they were doing, he lost it and had to go visit Baz.

  God, Aaron hoped that wasn’t Baz’s reaction.

  Everyone else was excited when they heard what Aaron and Giles had done. On Monday morning, since classes had been suspended until mid-week, practically the entire music department pitched in to help with their scheme. All the equipment was brought over from the music building and set up, and though people messed around during warm-ups, nobody laughed, not much. Everyone still felt off, too heavy.

  Aaron stood with Damien, Giles and Mina in a corner, the score spread around them.

  “It’s pretty fucking amazing,” Damien said at last. “I can’t believe you did this in one day.”

  Aaron ran his finger over a viola line. “It’s pretty crude. Normally we go over these for days, ironing out the wrinkles—and normally we don’t do vocal and orchestral.”

  “You should show Dr. Allison,” Karen pointed out.

  Aaron had been avoiding that, afraid to hear how fucked-up it was, but he nodded and collected the sheet music. “You think he’s in his office, even with no classes today?”

  Damien smiled. “He will be if you ask him to.”

  Allison went further and offered to come to the White House. But Aaron wanted to get away for a while, so they met in the choir room, where he could spread the score out across the table. He held his breath while his professor studied his work, trying to be patient, but eventually he caved.

  “If it sucks, just tell me. I’d rather hear it from you than ruin Baz’s homecoming.”

  Dr. Allison lifted his head from the score enough to cock an eyebrow at Aaron. “It won’t ruin anything.”

  Aa
ron couldn’t believe him, too aware of all the flaws. “It’s his favorite song. He’s been after the Ambassadors to do it for years, but the arrangement never quite worked. Damien says they tried once and Baz got angry. So you see, it has to be right.” Aaron ran a hand through his hair and grimaced at the score. “I thought the problem might have been the lack of instrumentation. I listened to fifteen versions and remixes of ‘Titanium’ online, and every song from the 3 Penny Chorus and Orchestra for three hours solid, trying to read the pattern for their vocal-orchestral pop arrangements. I think I sort of have it, but it seems so crude. My biggest handicap is I still barely know what I’m doing. I feel as if I tried to recreate the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel with a box of sixty-four crayons.”

  “I assure you, the comparison is inaccurate.”

  “But it has to be right. Not just my skill, Dr. Allison. The tone. For the choir and the orchestra. For Baz. You know him better than me. Is this the tone I want? I can’t tell, and everyone in the White House is patting me on my damn head. I want it right.”

  “From the layout you’ve given me here, I think it will be more than adequate. Of course, the proof is in the production. Who is conducting?”

  “Damien. I want to. Badly. But I’m not good enough.” He flattened his lips. “It was enough work to get them to let me play piano instead of take part of the solo. I’m sure it’s horribly ungrateful, but sometimes I wish my voice sucked. Just because I’m good at it doesn’t mean I have to do it all the damn time. How will I ever be good at the things I want to do if no one lets me practice them?”

  Dr. Allison’s lips curled into a mysterious smile—amused, but also moved. “Mr. Seavers. I’d like you to pull up a chair.”

  Aaron did.

  The conductor pulled out a stool and perched on it. He picked up a page of the score, studied it a moment. Hummed lightly.

  Drawing a deep breath, he sang the tenor solo in a crisp, hauntingly perfect operatic tone.

  Aaron listened, openmouthed. Dr. Allison’s voice rang through the choir room like a bell, turning the club ballad into something that could compete with Vivaldi. Not once did he waver—and though he sang with power and color, Aaron could feel his control, the way he held back his high beams.