He lumbered up the stairs,each step heavier than the last. Freaking internal metronome. Nomatter how late Caleb slept, he would always wake up at 6AM.
In his room, he slammedonto his bed, facedown. Then he got up and trudged toward hiscomputer. Before he knew it, he was re-entering the vortex ofYouTube.
A column of videothumbnails showed all the clips he’d watched last night. Afterscrolling down to the end, his sleep-heavy brain jolted awake.There, under “Recommended for You” was anew clip showing a frozen Franco De Leon clad in smoky gray, eyesfurrowed, a grimace overwhelming his face. Someone had alreadyuploaded last night’s performance.
Caleb clicked on it, andthe video began with Tara’s introduction, her voice sounding tinnyon video. When Franco entered the stage to wild applause, Caleb wastransported back into the cramped and stuffy café, the sweetishtaste of the chicken on his tongue as he stared slack-jawed at themysterious creature before him. Franco smiled before opening hismouth to speak.
The Earth in me has fallenfor
The Pluto inyou.
My free oxygen
Oceans and oceans ofliquid water
Teemingvegetation
Buzzing, bursting withlife.
And you, toweringmountains of ice
Nitrogenglaciers
Crateredhighlands.
Chaotic.Exotic.
Beautiful.
I couldn’t keep my eyesoff you.
Couldn’t keep away fromyou.
Our respectivegravitational pulls
Drew us into each other’sorbits
Us, two, a density ofopposites
Warmth and ice
Transparency andmystery
Sunshine andshadows.
Together, we were stellar. . .
Until our differencesexploded in our faces
Sucking us into a blackhole of unmet expectations
One insisting dominationover the other.
“I’m right, you’rewrong!”
Newsflash: Pluto was nevera planet, said the scientists.
Newsflash: I was never inlove with you, you said.
Let’s just befriends.
A platonic—no, a plutonicrelationship, you quipped.
But I can’t help beingEarth.
Can’t help beingconstantly filled with life
With hope
With the promise oflove.
4.6 billion years ago, I’dbeen meticulously formed
From dust and gas andgravity
Bumping together to formasteroids and small planets.
Colliding repeatedly foryears and years and years
Until I finally came intobeing.
I can wait, dearPluto
For your ice tomelt.
Even before the videoended, Caleb’s finger was poised to press the replay icon. Hewatched the video over and over, as if Franco’s words and the wayshe said them held the key to life’s meaning. As if engraving all these things in Caleb’s memory wouldchange things.
Chapter 3: SurpriseSymphony
“I hate you, I hate you, Ihate you.”
Caleb blinked severaltimes, not at the message sang to him in falsetto, but at theintrusion of colors into his field of vision.
He had grown used toGinny’s hair—the swirls of blue, purple and pink even more vivid indaylight. It stood out among the throng of students ambling on thesidewalk on their way to class. But this morning, Ginny was extracolorful in an oversized neon green shirt peppered with pink stars,matched with orange leggings. She looked like a graffiti wallspray-painted by someone who was high.
Hopping onto the pavementto avoid human traffic, Caleb crossed his arms, causing thebackpack on his shoulder to swing to his side. “If anyone has aright to hate anyone, that would be me. I still haven’t forgottenhow you hijacked my Friday night.”
“You weren’t exactlycomplaining when the performances began.” Ginny grinned. “And youstayed the whole time! I infinitelylove you for it.” As if released from a catapult,she shot forward to wrap her arms around his middle.
Ginny was about two headssmaller than him, making Caleb feel like he was hugging back hiseight-year-old niece.
“Whatever, Gins.” Calebuntwined himself and re-crossed his arms. “So why do you hateme?”
“Oh, you have to seethis!”
She pulled on his arm withsuch force that Caleb’s head snapped back. Despite his protests,Ginny dragged him on the sidewalks, across the street and finally,through the grassy quad, where Caleb struggled to keep his steps onthe stone path so the damp earth wouldn’t soil hissneakers.
On an early Mondaymorning, the quad was humming with students. Caleb heard snatchesof their conversations, which mainly consisted of bragging aboutwhat had happened to them over the weekend. I have a weekend story, too, hewanted to say. But it was one that he couldn’t share.
Caleb forgot all aboutkeeping to the footpath as his eyes searched among the sea offaces, his heart pounding at the likelihood of crossing paths withthose gleaming dark eyes.
But the possibility flashedpast along with the greenery, and soon Caleb found himself beingtowed into the drab walls of the music building. The combinedmelodies of various instruments drifted from one of the roomsupstairs.
“See? They must have postedit during the weekend.”
Caleb’s heart resumed itspounding. Tacked on the bulletin board beside the building entrancewere sheets of paper lined with names. Across the names were lettergrades from Friday’s practical exam. Ginny had flipped over thefirst two pages, her fingertip alighting on an entry.
Caleb Salve.
He stared at until it feltlike it was someone else’s name, his eyes refusing to travel acrossto its corresponding grade.
“A B-plus! I swear, Cale.You’re not human!”
B-plus? Yes, there was the grade beside his name. Though it washigher than he’d expected, the perfectionist in him was breathingdown his neck, chiding him for failing to get the ultimate A.The ifs and maybes poured in. Maybe he would’ve gotten an A if he’d allottedmore time for practice. If he’d watched more pianists on YouTubeinterpreting the piece. If he’d skipped that extra hour of sleepthe night before his practical exam.
“Ow!’ Caleb jerked his armaway and rubbed the spot where Ginny had pinched him.
“You know what they sayabout having Scare-reon for a teacher.” Her voice was stern. “An F from him isequivalent to a C from other teachers. If he gave you aB-plus, it’s like an A-plus-plus to the infinitepower!”
Caleb sighed. “I guess.”His eyes searched the list. “What did you get?”
She grinned up at him.“Same. But like I said, a B-plus from my teacher isn’t the same asa B-plus from Scare-reon.”
“Mr. Salve!”
His name issued like a barkof command. Caleb whirled around, smacking right into the solidglare of the only teacher in the music department who had astudent-coined nickname. With his bushy eyebrows, steep nose thatslightly dipped at the tip, and slicked-back graying hair, Caleb’spiano teacher looked like a predatory bird poised to make a kill.Even with his lips curved up, his forehead remained knotted, as ifthey
