I stood. I stayed standing, so I must have recovered. "No, I'm better. I--uh--really need to warm up, though. I think I've only got forty-five minutes or something until I play. I'm not sure how much time I've wasted." I pointed to the stall he'd found me in.
"Well, let's get you outside to practice. They'll let you know when you need to go on, and it's quieter."
12
If he were any other guy in the school, I would have given him the brush-off there. I think this was actually the longest conversation I'd had with someone other than James or my family in the last two years. And that wasn't even counting the puking as part of the conversation.
Luke shouldered my harp case. "I'll take this for you, as you're Victorian and feeble. If you'll carry this for me?" He held out an exquisitely carved little wooden box, very heavy for its size. I liked it--it promised secrets inside.
"What's in here?" Right after I asked the question, I realized that it was the first one I'd asked him since he touched my hair. It hadn't even occurred to me to question anything else about him--as if everything up to now was unquestionable and acceptable, part of an unwritten script we both followed.
"Flute." Luke pushed open the bathroom door and headed for one of the back exits.
"What are you competing in?"
"Oh, I'm not here to compete."
"Then why are you here?"
He looked over his shoulder and flashed me a smile so winning that I got the idea he didn't smile like that very often. "Oh, I came to watch you play."
It wasn't true, but I liked his answer anyway. He led me out into the sun behind the school and made his way to one of the picnic benches near the soccer field. A student's name blared across the grounds from the speaker near the back door, and Luke looked at me. "See? You'll know when you need to go."
13
We settled there, him on the picnic table and me on the bench next to my harp. With the sun fully on them, his eyes were pale as glass.
"What are you going to play for me?"
My stomach squeezed. He was going to think I was completely pathetic, too nervous to play even in front of him. "Um..."
He looked away, opening his flute case and carefully putting the flute together. "So you're telling me you're a great musician and you won't share it with anyone?"
"Well, you make it sound so selfish when you put it that way!"
Luke's mouth quirked on one side as he lifted his flute. He blew a breathy "A" and adjusted the slide. "Well, I held your hair. Doesn't that deserve a tune? Concentrate on the music. Pretend I'm not here."
"But you are."
"Pretend I'm a picnic table."
I looked at the muscled arms beneath the sleeves of his T-shirt. "You are definitely not a picnic table." Man, he was definitely not a picnic table.
Luke just looked at me. "Play." His voice was hard, and I glanced away. Not because I was offended, but because I knew he was right.
I turned to my harp-- -hello, old friend--and rocked it back on its six-inch legs to settle it into the crook of my shoulder. A moment's attention to the strings showed me that they still held their tune, and then I began to play. The strings were lovely and buttery under my fingers; the harp loved this warm and humid weather.
14
I sang, my voice timid at first, and then stronger as I realized I wanted to impress him.
The sun shines through the window
And the sun shines through your hair
It seems like you're beside me
But I know you're not there.
You would sit beside this window
Run your fingers through my hair
You were always there beside me
But I know that you're not there
Oh, to be by your side once again
Oh, to hold your hand in mine again
Oh, to be by your side once again
Oh, to hold your hand in mine--
I broke off as I heard his flute joining in. "You know it, then?"
"Indeed I do. Do you sing the verse where he gets killed?"
I frowned. "I only know the part I sang. I didn't know he died."
"Poor lad, of course he dies. It's an Irish song, right? They always die in Irish songs. I'll sing it for you. Play along so I don't wander off tune."
I plucked along, bracing myself for whatever his voice might sound like.
He turned his face into the sun and sang,
Fro and to in my dreams to you
To the haunting tune of the harp
For the price I paid when you died that day
15
I paid that day with my heart
Fro and to in my dreams to you
With the breaking of my heart
Ne'er more again will I sing this song
Ne'er more will I hear the harp ...
"See, he gets killed--" "--sad," I interjected.
"--and it's a very old song," continued Luke. "That bit you sang--'oh to be by your side,' that bit--must have been added on somewhere along the way. I've not heard it before. But what I sang---that's always been part of it. You didn't know it?"
"No, I didn't," I said, adding truthfully, "You have a wonderful voice. You make it sound like something you'd hear on a CD."
"So do you," Luke said. "You have an angel's voice. Better than I expected. And it's a girl's song.
The lyrics are girly, you know?"
My cheeks flushed. It was stupid, of course, because all my life I'd been told--by highly qualified professionals and people who should know and folks "in the business"--that I was good. I'd heard it so often that it didn't mean anything anymore. But my heart leapt at his words.
"Girly," I managed to scoff.
Luke nodded. "But
