Ballad

but on some of the north faces of the hills and mountains surrounding, the leaves were beginning to burn red and orange. The combination made it look fake, like a model train layout. I had the car stereo set to 'obnoxiously loud,' which was probably why I didn't hear my phone ring; it was only when I caught the glow out of the corner of my eye that I realized someone was calling.

Maybe Dee, finally.

I grabbed it from the passenger seat and looked at the number.

Mom. Sigh. Putting the phone on speaker, I set it on the dash.

'Yeah.'

James?

'Yeah.'

'Who is this?'

'Your darling son. Fruit of your womb. Sprung from Dad's loins after twinkling in his eye for God knows how lo-'

Mom cut me off. 'It sounds like you're in a wind tunnel.'

'I'm driving.'

'In a wind tunnel?'

I leaned forward and slid the phone closer. 'You're on speaker phone. Better?'

'Not hardly. Why are you driving? It's during the school day, isn't it?'

I wedged the phone into the sun visor. It was probably still a little noisy, but it was the best she was going to get. 'If you knew, why did you call?'

'Are you cutting?'

I squinted at the street signs. There was a small sign that said, 'Historic Downtown Gallon, VA' (I thought the VA was redundant, as any visitor who had gotten this far should remember what state they're in) and had an arrow pointing to the left. 'No, Mom. Cutting is for losers who go to jail after being unable to get a job.'

Mom paused, recognizing her own words, especially since I'd delivered them in a high-pitched voice and her faintly Scottish accent. 'That's true,' she admitted. 'So what are you doing?'

Peering at the picturesque but economically deficient main street of Gallon, I answered, 'Going to my lesson. Before you ask, it's a piping lesson. Before you ask, no, Thornking-Ash doesn't have a resident piping instructor. Before you ask, I have no idea why they'd give scholarship money to a kid whose main instrument was the pipes, considering the answer to unasked question number two.' My peers at Thornking-Ash and I were required to take two credits of Musical Performance in order to flex the musical muscles we'd need to successfully woo universities. Hence, piping lessons.

'Well, who is this guy? Is he any good?' Mom's voice was doubtful.

'Mom. I don't want to think about it. It's going to be hugely depressing and you know I like to project a fearless and happy face to the world.'

'Remind me again why you're there, if not for the piping?'

She knew darn well why, but she wanted me to say it. Ha.

Double ha. Fat chance of that. 'Use your motherly intuition.

Hey. I think I just found the place. I've got to go.'

'Call me,' Mom said. 'Later. When you're not so glib.'

I parallel-parked in front of Evans-Brown Music. I was beginning to think giving places hyphenated names was a tradition in this town. 'Right. I'll schedule a call when I'm thirty, then, shall I?'

'Shut up.' Mom's voice was fond, and for a moment I felt a tremendous, childish sensation of homesickness. 'We miss you.

Be careful. And call me later. Not when you're thirty.'

I agreed and hung up. Getting my pipe case out of the back seat, I headed into the music store. Despite the sickly green exterior, the inside was warm and inviting, with dark brown carpet and golden-brown paneling on the walls behind rows of guitars. An old guy who looked like he'd not done too well with the '60s sat behind a counter reading a copy of Rolling Stone.

When he looked up at me, I saw that his silver hair was braided tightly in the back, into a tiny pigtail.

'I'm here for a lesson,' I told him.

He looked at something on the counter; while he did, I studied the tattoos on his arms, the largest of which was a quote from one of John Lennon's more radical songs. He asked, 'What time?'

I pointed to my hand. He squinted until he saw the bit of writing that pertained.

'Three o'clock? You're right on time.'

I looked at the clock on the wall behind him, which was surrounded by fliers and postcards. It said two minutes to three. I was peeved that my earliness was being rounded up to the closest hour, but I didn't say anything.

'Upstairs.' Old Hippie Guy pointed toward the back of the shop. 'Whichever lesson room Bill's in. He's the only instructor here right now.'

'Thanks, comrade,' I said, and Old Hippie Guy smiled at me. I climbed the creaking, carpet-covered steps to the second floor, which was hotter than Hades and smelled like sweat and nerves. There were three doors on the dark, narrow corridor, and Bill was behind door number two. I pushed the door open a little wider, taking in the acoustic tiles on the walls, the old wooden chairs that looked like they'd been used as scratching posts by baby tigers, and the dusty-haired man sitting in one of them.

He looked an awful lot like George Clooney. I thought about telling him, but decided it would be too forward. 'Hola. I'm

James.'

He didn't stand up, but he smiled in a friendly enough way, shook my hand, and gestured to the chair opposite. 'I'm Bill.

How about you get your chanter out and you play me something so I know where you're at? Unless you're nervous-we can talk a bit, but a half hour is a pretty short lesson if we talk much.'

I set my case down and knelt next to it, snapping open the latches. 'Nope, sounds good to me.' While I dug next to my pipes for my practice chanter, I glanced up at Bill. He had his head turned slightly to the side, reading the bumper stickers plastered all over my case. While he read Be Careful Around

Dragons, For You Are Crunchy & Good with Ketchup, I gave him the once-over. His chanter lay next to his chair, shiny and clean; mine was battered, with multicolored electrician's tape partially covering some of the holes to make it perfectly in tune. His shoulders were straight; one of mine was always a little higher than the other from playing the pipes so often. His case was still almost-new looking; mine looked like it had been through hell a few times. I was beginning to get the idea that this was a waste of time, especially when his eyes widened at my practice chanter.

I set the chanter back down in my case. The humble practice chanter is a slender plastic version of the chanter on the fullsized pipes, and its primary virtue is that it's one thousand times quieter than the actual pipes--making you one thousand times less likely to be stoned to death while practicing indoors.

It's also a heck of a lot easier to play, physically--none of that huffing-puffing-blow-your-bag-in thing. It also sounds like a dying goose; for sheer impressiveness, you really need the actual pipes. So that's what I reached for now. 'Um. Do you mind if I play a tune on my pipes, instead? It's hard to find a place to practice on campus, and it feels like it's been ages since they were out of this box.'

Bill looked a little surprised, but shrugged. 'Sure, there's no other students right now. Whatever you're most comfortable with. What are you going to play?'

'Not sure yet.' I took my pipes out; the smell of leather and wood was as familiar to me as my own. The drones fit neatly onto my shoulder as I filled the bag; the moment the drones began to sound, I realized just how loud they were going to be in this tiny room. Should've brought my ear plugs.

Bill watched me tune for about twenty seconds, observing my posture, listening to how even I kept the tone while I tuned. My original plan had been to start off slow and then end with a tune so transcendent he kissed my shoes, but the pipes were so loud in the room that I just wanted to get it over with. I ripped into one of my favorite reels, an impossible, finger-twisting, minor-key thing that I could've played in my sleep. Fast. Clean.

Perfect.

Bill's face was blank. Like, no expression whatsoever. Like I had blown his expression away with the sheer