Why did he bother to show up at all? Why did he leave after lunch? Why did he miss his classes on the first day of school? 

Who did that?

I can’t quit thinking about what Willow said. Ditching classes, three at least as far as I could tell from his absence during roll call in science, and flaunting his make-out sessions aren’t exactly things I would consider wild. But that last thing she said—about playing roulette with a loaded gun—I couldn’t seem to wrap my mind around that. It frightened me, and it made me dread going home, being near someone who could do that. 

Mom was working the late shift at the hospital, and Dad wouldn’t be home until late in the evening, so I was going to experience my first ride on the country-bumpkin bus. It’s really more suburban than that, but compared to the city, where transportation options are waiting around every corner, this feels like I’m waiting for the tractor pull to swing by to give me a lift.

Willow’s car slows at the curb next to me, and her honk makes me jump. “Hey, what are you doing?” 

She asks a lot of obvious questions. 

“Well, maybe my powers of deductive reasoning are flawed, but I was assuming that this was the place where one waited to take the bus home. You see, there’s this sign here,” I say, tapping my fingertips on the metal sign that reads BUS STOP. “Then, there was this gathering of students all in some sort of line-type formation. So I thought…”

“Wow, you’re a smart-ass,” she says, reaching up on her visor and pulling a pair of sunglasses down to push them on her face. “Good thing I like smart-asses. Wanna ride?”

I wasn’t really looking forward to what was shaping up to be a pretty packed bus, so I shrug on the outside and open the passenger door. Inside, I do a dorky happy dance over the fact that I have a friend…with a car…who is willing to take me home. Now, just to convince her to pick me up in the mornings. 

“So, where do you live?” she asks, and my mind jumps forward to thoughts of my neighbor. 

“About six blocks that way, right off of Eighty-seventh and Canterbury,” I say, waiting for her to realize where I live—who I live by—but she doesn’t seem to put it together. She turns her radio up and starts singing along with one of the hit songs on the pop station. That seems to be the most popular station around here. Not a lot of alt-rock listeners, it seems. That’s okay, though—I’m sort of good with all music. Habit of my passion, I suppose. 

“So, how do you like Woodstock, so far?” Willow asks. I look around at the brick and stone houses, the rows of trees and colorful leaves dusting the streets. Honestly, it’s beautiful here. But it’s still not the city, and I don’t know how to explain that to someone.

“It’s nice here,” I say, inciting a quick laugh from my new friend. “What? I mean it. It’s nice.”

“Right—nice,” she says. “You mean…boring.”

“Oh, no. I mean, well…yeah. Maybe a little boring. But that’s okay. I’m not really into crazy parties and nightlife. It’s just, in the city there’s always something going on, all the time. I guess I got kind of used to the noise. At night, it just gets so quiet here. That’s…that’s a little strange,” I explain, pointing to the street to make sure Willow makes the turn. 

The conversation is about to make a shift, because I can tell by the look on her face that she realizes who my neighbor is now. 

“Well it looks like you can kiss that quiet goodbye,” she says, nodding forward to Owen’s driveway. He’s climbing into a beat-up old pick-up, and the girl from earlier is sitting next to him, riding in the middle of the cab between Owen and another guy. He peels out of the driveway, his tires leaving a tuft of smoke and the smell of burnt rubber in the air. The girl screams something as they speed by us, Owen never once glancing our way. 

“Yeah…” I start. I unbuckle my seat and pull my bag to my lap from the car floor. “That’s sort of why I had those questions. I haven’t really officially met him yet, I mean…other than the rock kicking thing. He’s just kind of quiet…and, I don’t know, mysterious maybe?”

“Kens, trust me on this one. Owen Harper isn’t quiet. You just haven’t given him a reason to be loud yet. That’s probably a good thing,” she says. “Just keep your eyes open, and watch out for James. He’s the one you need to worry about. That boy’s nothing but trouble.”

“Great. Nothing like living next door to trouble,” I say with a deep breath. “Hey, thanks for the ride.”

“Sure, I’ll be here at six-thirty or so to give you a ride in the morning. Be ready, though. I hate being late,” she says, reaching over to turn the radio back up to DEFCON levels. I can barely hear her singing along with the music as she backs out of my driveway and heads for the corner. 

The Harper driveway parallels ours, and I spend a few minutes looking at the dark black lines Owen left in his wake. There are fainter ones surrounding it, which means he must peel out often. 

Typical boy.

The house is empty—every room is mine alone until at least midnight. I spend the first hour munching on peanut butter cereal and watching people reveal the real father of their baby on one of those talk shows. It’s an embarrassing obsession of mine, but watching shows like this is my greatest relaxation. There’s something about the circus of absurdity—I find it calming. Helps me put all of the drama I think I have in perspective. 

My reading and math homework is a breeze compared to my nightly assignments from Bryce. I feel like I’m learning things I was taught last year at the Academy, and if I were a better student, one who was more driven by academia, I might care that I’m not being challenged. But as long as I get to play the piano every day, I really don’t care that my math and science and literature are simple. There’s nothing wrong with easy. And I think I’ve earned easy. Besides, I know all my parents will ask about is music anyhow. 

The sun sets around six, and unlike in the city, things actually get dark here. I almost find it charming—the soft rustling sound of the dried leaves being blown along the porch and driveway is strangely comforting. 

I leave the front door open, the porch screen closed to let in the chilled air. It’s making the house cold, but I like the cold. It justifies pulling on my sweatpants and long-sleeved shirt. If I knew how to light the fire, I’d do that, too. Summer is leaving, making room for fall. I spend a few minutes dumping a pack of powdered cocoa into hot water, then stirring, and I blow on my cup as I walk to the piano. I take a sip too soon, and the liquid burns the tip of my tongue. 

Once I set my cup down on the piano bench next to me, I pull out my sheet music from my boxes. There’s something that just isn’t right, and I’ve been dying to play through these lines—alone, without the critical ear of my father nearby to offer his opinion, or rather to point out that I should be perfecting my classics training instead of spending time doing the part I actually love.

My eyes closed, I let my fingers find their home. It’s natural. It always is, the way the polished slivers of black and white feel slick to my touch. 

I crack an eyelid open and relent a smirk at my strange surroundings. This is not where I want to be, not where I want to play, so I close the eye again and pretend I am back in my practice room, my door closed and my sounds for nobody’s ears but mine. The rest just happens—fingers flying, pounding, stopping abruptly, and shifting from soft to quiet. 

I like the change in music—to move from smooth to staccato, sometimes no transition at all. My father hates it, so I save these moments for nights like this. And before I know it, I fall into my routine, the blues rhythms coming through, taking over. My eyes open because this sound—the sound of my heart—has made me feel at home. 

Without warning, though, my bliss is interrupted.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

The sound is constant, halted only by the loud clanking of a ball shanking off of the metal hoop outside. The shadows of the trees are sharp and dark against my curtains, and I can tell someone has turned the driveway floodlights on. My floodlights. The ones attached to my home. Where the basketball hoop is also located. 

After what feels like a full minute of deep breathing, I find a fraction of my calmness from before and let my fingers glide back into their position. With my eyes closed, I do my best to tune out the continual barrage of noise taking over outside, and I almost get back into my groove, when the thud from before ricochets off of the side of my house.

“Oh, come on!” I shout, standing quickly from my bench and spilling the hot chocolate onto the floor. “Damn it!”