That weekend, Isaac and I took a Sharpie to a map of campus, locating the buildings that might not have heating—the ones that were never used. That meant one of two options: the defunct single-screen cinema near the film dorm, or the old greenhouse behind McKnight. We agreed to stake them out. Isaac, the cinema; me, the greenhouse.
Every night, after check-in, I crept out through my window and snuck up-campus to lurk in the woods by the greenhouse, whose doors were boarded up. As I waited, I studied by flashlight against the bole of a tree that was slightly less smothered in ants than the others. I didn’t retreat to Burgess until 1:00 a.m. It got to the point where I couldn’t remember the last good night’s sleep I’d had, but I wasn’t about to let these guys slip by. They were going to pay.
The end of October crept up, and with it, the Daylight Dance. The Kensington administration knew how terrible an idea it would be to unleash a bunch of arts kids on Halloween. (Imagine the costumes.) Instead, they’d placed a semiformal dance a week into November, on Daylight Savings. The Sharpshooters and the Precautionary Measures performed at the Daylight Dance every year, two songs each; for a week and a half, we broke from our competition set to learn the pieces, but the time we lost wasn’t an issue. We’d already memorized half the competition set, and if Trav still wasn’t satisfied, knocking out the performance at the Spirit Rally had at least mollified him.
He never seemed to leave Prince Library anymore. Any time of day, we could find him in the lounge area, headphones on and a MIDI keyboard plugged into his laptop, transcribing. The ghost of his fight with Isaac still drifted over rehearsals every so often, but what the Minuets had done had glued us back together, left us twice as determined to triumph in December.
Then, one Saturday afternoon, Isaac texted me: Hey, swing by my room. Got news. I’m in Wingate 420, insert obligatory weed joke here.
I booked it to Wingate and took the elevator to the fourth floor. The sour light of the hallway made my hands look green. I passed a bulletin board plastered with hall rules—check-in schedule, lights out, living agreements—and knocked on Isaac’s door.
The sound of feet bounded toward the door. It flew open. “Hey.” He waved me in.
The Wingate corner rooms had four windows, showering them in natural light. This room might have benefited from a little less visibility. Sci-fi paperbacks, well-worn fantasy hardbacks, and thick textbooks had been chucked at random onto the shelves. Pads of staff paper featured prominently on both desks, balled-up wads of paper littering their edges. Jackets and jeans dangled off bed frames; shorts and socks lay in trails on the mottled carpet.
“Wow,” I managed.
Isaac grimaced. “We’re gonna clean this weekend.”
“No sweat. I’ve seen worse.” I eyed the walls, which were plastered with posters. Isaac’s walls wore a spread of angry-looking rock bands, a rainbow of electric guitars clutched in their front men’s hands. His roommate’s side advertised an array of blood-splattered movie titles, as well as a vaguely pornographic-looking video game. The animated lady’s spandex-clad boobs didn’t follow any laws of gravity I’d ever encountered.
“Where’s your roommate?” I asked.
“He lives in the Arlington practice rooms. Like, there’s definitely a pillow down there.”
“Who is he?”
“His name’s Harry. He’s a cellist from Arkansas.” Isaac saw where my eyes were fixed and glanced at the video game poster. “Um, he just genuinely likes the game.”
“Sure he does.”
Isaac leaned over his bed. A silvery microphone in a foot-tall stand sat cushioned by his comforter, set up beside his laptop. The equipment looked spotless, heavy, professional. “Wanna shut that?” He waved at the door.
“Right.” I shouldered it shut, feeling awkward. We weren’t allowed to be in boys’ rooms unless the door was wide open and it was before 6:00 p.m. “So,” I said. “What’s up?”
Isaac moved his recording setup to his desk with a heavy thunk of the mic stand. “I saw Oscar and Furman and Caskey skulking around the cinema last night. We got ’em.”
“Oh, thank God. No more lurking in the woods until one in the morning.”
“Yeah, stakeouts are surprisingly boring, is my takeaway from this.”
“Seriously.” I navigated through the ocean of discarded clothes to his desk. “Nice job, by the way.”
“Thanks. I’m a legend.” He gazed into the middle distance. “I am destined for a future in espionage.”
I couldn’t help a laugh. “’Cause subtlety is your middle name.”
“I’m the subtlest person I’ve ever met. I’m basically James Bond.”
“Right. James Bond is really well-trained in—” I glanced at the worksheets on his desk. “Identifying imitative polyphony.”
He gave me a catlike grin. “Imitative polyphony is how you beat the Russians.”
I failed to suppress a smile. He brightened, rubbing his hands together. “So, anyway, when do you want to do this thing? We could wait until after Daylight Dance, if—”
“A whole week? Nah, forget that.”
“Sweet. I didn’t want to wait either.” He turned to his desk and flipped a couple of pages. “I’ve got a test Thursday, so I’d rather not sneak out Wednesday. How about Thursday night? That work for you?”
“Sure. We could meet around midnight? One?”
“One sounds good. I’ll—” A knock interrupted him. I wound through the maze of discarded clothes and pulled the door open.
Nihal stood in the threshold. His turban was dark blue today, matching his stiff felt coat. His brown eyes met mine with unshakable calm.
I slipped a smile on. He hadn’t heard anything, had he? If Nihal found out we were going ahead with retaliation, even after the vote, he would . . .
I wasn’t sure, actually. What, would he get mad? The most negative thing I’d seen from him was stress irritation, and even then, hardly any, compared to the rest of us. I wondered what Nihal looked like angry.
“Julian,” he said, looking between me and Isaac. “How are things?”
“Going fine,” I said, standing back. “Come on in.”
As I shut the door, I shot Isaac an urgent glance. He cleared his throat. “We were just, uh. Talking about the retreat. Julian wanted to know what it’s like.”
Nihal smiled, leaning his backpack against Isaac’s desk. He took a seat. “It’s the best.”
“We’re staying at Jon Cox’s mountain house,” Isaac said.
Of course Jon Cox had a mountain house.
“His mom was there last year,” Isaac said, “but I think his grandparents are flying in to Boston for all of Thanksgiving Break this year, so we’re on our own.”
“We’ve been specifically instructed to leave the place in one piece,” Nihal said.
“You’ve been instructed,” Isaac said. He gave me a knowing look. “Jon Cox’s mom loves Nihal.”
Nihal shrugged. “I’m good with moms.”
Piece by piece, Isaac disassembled his recording equipment, unscrewing the cage-like shock mount from the mic stand. As his quick hands worked, my heartbeat slowed. Maybe he wouldn’t have gotten outright angry, but Nihal would’ve said something if he’d heard us.
He slid open one of Isaac’s desk drawers, peering in with mild interest. “Isaac, do you have time to double-check some of the Fall ’99 stuff I transcribed?” he said, pulling some sort of hair-product aerosol out of the drawer. “The ‘Baby One More Time’ arrangement is strangely complex—I might have gotten the bridge wrong.”
“Yeah, sure,” Isaac said. “Also, I can start on Spring 2000, if you haven’t yet.”
The guys glanced at me, as if waiting for me to offer my help. I would have, if arranging weren’t a foreign language to me. Instead, I checked my watch and grimaced, as if it had told me something important. “Oh, I gotta run. See you at rehearsal?”
“Later,” Isaac said, lifting a hand. I ducked out of his room and hurried for the stairwell.
Thursday night arrived, clear and bright. At 12:45 a.m., I zipped up my dad’s old winter coat and slipped out my dorm room window.
My body went tight with cold. California had nothing like this sort of chill, although the air still hadn’t started to bite properly. Winter was sinking slowly into the earth, layering the crisp scent of frost over campus night by night.
I slunk down the wall of Burgess and paused. Three windows down, Reese’s light was still on.
I snuck a peek over the windowsill and through the glass. The housemother’s quarters were a more legitimate-looking living space than any dorm in Burgess. We had diseased-looking carpets and furniture that looked like it’d been swiped from a rejected IKEA concept catalog. This room had hardwood floors and a kitchenette, and Reese sat at a sleek glass desk, poring over a thick stack of essays. Her thin hair was down, half-curled from being in the grip of her bun all day; her reading glasses were on and her eyes unlined. She looked entirely relaxed.
For a second I watched, weirdly entranced by the quiet, personal sight. Then she stretched and looked toward the window, and I flung myself flat to the flowerbed, my cheek pressing hard into the mulch. I shimmied forward with my forearms and hips, cursing my own curiosity, and once I’d escaped sight of her window, I fled toward August Drive.
The starlight showered around me, stark and revealing. Brightness you’d never see in a night sky in San Francisco. I always found myself staring up on nights like this—cloudless, infinite sky nights. I brushed mulch off my jacket and hustled forward, curls of white warm breath winding between my lips.
I froze at the southeast curve of August Drive. A mechanical whir echoed down the road—one of the ATVs that electricians and maintenance used to navigate campus. I dashed for the nearest cluster of bushes and crouched behind them, waiting for the sound to pass.
A minute later, the ATV’s back lights disappeared down the street, a distant pair of red eyes. I crept out and up the road. Movement caught my attention—Isaac crossing the street. A long silhouette stretched out from his feet, cast by the streetlamp. His narrow shoulders were wrapped in a black fleece, his hood up.
I jogged up. “Hey,” he whispered, eyes bright with mischief. “Ready to break and enter?”
“Definitely.” We darted behind the row of film buildings, heading for the rim of the woods.
The old cinema was a single-screen theater from the 1940s that had been on the renovation list for a decade and a half. I doubted it’d ever happen. The newest film house had a screening hall in the basement, complete with a projection and sound system, so there wasn’t much reason to fix this old place up. Still, there was something to the aesthetic of it. The cinema stood, tall and rickety, on the edge of the woods, looking like something out of a horror movie with its boarded-up windows and padlocked doors.
“All right,” Isaac whispered, stopping at the tree line. “That window’s the way inside. Let’s get in, get the Bear, and get out.”
“How do we get the boards off?”
“Uh. Not sure.” We advanced. A thick white band of stone ran above the double doors, where the shadow of scrubbed-away letters read the carnelian picture house. Isaac crept to the corner of the building and brushed a hand over the thick board that lay across the window. His finger caught on its underside. One of the board’s edges rested on a nail, unfixed to the frame. He rotated the board up until the window was free.
Isaac pushed on the peeling white frame. The window whined upward.
I nodded to the dark gap inside. “Wanna go first?”
“Go ahead.”
I braced my foot against a pipe that ran down the building’s edge, planted my palms on the rough stone windowsill, and hoisted myself up and through.
My shoes hit filthy tile that might’ve been beautiful mosaic once. I blinked a few times, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. Years and grime had made this foyer the picture of decay. The damp air smelled earthy, something like mold. Near the ceiling, the wallpaper had swollen and wept with water damage, long streaming stains that flanked the smeary windows.
Isaac landed lightly next to me. He pushed the window back into place and flicked his hood back, revealing excitement that made his dark eyes gleam. We prowled toward the crimson double-doors in the center of the hall.
I heard something and stopped, throwing my arm out to catch Isaac. He stilled. I leaned toward the door.
Low voices echoed in the theater.
“They’re here,” I breathed.
Alarm flashed across Isaac’s expression. He glanced around the foyer.
The voices grew louder. I heard the clutter of footsteps. “They’re moving,” I hissed. “I think they’re leaving.”
“Come on.” Isaac dashed for the opposite end of the foyer, where a dark archway led to a pair of bathroom doors, Ladies and Gentlemen. I grabbed the Ladies knob. It wouldn’t turn. Isaac tried the other, which rattled and stuck as he twisted it. “Shit,” he hissed.
I spotted a tiny closet in the corner and lunged for it. The door squeaked open, revealing a space barely larger than a crevice. Isaac folded himself in. I squeezed in afterward just as the theater doors opened. Isaac reached past me to grab the knob, pulling the closet shut with a click. Unyielding dark folded over us.
The sound of voices in the foyer seeped, muffled, through the door. Isaac let go of the knob, which made a tiny sound. The air stirred. Something bumped into the side of my face—his chin, maybe? His nose? I flinched.
“Sorry,” he whispered. The word landed light and warm on my forehead. I became acutely aware that I was crammed against his chest, knuckles against his heartbeat. I tried to move back, but my shoulder blade met the door with an audible creak, and I froze.
As we stood there for what felt like several weeks, embarrassed heat lit up all over my body, patching over my cheeks, flushing my chest. I took a slow breath to steady myself. It was a terrible idea. I could smell the hint of cologne that clung to the softness of his fleece: half bitter, half sweet, like resin or rum. It made me think of dark, rich colors, maroon and cobalt and amber. Of course Isaac had to smell good, with his well-cut clothes and his long hair and his whole guitar-boy rock-star shtick. Just one more piece of the costume.
The Minuets’ voices were still milling around. Get out, I wanted to scream. I needed space. I hadn’t been this close to anyone since June, and it reminded me too much of that afternoon. I’d tried repeatedly to forget it. But I remembered everything, down to the weather—those weird beige clouds had cast amniotic light over the whole city. In the darkness, I saw with pristine clarity the image of myself standing in my kitchen, leaning close to kiss Michael, and I heard him saying, “Wait.” I felt the grip of his big hands as he took my shoulders, moving me back a step. “We should talk.” I felt all of it, all over again.
He’d road-tripped down from Seattle to have the talk. Because even then, he’d needed to make it all a presentation. Drama queen Michael. Center stage Michael. Couldn’t he have taken it down a notch that one time? Let me feel like my feelings belonged to me and weren’t just some event in his life story?
I swallowed. I felt weak, and stupid, and like months of progress were slowly rewinding. I let a silent breath pour in over my tongue.
The sounds of voices outside faded, and the squeaking of sneakers stopped. I heard the distant whine of the window frame, a clunk as the plank fell back into place, and I grappled around for the doorknob. The door popped open. I practically tripped over my feet in my haste to get away.
“Hey,” Isaac said.
I glanced back at him as he shut the closet door.
He looked wary. “You all right, man?”
“Fine,” I said. My voice cracked—I’d forced it too deep. I turned away. “Claustrophobic, it’s fine. Let’s go.”
Calm, I thought, as we slipped through the crimson double doors. Calm. I felt around for a light switch, found one, and flicked it, making small bulbs bloom into light far overhead.
We’d emerged at the top of an aisle that led down to a long white screen. The wall behind the screen was painted a bold, dark red, like the dining hall walls in McKnight. Cobwebs clouded every corner like Spanish moss. Legions of thin wooden seats stretched to the left and right, some of them folded up, some hanging down like dangling tongues.
At the front, a dozen-odd crates had been gathered into a circle. Isaac and I padded down the aisle toward them. Once, this carpet had probably been carnelian red, too. It was dusky pink now, all grayed out.
“This place is actually pretty cool,” Isaac said with a touch of reluctance, looking up at the ceiling. Painted panels stretched overhead, showing faded pastel clouds and apple-cheeked angels, blocked off by wooden beams. One light bulb for each panel.
“Yeah,” I murmured. My heart had calmed. The air in here hung eerie and still. We stopped at the circle of crates. “Where do you think they keep the Bear?” I said.
A noise rang up the aisle. Isaac and I ducked, dropping like there’d been a gunshot. We crawled behind the front row of seats on opposite sides of the aisle.
“Hello?” came a voice. Shit. One of the Minuets had come back for something. We should have waited. I shouldn’t have panicked in that closet.
I pointed toward the emergency exit door and mouthed, Run?
Isaac gave his head a hard shake. Locked, he mouthed.
“I know you’re in here,” said the voice. “The lights are on.”
My thoughts of escape faltered. That voice . . .
“Wait, what the hell?” Isaac said, standing up. I stood too.
Trav stood at the top of the aisle, the red doors framing his square shoulders. His hands were balled up at his sides.
“Trav,” I choked out. “I. How did you find us?”
“I followed Isaac from Wingate.”
“But how—” I closed my eyes. “Nihal.” He’d heard after all. And instead of confronting us, he’d done this.
I bit back disappointment. I would have thought he could be honest enough to . . .
Honest? The sheer hypocrisy of the thought stopped me. When had I ever been honest with him? How could I expect him to owe me that?
Trav nodded to the door. “Come on.”
“Yup, nope, not happening,” Isaac said, moving back to the circle of crates. “We’re already here. We’re going to find this thing.”
“Find what?” Trav said.
“The Golden Bear,” I said.
“The Bear? You’re stealing the Bear?” Trav sounded unimpressed. “What are you planning to do with it, exactly? Hold it for ransom until the Minuets apologize? Threaten to smash it unless they throw the competition?”
“Hey, that’s not a bad idea, actually.” Isaac started flipping the crates over with his toe, carelessly disrupting the Minuets’ space. Under one sat a six-pack of wheat beer. Under another, a pair of black binders. He picked one up and started flipping through.
“Huh,” he said. “Rehearsal notes. Do you do this, Trav?”
“Let’s go,” Trav said. “It’s 1:00 a.m. I’m tired.”
Isaac stopped turning pages and frowned at the binder. “Wait,” he said. “What is this?”
“What’s what?” I said, leaning over to look at the binder. I caught only a flash of narrow handwriting before Isaac snapped the binder shut.
“You wrote those shitheads a peace letter?” Isaac said, staring at Trav with open disbelief. “After they landed you with hundreds of hours of unnecessary transcription?”
“Yes,” Trav said. “I did. Because someone has to be mature in this situation, and it clearly isn’t going to be you.”
I felt the venom in Trav’s voice. Isaac stiffened. Something kindled in his expression: pure belligerence.
“Now come on.” Trav turned and opened one of the double doors. “We’re going. You’re not taking their ridiculous statue.”
“Yeah? Or else what?” Isaac’s voice was as rough and unyielding as cement.
Trav closed his eyes. “What exactly do you want me to say, Isaac?” He spoke crisply, each word a needle going in. “Fine. Let’s see. I could tell the others at rehearsal tomorrow that I caught you. Would that be humiliating enough? Or I could report this to the emergency line and get you two suspended. Does that work for you?” His volume rose steadily. “I don’t want to have to dangle something over your head, Isaac; I want to know that you respect me enough to back off something when I ask you! So can you stop turning me into the villain here and be a little cooperative? Please! Just once!”
His words echoed around the movie house for a long second. Finally, he shook his head and left. The door banged shut behind him.
Isaac stood stock still, potential energy coiled up in every inch of his body. After a long second, he dropped the binder and kicked the crate back into place over it. “Fucking Christ.”
He stormed up the aisle.
For a second I stood alone, looking around the empty theater. I stood tall and unbending, a hollowness in my chest, unsure what I was feeling, unsure what I was even thinking. Everything seemed to swim. Was this what boyhood was supposed to feel like? A power struggle, a punch to the stomach? It was foreign and inaccessible. It was something I could feel in my blood. It was only just beginning to grow clear.
I’d set down the burdens of being a girl, unstrapped them one by one and left them on the roadside, but my shoulders didn’t feel any lighter. They were carrying different, unfamiliar weights now. As I stood there in that derelict husk of a theater, I felt like I’d gotten lost in between my lives, and the road ahead looked long and strange and poorly lit.