Lament: The Faerie Queen's Deception

“Uh—God.” He carefully set the harp back upright and I realized I knew him: Andrew from the brass section of the school orchestra. Trumpet, maybe. Something loud. He grinned hugely at me—boobs first, then face. “You have to be careful. Those inanimate objects will get away from you.”



“Yeah.” If he got much funnier, I was going to throw up on him. I pulled my harp a few inches away from him. “Sorry.”



“Hey, you can chuck your harp at me any time.”



I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I just said, “Yeah.” Effortlessly, I became invisible and Andrew turned away. Funny how it was just like any other day in high school.



Except that it wasn’t. Standing next to the double doors, listening to the roar of voices and instruments behind it, I couldn’t forget why we were all here. Tons of students were warming up for their turn on stage. Warming up for their shot at winning a prize at the 26th Annual Eastern Virginia Arts Festival. For their chance to impress the college and conservatory representatives who would be watching from the audience.



My stomach turned again and this time I knew there was no going back. I fled for the girl’s bathroom, the one in the basement below the gym, so that I could puke in private. Leaving my harp by the sinks, I barely made it in time, arms resting on the old gray-yellow toilet seat that reeked of too much cleaner and too many students.



I hate this. My stomach gurgled more. Every time I played in public, this happened. I knew it was stupid to be afraid of crowds, and I knew that the throwing up and nerves were all my fault, but I still couldn’t stop it. James had looked up “the fear of public humiliation” for me (katagelophobia), and one afternoon we’d even tried hypnosis, complete with self-actualizing pamphlets and soothing music. We’d just ended up slap-happy new fans of New Age music.



I still wasn’t done. My stupid hair was falling in my face, and my choppy haircut was too short in front to pull back into my ponytail. I imagined going onstage with chunks in my bangs. I cry only when I’m frustrated, and I was getting dangerously close.



And then, I felt a cool hand gently pulling my hair back from my face. I hadn’t even heard anyone come into the bathroom. But somehow I wasn’t surprised—like I’d expected someone to come find me here. I knew without looking that it was definitely a guy’s hand, and definitely not James.



I started to pull my head away, embarrassed, when the owner of the hand said firmly, “Don’t worry about it. You’re almost done.”



And I was. I finally couldn’t throw up anymore and I was left shaky and utterly empty. And for some reason, I wasn’t totally undone by the idea of a guy standing behind me. I turned around to see who had witnessed the most unsexy thing a girl could do. If it was Andrew, I was going to punch him for touching me.



But it wasn’t Andrew. It was Dillon.



Dillon.



The guy from my dream. Here to save me from public humiliation and lead me triumphantly to a standing ovation.



He held out a handful of paper towels and smiled disarmingly. “Hi. I’m Luke Dillon.” He had one of those soft voices that oozed self-control, a voice you couldn’t imagine raised. It was, even in the context of a barf-filled bathroom, amazingly sexy.



“Luke Dillon,” I repeated, trying not to stare. I took the towels with a still-trembling hand and wiped my face. He had been hazy in the dream, like all dream people, but this was definitely him. Lean as a wolf, with pale blond hair and eyes even paler. And sexy. The dream seemed to have left that bit out. “You’re in the girl’s bathroom.”



“I heard you in here.”



I added, in a voice more wavery than I wanted, “You’re blocking me in the stall.”



Luke moved to the side to let me out and turned on one of the taps so I could wash my face. “Do you need to sit down?”



“No—yes—maybe.”



He retrieved a folding chair from the cubby behind the stalls and put it next to me. “You’re white as white. Are you sure you’re okay?”



I sank down onto the chair. “Sometimes after I’m done—uh—doing that, I pass out.” I smiled weakly as my ears started to roar. “One of my—uh—many charms.”



“Put your head between your knees.” Luke knelt beside the chair and watched my upside-down face. “You know, you have very pretty eyes.”



I didn’t answer. I was going to pass out in front of a perfect stranger on a bathroom floor. Luke reached between the tangle of my arms and legs and pressed a wet paper towel against my forehead. My hearing came back in a rush.



“Thanks,” I muttered, before very slowly sitting up.



Luke crouched before me. “Are you sick?” He didn’t seem particularly concerned about me being contagious, but I shook my head vigorously.



“Nerves. I always throw up before these things. I know I should know better—but I can’t stop it. At least I won’t throw up on stage now. Might still faint, though.”



“How Victorian,” Luke remarked. “Are you done fainting for now, though? I mean, do you want to stay in the bathroom, or shall we go out?”



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.”



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.”



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.



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



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 you could do so much better. You’re not pushing yourself at all. So safe.”