Black Bird of the Gallows(5)
Seeing him like this makes my belly sink with disappointment. Bus-stop Reece was interesting, someone I related to on a pretty deep level. I thought we had a little bonding moment this morning, but School Reece belongs to a different species than me. Still, as I sharpen my gaze, I think I see signs indicating which is genuine and which is fake—his fingernail picks the seam of his shirt. His smirk holds like it’s superglued in place. It’s like he’s wearing camouflage, designed to render him indistinguishable from the rest of the socially well-to-do. It may fool them, but not me, who has always been different. You can paint black-and-white stripes on a horse, but that doesn’t mean he belongs in a zebra herd.
Deno shakes his head. Not one strand of hair budges from the retro-wave thing he’s got going on up there. “Too bad you didn’t get someone cool moving in next door,” he says with a mischievous smile. “We really could have used a decent keyboard player.”
Lacey Taggert, my closest girlfriend and the most gifted pianist I’ve ever met, sits down across from me. She purses her full lips and sends Deno a condescending sniff. “Oh yes. It’s never the drums we have to record a hundred times to get right.”
I laugh and angle a finger at Deno. “You set yourself up for that.”
Deno shrugs. He knows he’s not a great drummer. He is, however, a genius sound engineer and the best musical partner I could ask for. Our friendship fits around music, filling in the cracks and gaps like mortar.
“Angie, how do you feel about that boy living next door?” Lacey studies me with serious brown eyes that tell me she caught me staring at Reece. She’s horribly observant.
Deno ignores that the question was meant for me and frowns at her. “What kind of question is that?”
I know exactly what kind of question that is. Lacey and I have been friends since I showed up at middle school band practice, clutching my dead mom’s battered acoustic guitar that still stank of pot and, shaking so hard, I dropped all my picks in the sound hole. She pried the guitar from my hands and shook the picks out, saying only a real musician would come out to play when they were so scared. Lacey, coming from a Very Serious Family of Musicians, held to the belief that “real” musicians are rare persons to be treasured. I know that she also treasures Deno, although in a different way than I do. That difference makes it a bad time for an honest answer to her question. Not with Deno studying my face like he’s looking for Waldo in one of my pores.
Yeah. I should mention that Deno and I made out once. Yes, I made out with a guy who likes to be called Deno, though his name is really Daniel Steinway. I can’t fault the guy. I go by the name “Sparo” when I DJ at the local club. So, Deno and I made out once, last year, after a particularly magical recording session. I’m not sure how it started—swept up in the moment, I guess. He enjoyed the encounter more than I did, but didn’t make a big deal about it when I politely declined another go. We never spoke of it again, meaning we never addressed it, so I don’t know how he’d react if I announced that I like another boy. I don’t want to possibly hurt him over such a nonissue as Reece, who I just met today under strange circumstances. I haven’t decided what I think of Reece Fernandez, but I’ve got to stop staring at him like he’s parading around in skivvies with gallons of mint chip ice cream on his broad shoulders. Although that’s a really nice vision.
Lacey’s lips curve. “What are you staring at, Angie?”
Crap. “Nothing.” I take a deep drink from my water bottle. “I’m not staring at anything.”
“Mmm. Okay.” Lacey raises one dark eyebrow, and I’d like to tape her mouth shut. But I get it. Despite a romantic streak she’d like to deny, Lacey has a thing for Deno. Something about him works for her, and it’s more than his good looks. She didn’t even seem to mind when he started doing doofy things with his hair and calling himself Deno.
Lacey might not know about the make-out episode from last year. I suspect Deno had a chucklehead moment and spilled. I never mentioned it.
“Seriously?” Deno’s chest deflates. “You’re checking out the new guy, Ange?”
Yes, I am. I flip my hand. “Pfft. New bug in the jar.”
Sitting directly across from me, Lacey has a better view of the lunch line. She tilts her head. “He’s cute.” She says this like she’s noticing for the first time, and maybe she is. Lacey’s never gone for the sporty type. Neither have I, come to think of it. It’s a day of surprises.
Lacey’s eyes widen. “Oh, oh. He’s coming over here.”
A french fry sticks halfway down my trachea. “No, he’s not.”
Oh, but he is. I feel a presence behind my right shoulder and my senses go on high alert.
“Hey, Angie,” says a voice with a New England accent.
I turn and look up slowly, trying to ignore the hot burn of curious eyes on me, on us. But the way Reece stands there with his lunch tray is transitory. He’s not here to sit. Has no intention of trying. That’s a good thing. And it kind of bums me out.
“Hi Reece.” I paste on an easy expression, complete with a courteous smile. “What’s up?”
Tension in his features takes me by surprise. Maybe he thinks I’m going to blow him off in front of everyone. Or he’s worried I told people about the crows. Or that creepy guy. Or any of the other weirdness he managed to pack into the six minutes we spent together while waiting for the bus.