A Different Blue(48)

thought from my head. I wasn't calling Mason Bates ever again. That left me with only one

option. I climbed out of my truck and began walking, my anger fueling my steps. I cut across the

parking lot and rounded the school in the direction of home – opposite the direction I had

come. A car I hadn't noticed when I'd arrived was parked in the teacher's lot, closer to the

school and the entrance doors. It was the silver Subaru I had seen Mr. Wilson driving around

town. If it was his, and he was in the school, he would give me a ride – or even better, jump

start my truck. I had cables. Maybe he had left his keys in it, and I could just quickly

“borrow” his car, drive it over to my truck, give it a jump, and bring his car back without

him ever knowing it.

I tested the driver's side door hopefully. No luck. I tested all the doors, just to be sure. I

could pound on the door to the school, the one closest to where he was parked. But his room was

up the stairs and down the hall on the second floor. The likelihood of him hearing me knocking

was pretty slim. But I knew a way into the school. My dremel had broken last summer and for

about a month I hadn't had the money to replace it. But the wood-shop room in the school had a

nice one that I'd made good use of many times. I'd taken a metal file to the lock on the shop

exit door, filing it down just enough that any key would open the door. If no one had discovered

it in the seven months since then, I would be able to get in. I might get in trouble, but I

could just say the door was unlocked. I doubted Wilson would tattle anyway.

My streak of bad luck took a small vacation because my car keys easily turned the lock on the

shop room door. I was in. I crept through the familiar passageways. The smell of the school –

disinfectant, school lunch, and cheap cologne – was oddly comforting. I wondered how I would

approach Wilson without scaring the crap out of him. As I neared the stairs leading to the

second floor I heard something that made me stop abruptly. I listened, and my heart thudded like

a drum, making it hard to determine what the sound was. I held my breath and strained to hear.

Violins? Weird. Hitchcock's Psycho flashed through my mind. “REE! REE! REE! REE!” I shivered.

Violins were creepy.

The sound had me sneaking up the stairs, following the thready notes. When I reached the second

floor, the hallway was dark and the light from Wilson's classroom beckoned me forward. It was

the only light on in the whole school, creating a spotlight on the man within. Wilson was

outlined by the frame of his door, a bright rectangle at the end of the shadowy corridor. I

walked toward him, keeping close to the wall in case he looked up. But the light that

illuminated him would also blind him. I doubted he would see me even if he looked directly at

me.

He was wrapped around an instrument. I didn't know the name of it. It was a lot bigger than a

violin – so big it sat on the floor and he was seated behind it . And the music he was making

wasn't frightening. It was achingly lovely. It was piercing, yet sweet. Powerful, yet simple.

His eyes were closed and his head was bent, as if he prayed as he played. His shirt sleeves were

rolled up, and his body moved with his bow, like a weary swordsman. I thought of Manny then. How

Manny had remarked on Wilson's forearms, and I watched the play of muscle under his smooth skin,