"Holy crap, creature." I shifted toward the piano so that I could look at her, and shook my head to clear the agony. "You're difficult."
She leaned forward, across the keys, to see what my face looked like while I spoke. Her own hair fell in front of her face as she did so; she had to push the choppy pale bits back behind an ear. "That feeling only means you want to be more than you are. It only means you should've said yes instead of no."
I was sure she meant her words to be convincing, but they had the opposite effect. "If I get somewhere in this life, it's going to be because of me, bucko. No cheating."
Nuala made a terrible face behind her freckles. "You're being quite ungrateful. You haven't even tried the song I helped you with. It's not cheating. You would've written it eventually. Like, if you'd lived to be three thousand or something."
"I'm not saying yes," I told her.
"I wasn't doing it in exchange for yes," Nuala snapped. "I was doing it to show you what we could be together. Your damned thirty-day free trial period. Could you just take advantage of it?
No, of course not! Have to question! Have to over-analyze.
Sometimes I hate all of you stupid humans."
My head hurt with her anger. "Nuala, seriously. Shut up for a second. You're giving me a splitting headache."
"Don't tell me to shut up," she said, but she did.
"Don't take this the wrong way," I said, "But I don't exactly trust you."
I set my chanter down--it felt like a weapon that Nuala could use against me--and laid my fingers on the cool keys of the piano instead. Unlike my chanter, which was familiar and pregnant with possibilities under my fingers, the smooth piano keys were meaningless and innocent. I looked at Nuala, and unspeaking, she looked back at me. Her eyes were so wrong--so dazzlingly not human--when I really looked at them, but she was right. When I looked into her eyes, I saw myself looking back. A me that wanted more than what I was. A me that knew there was so much brilliance out there to find but that I would never begin to discover.
Nuala climbed off the bench, very carefully so that it didn't make a fart-creak, and ducked between me and the piano, my arms forming a cage on either side of her. She pressed back against me, forcing me back on the bench so that she had an edge to sit on, and then she found my hands where they were spread artlessly on the piano keys.
She lay her fingers on top of my fingers. "I can't play any instrument."
It was weirdly intimate, her sitting in the framework of my arms, her body perfectly mimicking the shape of mine, long fingers fitting exactly on top of mine. I would've given one of my lungs to sit with Dee like this. "What do you mean?"
Nuala turned her head just enough for me to get a good whiff of her breath, all summer and promises. "I can't play anything. I can only help others. It wouldn't matter if I thought of the best song in the world--I couldn't play it."
"You physically can't?"
She turned her face back away from me. "I just can't. Music doesn't happen for me."
Something stuck in my throat, uncomfortable. "Show me."
She slid one hand off mine, pressed a key down with her finger.
I watched the key depress--one time, two times, five times, ten times--but nothing happened. Just the small, muffled sound of the piano key being depressed. She took my hand and dragged it to the same key. Pressed my finger down, once. The piano rang out, a sullen bell that stopped as soon as she lifted my finger back up again.
She didn't say anything else. Did she have to? The memory of that single note was still singing in my head.
Nuala whispered, "Just give me one song. I won't take anything from you."
I should've said no. If I'd known how badly it would hurt, later, I would've said no.
Maybe.
Instead, I just said, "Promise. Your word."
"My word. I'll take nothing from you."
I nodded. It occurred to me that she couldn't see it, but she seemed to know, anyway, because she rested her fingers on mine and leaned her head back against me, her hair scented with clover. What was she waiting for? Me to play? I couldn't play the damn piano.
Nuala pointed to a key. "Start there."
Awkward, her body between me and the piano and her whatever the hell it was between me and my brain, I pressed the key and recognized it as the first note of the song that had been occupying my brain since I woke up. I stumbled, clumsy, to the next note, hitting several wrong ones on the way--the piano was a foreign language that felt wrong in my mouth.
Then the next one, guessing a little faster. The next one, only getting one wrong. The next one, right on the first try. And then
I was playing the melody, and I joined in with my other hand, hesitantly picking out the bass line that sang in my head.
It was clunky, amateurish, beautiful. And it was mine. It didn't sound like a song I'd stolen from Nuala. I recognized a scrap of tune that I'd played with on and off over the years, an ascending bass line I'd admired on an Audio-slave album, and a riff I'd toyed with on my guitar. It was mine, but intensified, focused, polished.
I stopped playing and stared at the piano. I couldn't say anything because I wanted it so badly. I wanted what she had to offer and it stung because I had to say no. I squeezed my eyes shut.
"Say something," Nuala said.
I opened my eyes. "Shit. I told Sullivan I didn't know how to play the piano."
-from Golden Tongue: The Poems of Steven Slaughter
I didn't really know what I was feeling. The song that James had just played swelled in my head, and it was so beautiful I felt drunk with it. I'd almost forgotten how good it felt to have my inspirations made flesh, even without taking any energy from
James in return. Suddenly wearing my human skin exhausted me.
"I'm leaving," I told James, ducking out from under his arms and standing up.
He was still staring at the keyboard, his shoulders stiff. "Did you hear what I said?" I said. "I'm leaving." James looked up, finally, and the hostility in his eyes surprised me for some reason. "Do me a favor," he said. "And don't come back."
For a long moment, I looked at him, and I really thought about blinding him, to punish him. I knew it was within my power. I'd seen a faerie do it before; he'd spat in a man's eyes when he noticed that the man was able to see him walking down the street. It had only taken a second. And James was looking right at me.
But then I looked at James' hazel eyes and imagined him staring out on the world with wide, unseeing pupils like the blinded man.
And I couldn't do it.
I didn't know why.
So I just left, stumbling a little on my way out into the hall, going invisible before I closed the door behind me. Once out of the practice room, I was in such a hurry to get outside that I nearly ran into a woman coming into the hallway. I ducked against the wall and she turned her head, her pink-nailed fingers lifting like claws. I swear she was sniffing in my direction, which was the sort of bizarre behavior I'd come to expect from faeries, not humans.
I was ready for this weird day to be over. I spun out of her reach and into the autumn evening, trying to forget James' eyes looking at me and to pretend that it hadn't hurt when he asked me not to come back.
James
I had a love-hate relationship with the dorms. They were independence: the freedom to leave your crap on the floor and eat Oreos for breakfast three days in a row (which isn't a good idea--you always end up with black chunks in your teeth during your first few classes). They were also camaraderie: seventyfive guys thrown into one building together meant you couldn't throw a rock without hitting a musician with balls.