A Light in the Dark Read online

  “You’re the only one who can tell me to stay,” he countered, his own voice gravelly with emotion, his fingers gripping mine tightly between us.

  I pushed up to sit and tugged my hand free of his grasp. “I’m sorry. I—I can’t. And it’s not fair of you to put that on my shoulders. This is your life, your future we’re talking about.”

  “It’s also your future, if I stay or go.” He sat up as well, facing me, but he didn’t touch me. Then he added, “And Marauders, too.”

  He was right. On both counts. But I wasn’t the one talking about leaving. I stood slowly, leaned forward and kissed the top of his head. “Marauders and I aren’t going anywhere, Tom. This is your decision. You have to be the one to make it.” Then I walked out of the auditorium, leaving him before he could leave me. The gear was all in Tom’s truck already, and he had keys to the studio. I’d already planned to ride home with Ani anyway. She was on one of the committees organizing this event, and I’d promised to stay late and help her out.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “He was there last night. Loitering at the back of the auditorium.” Ani lay on her back across the foot of her bed, her long legs crossed at the ankles, her feet propped on the wall. I was sprawled on the floor, my laptop in front of me. We were studying together, and it wasn’t just our excuse to get together when we thought we needed one. Thanks to Ani, we actually did get homework done in our two-person study group. This was her senior year and her last chance to do well. She planned to go out in style. I, on the other hand, was basically a slacker, at least when it came to any class that didn’t have something to do with music, and if it wasn’t for her keeping me on track, I might not have made it this long at Mid-U. I had no clue how I was going to pull my weight next year without her.

  “I saw him.” I didn’t look up from the screen where I was watching artisans handcraft custom guitars to order. I had a research paper due in a week in Music History and I’d gotten distracted by the video.

  I knew who she was talking about without having to ask.

  Sebastian Jeffries.

  I’d seen him lurking around the outskirts of the crowds at several of our shows in the last month or two. He came and went alone, at least from what I could tell, usually hanging out near the back. He rarely spoke to anyone other than Corny, who manned our merchandise table and pretty much talked to everyone, and honestly, Sebastian didn’t really seem to be into our music. We were fairly well-known locally and had a solid following. The token groupies head-banging and hair-flipping and even moshing if they could get away with it, the cell phone flashlight wavers, the boyfriends who came along just to make sure they didn’t lose their girlfriends to the guys in the band… But not Sebastian. Crossed arms, stoic expression, just watching.

  My first encounter with Sebastian Jeffries was in Mr. Hyde’s Music Theory III class. It was the only night class on my schedule, but I still knew most of the other students in the room since this was my third year at Mid-U. So when Sebastian slipped in a few minutes before seven PM about two weeks into the semester, I noticed. We all did. He dipped his head once at Mr. Hyde who greeted him likewise, and the class went momentarily silent, openly watching him make his way to a seat. I couldn’t speak for anyone else, but my silence was due to appreciation. It was almost February and it was cold, even for Southern California, but in spite of the bulky layers he wore, I could tell he was a big guy. Almost as big as Tom, in fact. That alone was enough to get my attention. If I took a deep breath and held it, I didn’t quite hit 5’1” at the doctor’s office, so I was probably hyper-aware of tall people. But add in the Elvis Presley coif with the chunk of hair that kept falling over his left eye, coupled with the whole Judd Nelson/John Bender/Breakfast Club perusal of the room from the back row? I was totally into that. When our eyes met, I gave him a half-smile by way of greeting, but I did my best to send an invitation with my eyes. I’d like to get to know you, Mr. New Guy.

  Mr. New Guy didn’t smile back, but he didn’t look away first.

  Apparently, he didn’t understand my offer of friendship, either. He didn’t really speak to anyone in class besides Mr. Hyde, and he never participated in group discussions. He just sat in the last row, scribbling in one of those old-school composition notebooks that I loved—points for Mr. New Guy—and stared at the back of my head when he wasn’t taking notes. I wasn’t paranoid. I’d caught him doing it several times. I felt his eyes on me. Supposedly, there was no scientific evidence of that kind of awareness, but when I’d sense the stare and then sneak a peek at him, almost without fail, he was looking.

  Granted, maybe he thought I was the one ogling him and we both just happened to turn toward each other at the same time, but I didn’t think so. And he never looked away first. Even Sierra Peters, the freakishly talented violinist who was never without a wad of Big Red gum in her mouth, noticed his rapt attention on me, and pulled me aside in the hallway after class one night and asked if I wasn’t just the slightest bit creeped out by him.

  The weird thing was, Mr. Hyde, who was boisterous and loud and required student interaction, never called on him, never asked him to contribute at all. I kept expecting some kind of an explanation from the professor for Sebastian’s presence in class—A foreign exchange student who didn’t speak English? Working off a speeding ticket in the wrong class? A psych major studying how music students reacted to negative vibes?—but nothing was forthcoming.

  After Sierra talked to me, I’d decided to take the bull by the horns and approach the guy myself. As usual, he schlepped in only minutes before class started, dropped into his seat, and pulled out his notebook. I boldly approached, my eyes holding his gaze because this time, I wasn’t looking away first, and dropped casually into the empty seat beside him. The auditorium-style seating in the classroom made me feel a little like I was invading his personal space, but I didn’t care. He’d invaded the back of my head’s personal space too many times for me to feel badly.

  “I’m Tish Ransome.” I held my hand out to him, noticing in the bright fluorescent overhead light that his eyes were a trippy color blue; not a blue I could easily describe. “I’m the star pupil in this class; teacher’s favorite and all. So you should get to know me if you’re pushing for an A with Mr. Hyde. I pretty much set the standard in here with him.” It wasn’t anything close to the truth, not with students like Sierra Peters, and Hector Vincenze, who played Flamenco Jazz guitar, and the brilliant-but-big-headed Brian “Bee” Bascomb piano prodigy in the same class. Brian didn’t look any older than twelve, but he claimed to be twenty. Regardless of his age, from the moment I heard him play “Flight of the Bumblebee” faster than anyone ever in the history of mankind, and the fact that his names all started with B? Well, who wouldn’t use a little alliteration when talking about Bumblebee? Especially since I knew how desperately he wanted to be taken seriously.

  Sebastian’s right eyebrow rose slowly, followed by the right corner of his mouth, like a string attached one to the other. He took my hand, his palm surprisingly rough against mine, and shook it slowly, but firmly. A good handshake. The kind my dad would approve of.

  “Sebastian Jeffries.”

  He didn’t expound on his own bragging rights, real or fabricated like mine, but I was sure we’d broken the ice and could move past the whole stalker-stare phase of our relationship. I smiled warmly. “Well. That wasn’t so bad, was it? It’s good to meet you, Sebastian Jeffries.”

  Maybe he was just one of those awkward people who stared without realizing they were doing it. But then he withdrew his hand from mine and spoke again. “That seat is saved.”

  The seat had been empty since the beginning of the semester, even before he showed up.

  And with that, he opened his notebook to a blank page, pulled a pen from the pocket of his fleece-lined hoodie, and scribbled what I could only assume was the date in the top left-hand corner of the page. His penmanship was atrocious, illegible.

  I’d been dismissed. Stunned by Sebastian’s
rudeness, I sat there a few moments too long, my cheeks flaming in offense.

  He turned scornful eyes on me, his lip curling in distaste now. “Class is starting. You should go back to your seat.”

  Sure enough, the barrel-chested professor pushed through the door, trundled to the front of the class, and rapped his knuckles on the podium, his standard call to order.

  I rose, pulled the edges of my leather jacket together, resisting the almost overwhelming desire to punch Sebastian in the side of his cocky head, and made my way back up to my usual spot two rows in front of him. The things I muttered under my breath during that thirty-second walk were not any I was proud of, but I did feel slightly mollified by the time I opened my own notebook. In the upper left-hand corner of the first blank page I came to, instead of the date, I listed a few of the choicer phrases I’d come up with, just to remind myself why Sebastian “Jackass” Jeffries was indeed, the butt-end of a donkey. I pressed so hard in my earnestness that I tore a hole in the paper and cursed out loud, garnering shocked looks from several students within earshot around me. I was pretty sure the bilge rat behind me had heard me, too.

  It was not one of my finer moments.

  A glutton for punishment, I gave him one more shot. I’d tried to ignore him, but it wasn’t in my nature to just let it go. By the first week of March, I’d had enough. Maybe it was because I’d grown up with all brothers who didn’t let me pull any princess games with them, but I hated passive aggressive head trips. So if Sebastian had a problem with me, I wanted to know what it was. I arrived way early one night and waited for him in the foyer outside the small auditorium-style room where we had our class. My plan was to ask him if he wanted to grab a cup of coffee afterward.

  Sebastian was running uncharacteristically late that night, and I had almost determined he wasn’t coming when he pushed through the exterior doors of the building in a mad rush. He didn’t see me at first; he had his head down and was tugging on the front of his hair in obvious frustration. His stride was long and angry, too, as he crossed the large foyer, and I straightened, second thoughts racing through my mind.

  But it was too late to change my mind, and when he did look up, we both froze. His expression shifted from anguish, to embarrassment, to what appeared to be anger so quickly, I had to force myself not to cringe.

  “Hey,” I finally said, my voice sounding surprisingly normal.

  His backpack slipped down his arm and he caught it just before it hit the ground. It looked heavy, full. Obviously, it held more than a composition notebook inside. He hitched the thing back up, releasing a muffled sound when the strap settled over his shoulder. He looked like he was in pain, hunched over a little, reminding me of a cornered animal. Was my company, my attention, really so abhorrent?

  “I’m late,” he said, not coming any closer. His anger, as quickly as it had arisen, seemed to be dissipating. He cocked his head, a question in his eyes. I could tell he was curious about what I was after, but he kept his mouth shut and just waited for me to speak.

  With his head turned that way, I noticed two red streaks on his neck, like rope burns, or scratches. Could that have been made by the strap of his backpack? I supposed if it was heavy enough, it could leave marks like that, but what on earth was he carrying around in that thing?

  “It’s all right. Mr. Hyde isn’t here yet.” The professor, a man who enjoyed his dinner, often arrived late, but with the majority of us being third year students, he trusted us to hold down the fort until he arrived. Or at least to not set fire to it. And he always stayed late, more than making up for those lost minutes at the end of class.

  “That’s good.” He eyed the doors behind him over his shoulder, but I still saw the grimace cross his features.

  I was quickly becoming more worried about Sebastian than I was about my own hurt feelings. I didn’t want to be nosy, but he seemed pretty rattled. “Are you—is everything all right?”

  When he turned back to me, all traces of emotion were gone from his face. His expression had gone completely blank. “I’m fine. I just hate running late. We’d better get inside. I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”

  He gestured to the door, indicating I go first, but I put a hand out to stop him, not quite touching him. I’d come this far, and although a little voice in the back of my head kept telling me my timing was way off, I forged ahead. “Sebastian, would you—do you want to go get coffee when we get out tonight?”

  Sebastian took a step back, stared down at my outstretched hand like it was a snake, and raised his eyes to mine. “No thanks. I need to get home after class.” And with that, he moved around me and pushed open the classroom door. He at least had the decency to hold the door for me while I gathered up the dregs of my pride once more and stepped inside.

  I nodded and thanked him as I passed by, polite only because people were watching us. I went directly to my seat, not looking up the way I usually did when he passed my row.

  I avoided looking at him after that, but I still felt his eyes on me. He never played an instrument in class, even though part of our coursework required us to put what we were learning to use, and those times I took the hot seat with my guitar at the front of the class, I looked at everyone but him while I played. But I knew he still watched me and it drove me crazy.

  It didn’t help that the whole brooding-bad-boy thing kind of got under my skin, too. And although I hated to admit it, Sebastian Jeffries took up way too much time in my mind. I tried to think awful thoughts about him, but other stuff crept in without my permission. Like the way his calloused hand had felt wrapped almost completely around mine, the left-sided smile when I’d introduced myself. The timbre of his voice and the lock of hair that fell forward when he bent over his notebook. His eyes, bold and challenging every time our gazes accidentally collided. I’d even written a song or two about him. About my confusing feelings for him.

  I didn’t know anything about him, other than that he was freakishly good-looking, had working-man hands and mystery-man eyes, and used junior high composition notebooks like I did. He was punctual to a fault, with that one exception when I’d tried to corner him in the foyer, always showing up exactly three minutes before class twice a week. And he smelled good, too. I’d noticed when I sat so close to him for those few humiliating moments. Nothing strong or cheesy, just this subtle lingering aftershave scent.

  I couldn’t figure out what I’d done to make him so mean to me, and part of me wanted desperately to make things right between us, to get to know him more, but an even bigger part of me wanted him to disappear forever. As much as I loved Mr. Hyde’s courses, I couldn’t wait for the semester to be over.

  “I don’t get it, Tish. It’s like he’s stalking you or something. But he seems nice enough to me. I mean, the few times I’ve talked to him at shows, he’s been very polite and attentive. And he talks to Corny almost every time he comes.”

  I looked up at her from the corner of my eye. “I’m pretty sure stalkers can be nice when they want to be. Is this going somewhere?”

  Ani turned over onto her stomach, pushing the pile of textbooks toward the other end of the bed, and propped her chin on her hands. “I don’t know. No. Maybe. I just don’t understand what the deal is with him, that’s all. And he still keeps to himself in class, right? Doesn’t talk to anyone?”

  I snorted and clicked out of the screen I was on, and then closed my laptop gently. “Actually, in class on Thursday, he asked Sierra if she was going to be a part of the strings ensemble that performed before we did yesterday.” I rolled onto my back and stared up at the ceiling, smiling in spite of the irritating topic we were discussing.

  After Ani returned from Italy, she and I had snitched her mom’s Dean Martin album with “Volare” on it, and putting the song on loop, we’d painted her ceiling to look like a blue sky splotched with puffy clouds while singing at the top of our lungs. When Ani told me about the nicknames she’d gathered on her trip—everything from sparrow to puppy to treasure, but
in their Italian forms, and her favorite, La rondine, which meant “The Swallow”—I’d changed her text ID to “FarFallAni,” a play off the word “farfallina,” which meant butterfly, because she now seemed to float everywhere she went. I’d even added a funny little butterfly with Ani’s coloring fluttering among the clouds on her ceiling. It had all turned out better than we’d hoped and we often lay on our backs now, staring wistfully up into the endless blue sky. “Volare,” I started singing without thinking.

  “Oh, oh,” Ani responded in a completely different key.

  “Cantare….”

  “Oh, oh, oh, oh.” Another key altogether.

  And then we laughed, as we always did. We rarely got through the song, even with Dean singing along to keep us on track.

  “So you think maybe he came to see Sierra’s group play?” Ani went back to the subject at hand.

  “Why would I know? I don’t keep track of him. Or Sierra.” My tone was harsher than I’d intended, but Ani knew well my contradictory feelings about Sebastian. “Maybe you should ask him the next time you see him. He doesn’t stick around to talk to me.” I hated how the hurt I felt seeped out in my voice when I talked about him.

  Ani reached out and tugged on a strand of my hair. “Maybe you should try again, Tish. Maybe he keeps showing up, trying to work up the nerve to talk to you.” That was Ani, always thinking the best of people.

  I shook my head. “No. I can’t. He humiliated me. I’m not going to grovel.” I knew she wasn’t asking me to, but any attempt at communicating with him now, after the months of animosity between us, would feel that way to me. I could only imagine how it would look to him. “Besides, I don’t like to play head trip games, you know that. And if that’s what this has been this whole time, I’m not interested.”

  Ani sighed loudly and rolled back over, staring up at the cloudy sky, and then started singing softly about flying away and leaving disillusionment and confusion behind. I lay there listening to her off-key rendition, imagining Dean cringing, but smiling encouragingly anyway. Ani did that to people. She made them believe in her, probably because she believed in them.