David Farland - Nightingale

I could get myself killed, she thought, but only if I'm lucky. The Draghouls can do things that are far worse than just killing you.

I should let him go. I should let them have him.

She swallowed hard, made her decision.

She glanced at the social worker. "I like Bron's honesty. An artist needs that. I like his talent, too.... I want to adopt. I don't want anyone else to have him."

Mr. Bell smiled. "I'd love for you to adopt, but it will take time: your husband needs to meet Bron. There will be a hearing before a judge, a mandatory waiting period...."

"I understand," Olivia said. "E-mail the forms. Mike and I will fill them out...."

Yet every instinct in her warned: this could be the biggest mistake you'll ever make.

Mr. Bell had Olivia sign some papers which gave her temporary parental rights.

Bron noticed that she was left-handed, just like him.

"There will be a lot to do," Mr. Bell offered as the three of them began walking toward the front door of the school. She'd want to get Bron on her insurance, set up ground rules for him so that he'd know what was expected. Mr. Bell assured Olivia that it was always difficult for kids to adjust to a new school, new family. He promised counseling services to help them through this "initial phase."

Bron figured that Olivia was going to need some counseling. He'd met women like this before, women so desperate for a child that they'd latch onto the first one they could.

Where the hell is her husband? Bron wondered. Doesn't he even want to see me?

The fact that Olivia had gone kid-shopping without Mike told Bron that his new foster parents weren't in this together. They might fight if Olivia took him home. At the very least, Mike would spend time pouting. Yeah, Olivia needed counseling.

Yet Bron didn't dare object. The school, he decided, was pretty cool. Olivia seemed generous, and Bron wouldn't have to slave to take care of other people's children.

If he had to spend the next two years someplace, this might be a good one. He didn't want to mess up this chance.

He could put up with a cold foster father, or with a woman who was dumb enough to think that in two years she could become a real mother to him.

Mr. Bell assured Olivia, "You're going to like Bron. I think that he's going to be perfect for your little family. You know, a lot of times, I do my best to match people up, and it just doesn't work. But sometimes this is a great job. Sometimes I find a kid and a family, and they fit perfectly."

Once the three passed out the door, the scenery smote Bron again. Tuacahn High School was situated on the edge of a state park. Overhead on either side of the school were gorgeous rock walls that rose fifteen hundred feet almost straight up, in columns of hoodoos that, in the angled light, seemed like giant sculptures of ancient kings, their faces eroded by wind and rain. The rock walls formed a canyon that wound back behind the school in a V for more than a mile. Lush green trees and brush lined the rocky creek bed, until gradually the creek climbed up into the hills.

The lawns on campus were vibrant green, and next to the high school was a professional theater, the Tuacahn Center for the Performing Arts. The architecture had been fused into something of a modern Aztec flavor, made of stone colored to match the reds and tans of the native sandstone in the region. Much of the area between the schools was left open to the air, but soon gave way to a covered area for picnic tables, snack booths, and some shops that sold knickknacks to tourists.

Along the walls of the buildings, huge posters announced the summer season's plays at the theater: "Tarzan," "Cats," and "Crazy for You."

As the grounds transformed gracefully from the school building to the courtyard and theater, it seemed as if the school and Broadway were somehow physically connected.

Though it was early afternoon and the next play wouldn't be starting for hours, a snack shop was open. He could smell fresh popcorn.

Bron stood just peering around. Something was missing.

Mr. Bell asked, "What are you looking for?"

"Litter," Bron said. "There's no litter anywhere. It's not like some of my old schools."

"Hey," Olivia teased, "we can sprinkle some around, if you feel homesick."

He smiled, and they walked to Mr. Bell's car. Bron pulled out his guitar, and then flushed with embarrassment as he withdrew his battered Army-green backpack and the t-shirt stuffed full of clothes, like the torso of a scarecrow.

Olivia glanced at the t-shirt. "Looks like you could use some better luggage."

Bron smiled sheepishly.

She thought, then asked, "Is there anything in here that you really feel... emotionally attached to?"

Bron shook his head no.

"Do me a favor then," she said. "Toss this in the garbage. We'll do some shopping before we go home."

Bron hesitated. Some foster parents would come on strong at first, be so happy to have him. But it didn't last. He wanted new clothes, but he didn't want to risk throwing his old ones away and then not having anything at all.

"Go on," Olivia said. "Scoot."

Bron nervously wrestled the lid off the nearest trashcan. Stuffing in the t-shirt was like trying to dispose of a body. Bron manhandled it in, and Olivia threw the pack on top, then replaced the lid.

As he prepared to leave, Mr. Bell gave his standard warning to Olivia, "I'm sure that Bron will work out wonderfully, but if you have any problems, give me a call. You've got my card. Call anytime, day or night. If you are ever faced with a situation that you don't know how to handle, let me handle it with you."

Mr. Bell shook hands firmly, and stared Olivia in the eye, as if he were sure that trouble would come.

They waved goodbye as Mr. Bell drove off. Bron watched him go with a mounting sense of loss. As Mr. Bell's car receded into the distance, Bron felt more and more ... abandoned, resigned to his fate.

Olivia took Bron back into the school. As they got online, she said, "It's a shame that we didn't get you registered a couple of months ago. I'm afraid you won't have much choice of classes, but I'll see if I can call in a few favors."

Students at Tuacahn got to choose areas of specialty—such as visual arts, dance, or musical theater. Depending upon the specialty, the student was put into an "academy" with a tailored track for graduation, one that prepared the student for training or employment in his or her specialty.

Bron hesitated for a long time, trying to choose his academy—visual art or music. He settled on music.

Olivia smiled. "You can try them all, you know. We encourage students to experiment. In fact, you might want to enroll in an acting class this fall, or theater tech. We have drama rehearsals each night after school, so I'm often here until midnight. You'll have your own car to drive, of course, but you'll be free to drive home with me after rehearsals, if you like."

That perked Bron up. He had his driver's license, but hadn't driven much since his driver's education class. "I'll have a car?" She nodded. "What kind?" He imagined an old car moldering in her garage.

"We'll have to go to a dealer and pick one out."

That was extravagant for any foster parent, and even more so in these tough times, what with the recession. Between clothes, school supplies, and a car, this was going to put a monumental dent in the Hernandez's savings.