David Farland - Nightingale

"Are you sure?" Bron asked. "Don't you need to talk to your husband about it?"

Olivia smiled. "Well, there are some costs that you can't really get around. Raising a son is expensive. Mike knows that. It's sort of like getting a hamster. Even if you get the hamster for free, you still have to buy food for it, and a cage. Even a free hamster is expensive."

Bron wasn't sure how he felt about being compared to a hamster, but he got the point.

Olivia smiled eagerly. "Let's get started."

She took him back into the office to see the secretary, Allison, and said, "We're going to need school shirts for Bron."

Allison led him into a storage room, where the uniforms were laid out—shirts in seven colors, with Tuacahn's logo on the chest, a golden sunrise casting rays of light toward heaven as it climbed over a mountain.

"So," Bron asked, "all of the creative people in this school dress exactly the same?"

"We want you to worry about your art," Allison groused, "not what kind of rags to wear." He'd struck a nerve.

"If we're all dressed the same," Bron asked nervously, "how are the rich kids going to know who's best?"

"Talent," Olivia replied. "Here at Tuacahn, the guy with the most talent is the biggest stud."

"Let's try a large." Allison tossed Bron a shirt. He turned away, stripped off his shirt, and caught a glimpse of Allison grinning at his washboard abs, shooting a look toward

Olivia, and mouthing the word, "Nice!"

"Are you into sports?" Olivia asked.

"I did a little wrestling last year," Bron said. "Mostly I just like to run."

"That's the one problem with Tuacahn," Olivia said, "we're too small to support sports programs."

They took Bron's shirts and dropped them in Olivia's car trunk. It was still early afternoon, and it was in the low-hundreds. Olivia gave Bron the nickel tour of the grounds—showing him the green theater beside the school, the tables out under the pavilions where he'd eat lunch, the outdoor lockers used only by freshmen. Older students like Bron would have to carry their books in backpacks. Olivia led him under some awnings. Light rock music was playing. A couple of the little shops were selling souvenirs for plays, along with wall decorations, statuary, and exotic treats.

"This is the professional side of the complex," Olivia explained as she led him to the outdoor amphitheater where plays and concerts were held.

In the background above the stage loomed a massive wall of red rock. The ceiling was an azure sky filled with glorious sunlight, and Bron imagined it lit by smoldering stars at night. As he walked toward the open-air seats, he felt humbled.

Olivia explained, "There's something showing almost every night, mostly plays, but sometimes music concerts. Next week we have Styx playing."

"Will J.Y. Young be there?" Bron asked.

"You've listened to his music?"

"A little. He plays on a Stratocaster, with a special pre-amp."

"Do you know what it's called?" Olivia asked.

Teachers like to test you, Bron knew. They liked it even better when you knew the answers. "It's called a Yoshironator. It was hand-made for that guitar, and it's the only one in the world."

"Wow," Olivia said. "You do know your guitarists. Who's your favorite?"

"Living or dead?"

"Let's stick with the living."

"Joe Satriani."

"He's pretty avant-garde."

"He pushes the instrument," Bron said. "I like that. A lot of people can handle a classical style, but I like to hear artists do new things."

Olivia smiled. "I met Joe once, years ago. I even gave him a couple of lessons, down in

L.A."

"No way!" Bron said.

"I make it a point to meet guitar players, listen to them seriously. I'll tell you what. I'll get an extra ticket for you for the Styx concert. Heck, you can probably have Mike's. He usually falls asleep at rock concerts anyway."

Bron didn't trust his luck, but since Olivia was in a giving mood, he kept quiet. Olivia waved down at the amphitheater.

"Tuacahn keeps three theatrical performances running each season. The stars of the shows are hired out of New York or London, but if our high-school actors are good enough, some get parts. Every year, we have several students who go straight to Broadway. Talent scouts come and look them over. Disney makes a trip out each year looking for talent, too. That's how we got the contract to have the first performance of the new 'Tarzan' musical. Disney thought that our outdoor theater, with its unique backdrop, made it the most perfect place in the world for an opening."

With that, Olivia led Bron back to her white Honda CRV. As he was about to get in, she tossed him the keys. "You drive?"

"Me?" he asked. "Now?"

"It's a good way to learn the roads. Besides, I'm going to need to see how much I trust you with a car."

Bron got in nervously, adjusted the seat and mirrors, turned the key, and headed out of the theater complex. The road led down past a gate into a desert. Nothing grew here but mesquite bushes and a few Joshua trees. The road was empty, lazy.

"That sculpture you made," Olivia said as he drove, "'Becoming.' Are you afraid of what you're becoming, Bron? Do you feel torn between being a god or a monster?"

"I wouldn't quite put it that way," Bron said. It sounded so pretentious, talking about monsters and gods. "Every decent person ought to be worried about what he is becoming."

"You know," she said, "I'm not worried about you becoming a monster. I think ... we should let our passion shape our lives. We decide that we want to do something grand, and then shape our lives with our will and wit."

Nice sentiment, he thought. Let's see if it lasts. New parents often went through a "sweet phase," where they'd ask about his favorite foods and television shows. If he was lucky, they might buy him something.

It had been too many years since he'd been in the sweet phase, though. Melvina had never had one. She'd announced when they first met, "You'll eat what's put in front of you and wear what you're told."

Bron had admired her refreshing honesty. He'd learned long ago that you can never trust the sweet phase. All that niceness, that pandering, would fade in a week.

Pretty soon, he thought, Olivia will figure out that she can't make me love her.

Yet he'd missed having anyone care for him. Melvina hadn't spent any money on him in years; getting a few new clothes would be welcome. Bron didn't expect Olivia to deliver on everything she promised.

She'd take him home, talk with Mike, and he'd say something like, "Why spend all of that money on some kid that we might end up shipping off next week?" The promises would blow away like dying cinders riding the night's wind.

If Bron had been a different kind of person, he would have made sure to get as much as he could from Olivia, as fast as possible. But he didn't need much to get by. So he'd let them give what they wanted, and they could take it back to the stores later, if they felt like it.

"Bron..." Olivia began in a tone that was both confidential and serious.

Ahead, a cottontail bunny raced onto the road. "Slow down," Olivia said. "We have a rule in our house. You kill something, you get to eat it."

Bron tapped the brakes. The rabbit peered at the car, dashed for cover. It was cute, and reminded him of something....

When he was a child, he'd lived with a family who seemed all warm and caring at first. The Golpers. They'd smothered him with affection. But then one Christmas Eve they'd been on the way to the store to buy a turkey and some pumpkin pies, and some old gray-haired women had been sitting out in front with a box of kittens. One kitten had been striking—with long smoky-gray hair and white paws. Mrs. Golper fell in love with it instantly, and got it "for Bron."