Silent Song (Ghostly Rhapsody) (25 page)

She consumed them all, and there was nothing I could do to stop her.

She’ll have him. He’s already slipped too far from me. She screamed for me to give him up, to let him go because he’s already hers…

But then, suddenly, the piercing pain became bearable.

The vibrating waves of agony still ran up and down my spine, but the edges were duller, something I could think around, feel around.

And I felt Keith’s sharp intake of breath against my lips.

My hand slid from his cheek to his neck and I found his pulse under my fingertips, growing steadier and stronger with each beat.

He kept playing, and the shaky notes were firm and sharp in their eternal crescendo.

She lies.

I could stop her, and that was why she hated me so much. Because he had chosen. He had told me, so many times, in so many words, with so many gestures big and small. Even his being there, on his knees, giving her what she wanted, even that was only another way for him to say it.

He loved
me
.

He was
mine
.

And I am not giving him away.

Tilting my head awkwardly, with the guitar still between us and his body still hunched over in exhaustion, I deepened the kiss. I buried my hand in his dyed hair, held on to his shoulder, feeling the shift of muscle as his fingers kept pulling notes from the neck of the guitar. I drew him to me, and I gave back everything I received and more, so much more. 

Beatrice howled with fury, but she was outside our world. We kissed, and we were perfect, and she couldn’t harm us because this was what we had chosen, without restraints or reservations.

A note hovered and trembled in the air, fighting a last stand against silence, and then I felt Keith’s hands cupping my face and holding the back of my head and wiping away the tears and telling me “I love you” all over again.

We didn’t feel the need to surface back for air in a very long time, and when we did, resting our brows against one another, she was gone.

Predawn found us walking hand in hand through my deserted street. In some recess of my mind, something said that the neighbors would let out their dogs soon and my parents would get up soon and that everything would be way smoother if no one spotted us, looking haggard like survivors from a shipwreck with stupid smiles glued to our faces.

It sounded suspiciously like the voice of reason.

I told it to jerk off. Everything I really cared for amounted to Keith’s warm hand in mine.

“I want you to come in,” I said when we stopped in my driveway. The words fell from my mouth without asking permission, and he laughed softly, his fingers reaching out to try and fix the mess my hair had become.

It must look hideous after tonight.

“I want to come in,” he said, his tone lingering.

“But it’s not a good idea, right?” 

He shrugged one shoulder. “I’ve been worrying my father sick lately. I think that getting up to find me gone in the middle of the night might be a bit too much to put him through.”

I pictured Mr. Brannagh’s anxious face when he had called me the last time, when he had nearly lost his son and had reached out to me like he was grasping for straws. It would be cruel to make him worry, now that everything was solved.

“You’re right,” I sighed.

“What time do you leave for school?”

“What? Ah, a quarter to eight. Why?”

He smirked and leaned in for a quick peck. “Give me half an hour to drop the guitar and leave a note to the old man. I’ll be back for breakfast, if you still want me.”

My heart caught in my throat, but I forced myself to appear nonchalant, arching an eyebrow. “Thirty minutes? That’s way too much.” I squeezed his fingers. “You give me five.”

***

Keith’s window had seen me doing plenty of unseemly stuff. It seemed only fair that it’d witness my first breaking-and-entering ever. It didn’t quite count since the one helping me up was the rightful owner of the room I was climbing into, but the adrenaline of sneaking in left me shaking anyway.

His home had only one story, so when he had left earlier, he’d not needed to worry about creaky doors or being caught in the corridor. He’d only locked his room and slipped out the window. The both of us took the same way in, Keith carefully hauling guitar and backpack before himself and then giving me a hand.

The first rays of the sun were starting to crawl over the horizon and it cast his room in an eerie gray light that made it look much more personal than it had been the last time I’d seen it. He gathered me to his chest when I cleared the windowsill and I let him cradle me against his slight frame.

“You weren’t born a burglar,” he whispered in my ear after a moment of contented silence.

I might have whacked his arm for breaking the moment or might have said something incredibly cheesy in turn. Instead, a loud meow interrupted me, and I managed to only jerk a little at the sudden noise.

Sparrow sat there, against our calves, and stared up with iridescent green eyes. I could have sworn that he was smiling.

“Hey, buddy,” I said, and the cat started to purr in satisfaction.

Keith shook his head. “My girl’s in my room, and she’s not scared of my cat. This must be what Heaven feels like.”

I did whack his arm then, but he only laughed at my indignant face.

“You’re going to wake your father!” I shushed.

“He’s going to be up in a few anyway,” he sighed. “I’d better get started on breakfast, make this look natural.” He gestured vaguely between us and unlocked the door, heading to the kitchen and calling back, “Instant cappuccino okay with you?”

“It’s not mocha, but it’ll have to do.” I grinned back. Before following him, though, I knelt down and scratched Sparrow’s ears on impulse.

“Thanks,” I told the cat. Then, with a wink, I headed down the corridor just as the alarm clock went off in Mr. Brannagh’s room.

When he found us, presumably following the smell of coffee and pancakes, he blinked bemused eyes at me, as if I might have been a figment of his imagination.

“Hey, Dad.” Keith smiled from the stove. “Alice came for breakfast.”

“Hi, Mr. Brannagh.” I waved and hoped he’d believe it.

“Hi, Alice. You’re quite an early riser, aren’t you?” he replied with a genuine smile.

I allowed myself to relax and went on. “Keith and I had a history project that’s been giving us some trouble, so I came over to talk about it before class.”

It was the truth, or at least, as much of it as we could afford to tell. I was done with lying.

“Keith, you hadn’t told me you were doing anything together.”

He shrugged, looking sheepish as he brought the plate over. “Yeah, well, it wasn’t that important when compared to the play.”

And with that, the questioning was over and we settled over breakfast. It was unnerving how easily I fell in with their routine.

Later on, it was even more unnerving to see how natural it was for me to enter the school building openly holding Keith’s hand, sharing our private smiles beneath the eyes of the crowd. Even though they all had heard about us, we still took them by surprise. Their gawking gazes followed us all the way to our lockers, and our steps were preceded by silence and followed by buzzing whispers.

Through it all, I found I couldn’t care less. I was happy. 

While we were in front of my locker, the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end and I felt my skin crawl. My heart did a somersault and I jerked my head around only to find Lena standing on the opposite side of the hall.

She looked venomous and her lips were moving, undoubtedly sharing her views on us with her entourage.

I breathed out and turned back to my books without a second glance.

After Beatrice, Bitch Queens like Lena became kindergarten stuff. Worries, like reputation, faded to noise in the background. I had everything I needed, and no time to worry about the likes of her.

“Walk you to class?” Keith asked when I was done, uncomfortable with all the attention, but holding his head high in spite of any snide comments coming our way.

I shook my head. “Walk me to the auditorium?”

He frowned for a second, but then he nodded in understanding. The big doors opened without a noise and then we were on the shadowed stage, the old Victorian furniture lumbering in the darkness.

It looked exactly the same as it had on Saturday.

“How do you feel?” I asked, after making a couple of rounds weaving between sofas and tables and lamps.

He stopped my wandering, hugging my waist from behind.

“It’s okay, Alice. She’s gone. I’m here.”

So I’m that transparent. Either that, or he knows me that well.

I twisted around to hug him back. “How can you be so sure? What if she’s just hiding?”

Keith just caressed my back in a comforting gesture. I frowned, but when I looked up, his gaze was lost beyond me, a serene smile playing on his lips. Following his line of vision, I found the side table with the portrait we’d filched during the weekend.

It wasn’t there. In front of its empty space, the dozen red roses lay scattered among shards from the broken vase.

“We’re safe,” Keith whispered before kissing me just like that first time.

And I believed him.

***

Ron C. Nieto was born not that long ago in a bustling European city. Well, okay, she was born in Madrid, Spain. Though there were no castles and definitely no princes whatsoever, and she can't recall any fairy looming over her cradle, she was awarded a gift of sorts: a wild imagination combined with a love for words. Unfortunately, along came the curse of the Procrastination Monster, who has shadowed her for the best part of her life to date.

But in spite of this, she knew she wanted to be a writer from the very beginning: actually, she does not recall ever striving to be anything else.

Well, past that amusing stage wherein she insisted on being Batman, that is.

Anyway, she undertook her educational adventure and eventually graduated from Universidad Pontificia Comillas ICADE ICAI, where she became a translator for Spanish, English, French, Italian and Japanese. Her stay in the Realms of Higher Education gave her the strength to overcome the Procrastination Monster, sit down and scratch the aspiring out of aspiring writer.

Silent Song is her debut novel and she already has plans for her next projects. She can be found working on them whenever she doesn’t procrastinate doing something else.

I’d not have been writing today if my family hadn’t been there to support me. The day they told me that I didn’t have to be an engineer and that I should pursue the career that fulfilled me truly changed my life. Plus, it was super fun to re-apply for a different University and get admitted just two weeks before the year started... Thanks for those crazy moments, thanks for laughing with me instead of despairing!

While I graduated, there were many Professors who also supported me. I’d like to give special thanks to Eva Gonzalez and Pilar Ucar, who believed in my writing talent before I ever did.

Thanks to Amy, my editor. She’s spoiled me! Her help in pointing out mistakes when I was too caught up to notice them and her encouragement have made this book what it is.

Thanks to Justin Sandercoe. He runs the www.justinguitar.com website and, while he doesn’t know it yet, Keith wouldn’t exist without him. You see, he teaches people to play guitar for free over the internet, and he’s a real pro about it. He’s taught me all the theory I know. He’s also responsible for whatever actual music I can play, and for the new depths of understanding and appreciation I have for each melody I listen to these days.

And last but definitely not least, thank you.