getting out of it. And free popcorn is never anything to be sneered at. So I said, “Well, all right. I guess.”
“Awesome.” Scott and Dave gave each other high fives.
I winced again, but this time it had nothing to do with Shane. Dave had jostled me so that a sharp corner of Keely Herzberg’s photo, tucked into the back pocket of my shorts, jabbed me into remembering that I had a little something else to do tonight, too.
C H A P T E R
8
“P aul Huck was a guy who lived down the road from me.”
I had figured out a way to not embarrass myself in front of Scott and Dave. I’d abandoned the rehashing of an old Stephen King story and opted for a ghost story my dad used to tell, back when my brothers and I had been little and he’d taken us on camping trips to the Indiana backwoods—trips my mother never went on, since she claimed to be allergic to nature, and most particularly to backwoods.
“He wasn’t a very bright guy,” I explained to the dozens of rapt little faces in front of me. “In fact, he was kind of dim. He only made it to about the fourth grade before school got too hard for him, so his parents let him stay home after that, since they didn’t put much stock in education anyway, on account of none of the Hucks ever amounting to anything with or without having gone to school—”
“Hey.” A small, high-pitched voice sounded from behind the closed porch door. “Can I come in now?”
“No,” I shouted back. “Now, where was I?”
I went on to relate how Paul Huck had grown into a massive individual, stupid as a corncob, but good at heart.
But really, I wasn’t thinking about Paul Huck. I wasn’t thinking about Paul Huck at all. I was thinking about what had happened right after I’d agreed to allow Scott and Dave have their cabins stage a mini-invasion on mine. What had happened was, I had gone for my tutorial with Professor Le Blanc.
And I had ended up nearly getting fired.
Again.
And this time, it hadn’t been because I’d been making personal use of camp property, or teaching the kids risqué songs.
Then why, you ask? Why would the famous classical flutist Jean-Paul Le Blanc attempt to fire a totally hip—not to mention talented—individual like myself?
Because he had discovered my deepest secret, the one I hold closest to my heart… .
No, not that one. Not the fact that I am still very much in possession of my psychic gift. My
other
secret.
What happened was this.
Right after Scott and Dave and Ruth took off, I sauntered over to the practice room where I was supposed to have my lesson with Professor Le Blanc. He was in there, all right. I could tell by the pure, sweet tones emanating from the tiny room. The practice rooms are supposed to be soundproof, and they are … but only if you’re in one of the rooms. From the hallway, you can hear what’s going on behind the door.
And let me tell you, what was going on behind that door was some fine, fine Bach. We’re talking flute-playing so elegant, so assured, so … well, passionate, it almost brought tears to my eyes. You don’t hear that kind of playing in the Ernest Pyle High School Symphonic Orchestra, you get what I’m saying? I was so entranced, I didn’t even think to knock on the door to let the professor know I’d arrived. I never wanted that sweet music to end.
But it did end. And then the next thing I knew, the door to the practice room was opening, and Professor Le Blanc emerged. He was saying, “You have a gift. An extraordinary gift. Not to use it would be a crime.”
“Yes, Professor,” replied a bored voice that, oddly, I recognized.
I looked down, shocked that such lovely music had been coming from the flute of a student, and not the master.
And my jaw sagged.
“Hey, lesbo,” Shane said. “Shut the barn door, you’re lettin’ the flies in.”
“Ah,” Professor Le Blanc said, spying me. “You two know one another? Oh, yes, of course, Jessica, you are his counselor, I’d forgotten.
“Awesome.” Scott and Dave gave each other high fives.
I winced again, but this time it had nothing to do with Shane. Dave had jostled me so that a sharp corner of Keely Herzberg’s photo, tucked into the back pocket of my shorts, jabbed me into remembering that I had a little something else to do tonight, too.
C H A P T E R
8
“P aul Huck was a guy who lived down the road from me.”
I had figured out a way to not embarrass myself in front of Scott and Dave. I’d abandoned the rehashing of an old Stephen King story and opted for a ghost story my dad used to tell, back when my brothers and I had been little and he’d taken us on camping trips to the Indiana backwoods—trips my mother never went on, since she claimed to be allergic to nature, and most particularly to backwoods.
“He wasn’t a very bright guy,” I explained to the dozens of rapt little faces in front of me. “In fact, he was kind of dim. He only made it to about the fourth grade before school got too hard for him, so his parents let him stay home after that, since they didn’t put much stock in education anyway, on account of none of the Hucks ever amounting to anything with or without having gone to school—”
“Hey.” A small, high-pitched voice sounded from behind the closed porch door. “Can I come in now?”
“No,” I shouted back. “Now, where was I?”
I went on to relate how Paul Huck had grown into a massive individual, stupid as a corncob, but good at heart.
But really, I wasn’t thinking about Paul Huck. I wasn’t thinking about Paul Huck at all. I was thinking about what had happened right after I’d agreed to allow Scott and Dave have their cabins stage a mini-invasion on mine. What had happened was, I had gone for my tutorial with Professor Le Blanc.
And I had ended up nearly getting fired.
Again.
And this time, it hadn’t been because I’d been making personal use of camp property, or teaching the kids risqué songs.
Then why, you ask? Why would the famous classical flutist Jean-Paul Le Blanc attempt to fire a totally hip—not to mention talented—individual like myself?
Because he had discovered my deepest secret, the one I hold closest to my heart… .
No, not that one. Not the fact that I am still very much in possession of my psychic gift. My
other
secret.
What happened was this.
Right after Scott and Dave and Ruth took off, I sauntered over to the practice room where I was supposed to have my lesson with Professor Le Blanc. He was in there, all right. I could tell by the pure, sweet tones emanating from the tiny room. The practice rooms are supposed to be soundproof, and they are … but only if you’re in one of the rooms. From the hallway, you can hear what’s going on behind the door.
And let me tell you, what was going on behind that door was some fine, fine Bach. We’re talking flute-playing so elegant, so assured, so … well, passionate, it almost brought tears to my eyes. You don’t hear that kind of playing in the Ernest Pyle High School Symphonic Orchestra, you get what I’m saying? I was so entranced, I didn’t even think to knock on the door to let the professor know I’d arrived. I never wanted that sweet music to end.
But it did end. And then the next thing I knew, the door to the practice room was opening, and Professor Le Blanc emerged. He was saying, “You have a gift. An extraordinary gift. Not to use it would be a crime.”
“Yes, Professor,” replied a bored voice that, oddly, I recognized.
I looked down, shocked that such lovely music had been coming from the flute of a student, and not the master.
And my jaw sagged.
“Hey, lesbo,” Shane said. “Shut the barn door, you’re lettin’ the flies in.”
“Ah,” Professor Le Blanc said, spying me. “You two know one another? Oh, yes, of course, Jessica, you are his counselor, I’d forgotten.
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