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Tillie steps closer and wraps her fingers around the neck, handing it to me. “Play something!”
I shake my head. “I can’t. I don’t know who owns it. Instruments are sacred to their owners.”
Tillie waves me off. “Well, don’t worry about anything haunting you. You’re not just a Vitiosis, but you are Bran’s. You are untouchable. And on top of that, your brother is a big bad wolf, and well, your sister is pretty badass, too. So, play something!” She shoves the guitar toward me again, and I finally reach forward to take it.
“Fine, but just one.”
Tillie flashes me a full-tooth smile and leans on the teacher’s desk.
I take a seat on a chair in the front row and run my fingers through the strings. “It’s tuned. Weird.”
“Literally the least weird thing about this world. Trust me.”
My mouth opens and I softly sing the opening to “I See Fire,” the version from the movie The Hobbit. Hitting Ed’s notes has always been easy for me. My fingers move across the strings as I start, influencing the sound in a pattern they’re so used to moving to. As I continue to play, a smile remains passive on my stretched lips. Even when the guitar picks up in the original song, I jam it out. My voice gets a little louder when I have to hit the higher notes Ed does in this particular verse of the song, but I continue, eyes on the ground so I don’t lose focus. When I bring them up to Tillie, her mouth is open in shock, but her eyes are glassy. I laugh a little around my singing as I push through the song fluently.
I love this song so much. It was one of the first covers I played after that night with Brantley showing up with blood on his body. I heard it on the radio and the words hit me in places that only Brantley had stamped his name on. The next day, I found a YouTube channel that broke down the notes of the song. I knew how to play it that same day. Ever since then, it has always been the first thing my body gravitates to anytime I’m near a guitar.
“Fiiiireeeee…” I belt off the end of the song. Tillie unleashes a loud squeal, covering her mouth quickly after, like she’s embarrassed she even exposed such a feminine side.
“Oh my fucking God!” She swipes the tears on her cheeks. “I swear I’m not usually this emotional. The hormones…”
Placing the guitar on the floor, my smile splits into a full-blown grin. “That song actually—”
Tillie’s eyes go over my shoulder. “Did you hear that?”
I spin around and catch Brantley, Bishop, and Eli at the door.
Eli’s lips are curled between his teeth as if he’s fighting not to say something smart, and Bishop’s mouth is curved upward.
It’s Brantley that’s making me uneasy. Again. His mood swings make my brain fuzzy. His eyes are on mine. “That’s cute.” He nudges his head. “Come on, we’re going.”
“Bran Bran!” Tillie scolds him. “Rude, much? Eli, what did you think, baby boy?”
“I think—” Eli says boldly, a smile on his face. His eyes go to Bran and that smile instantly fades. “I think I really like my pretty face, so I’m not going to say jack shit.”
“You’re real cute, too, Little Terror. Nate!” Brantley calls over his shoulder. “Come get your woman before she finds herself lost again…”
Tillie flips him off. “Ouch, asshole. You know I’m a hormonal mess.”
“Not my fucking problem.” He shrugs. Tillie’s shoulder bumps him when she strolls past. Brantley points to the guitar. “Bring it.”
I shake my head. “I can’t take this! It belongs to this school!”
His jaw flexes. “Nate owns this fucking school. Take the damn guitar.”
I do, wrapping my fingers around the neck. When I’m almost toe to toe with him, I tilt my head. “What do you mean he owns this school?”
He folds his arms in front of his chest, running his hand over his chin. It is a strange gesture. I say strange because Brantley doesn’t usually fidget. He doesn’t have nervous habits or traits. “His mom’s family owns it. It will be his once Bishop takes the gavel. He and Tillie will be taking over once it reopens.”
How strange that these people who can’t be more than a few years older than me own extravagant things. Big things. Like a damn school.
We’re walking back through the hallway and down the stairs when Brantley takes a turn to the right, heading for the large room that is behind the reception area. “Are we not leaving?”
He shakes his head. “Unfortunately, not.”
We’re near the glass doors when I notice burned orange flames roaring roguishly through the dark of the night. Music spills out beneath the cracks of the doors as he reaches for the handle.