The Love That Split the World (4 page)

Dad nods, says nothing. Coach thinks
he’s
a man of few words, but I’d like to see him spend a day at the stables with Dad. Mom turns to me and assumes an expression filled with so much empathy I think her soul must hurt to make it: “Was that hard for you, to watch the dance team perform?”

“It was hard for me,” Dad interrupts quietly. “I thought Rachel Hanson’s eyeballs were going to pop out of her head. What do they call that stuff she does with her face?”

“Facials?” Megan says.

“I think they call that particular facial ‘sharting while doing a
grand jeté
,’” I say.

“Natalie,”
Mom says.

“When a horse makes that face, you know she’s in
fight-or-flight,” Dad muses.

“When Rachel dances, everyone’s in fight-or-flight,” Megan agrees thoughtfully.

Mom buries her face in her hands. “She comes from a broken home.”

“Yeah, so did War Horse and Seabiscuit, Mom. That’s no excuse.”

The school’s pitch-dark and cool, though still heavy with humidity. I look over the balcony down to the cafeteria and the wall of windows overlooking the lawn, and then, remembering this afternoon, I do a quick once-over of the shadowy foyer before taking off through the too-dark halls.

The farther I get from the doors, the more terrified I am to be alone in the dark. Grandmother’s voice echoes in my head with every step.
You need to be prepared for what’s coming
.

I spin through my locker combination, dig through the obsessively ordered rows of binders and memorabilia still left in there, stuff the phone charger into my purse, and turn to leave before the inevitable axe murderer arrives.

Something stops me.

Beautiful music, spilling down the dark hall from the band room.

I’ve been hearing the myth about the Band Room Phantom for the past four years, but whenever I’d thought about what I would do if confronted by its siren song, I certainly hadn’t pictured myself venturing toward it.

But there’s no ghost, I remind myself. There’s just a sneaky
senior, whom I must know, and a hauntingly beautiful song trailing un-self-consciously across the keys of a piano.

I creep down the hall and stand outside the wooden doors, just listening for a while. The song is sad, heartbreaking even, and I’m overcome with frustration that I don’t have a better word to describe it. It occurs to me then that Grandmother would. She’d have a whole story that would sound exactly like this song. I open the door as quietly as I can and slip inside.

The black grand piano sits in the far corner, heavily scuffed but still elegant. The person playing it hasn’t turned on a single light, which makes him hard to see. But if the broad shoulders and long, slightly dirty hair didn’t give him away, the paper bag sitting on top of the piano definitely would have.

Who the hell is this guy? Maybe he really
is
a being like Grandmother. Either way, I don’t want to interrupt the song. I stay close to the door with my head tipped back against its dewy surface as I listen and watch. His too-big hands travel gracefully over the keys, his too-big shoulders tensing under his worn-out T-shirt, and the image—a grizzly-bear-sized boy hunched over a piano, who shouldn’t be able to make the keys sing like that, so tenderly, so gratefully—would be funny if the song weren’t so arresting.

I close my eyes and think about all of Grandmother’s stories, finding the one that feels the most like this song.

4

“This story is true, girl,” Grandmother said. “So listen well.”

“You say that about all of them,” I argued. I was nine, and, so far, none of the stories had seemed true.

“They
have
all been true,” Grandmother said. “But you’ll think this one is truer than the rest.”

“So you mean it actually happened.”

“No story is truer than any other story that has the truth in its heart.”

“What are you even talking about?” I asked.

“Stories are born from our consciousness,” she said, lacing her fingers in her lap. “They come from the things we already know. They come from the things we learn from our ancestors and our kin. We all learn different things, depending on where we’re born, so the stories you hear will be different. So too the
things your kin decide to do will be different. So too the things
you
decide to do will be different. The way to make the best decisions is to listen to all the stories and to know them by heart and to feel them in your bones. You need to know, Natalie, that no story is truer than truth itself. All good stories and all our lives are born from that knowledge.”

“So, what’s the truth?”

“It’s hard to say. That’s why it’s so important to listen and to look both backward and forward at the threads that Grandmother Spider spins between things. You understand?”

“I never understand a word you say,” I told her.

She shrugged. “Well, anyway, you’ll like this one, because it happened, and a white guy in a frilly hat wrote it down and stamped it with wax to prove it. It starts in a place called Nee-ah-ga-rah, or if you like to say things in a stupid and wrong
way just for the hell of it, you could pronounce it Niagara—like Viagra. It means
thundering waters.”

“The waterfall?”

“The very same,” Grandmother said. “Nee-ah-ga-rah was a sacred place to the Seneca tribe, who believed the falls were a doorway to the spirit world, the Happy Hunting Grounds. When they went there, they could hear the roaring of a mighty spirit that dwelt in the waters.”

“You mean they could hear the water,” I said.

“Maybe,” Grandmother said.

“Definitely.”

“How do you know?”

“Because there are no spirits,” I said.

“How do you know?” she asked.

“Because my mom told me.”

“And what did your mom tell you about me?” she asked, and when I didn’t answer, she went on, with a touch of smugness. “Every year, the Seneca offered a sacrifice—a young maiden from within the tribe—to the great spirit of the falls, and it was considered a great honor to be chosen. The women would compete for the chance to be the one to lie in a white canoe that would pass over the falls into the spirit world. There, she would be with the rest of her kin and honored for her sacrifice.

“In 1679, there was a beautiful and strong woman named Lela-wala who wished to be chosen for that year’s sacrifice. Lela-wala was the daughter of the Seneca’s Chief Eagle Eye, and though his wife and other children had died years before, he blessed her decision, and Lela-wala was chosen for the sacrifice. There was also a French explorer named La Salle, who had been living among the Seneca for some time, working to convert them to Christianity, as was the custom of the time. When he learned of the tribe’s plans to sacrifice Lela-wala, he went to Chief Eagle Eye and the other leaders to beg them to withhold their sacrifice.

“But they would not be persuaded. One of the tribal leaders answered him, ‘Your words witness against you. You say that Christ sets us an example. We will follow it. Why should one sacrifice be great, and our sacrifice be terrible?’

“And so LaSalle went away, devastated and furious with Chief Eagle Eye. But he did not understand the Seneca or their ways. He did not see Chief Eagle Eye’s grief at his daughter’s decision, as the chief was a very brave man who had to honor his daughter and his tribe, despite how precious Lela-wala was
to him. While he was part of the great web of life and kin, both human and inhuman, she was the thing most dear to his heart that remained alive.

“On the day of sacrifice, the Seneca gathered on the riverbank to celebrate, feasting and singing and dancing, playing games and honoring ritual. When the time finally came for the white canoe to round the corner, everyone fell silent and watched as the little boat came into sight, decorated with fruits and flowers to honor Lela-wala’s life and her death, and the role both played in the tribe’s story.

“But when the boat entered the rush of the current, the tribe saw a second white canoe skirt out from beneath the trees on the far side of the river. Chief Eagle Eye’s grief had been so great that he had decided to join Lela-wala in her sacrifice. The current carried him swiftly toward the falls, and soon he was beside her.

“They looked at one another, their hands reaching out across the water that separated them, and the tribe lost their perfect serenity, a cry of both despair and gratitude rising up through them. Together, the two white canoes dropped over the falls, and the maiden and the chief slipped into the Happy Hunting Grounds, where they were changed into pure spirit, made whole and clean and strong.

“From then on, they lived beneath the falls, where the roaring sounds like quiet music.”

“You were wrong,” I said after a long silence.

Grandmother’s dark eyebrows flicked up, and her eyes brightened. “About what?”

“I didn’t like that story.”

“And you thought I was
never
wrong.”

I thought hard for a long minute. “Did Lela-wala and Eagle Eye
really
go to the Happy Hunting Grounds?”

She thought hard for a long minute. “I believe they did.”

“I’m scared to die,” I said.

“Even Jesus was scared to die, honey.”

“How do you know that?”

“I know everything.”

“Not
everything
.”

“Fine. I read it in a book, and I felt that it was true. Happy now?”

“And the girl who fell from the sky, she was scared when she jumped, wasn’t she?” I said, and Grandmother nodded.

“None of us is alone, Natalie. Her story is my story is your story.”

That’s what the song makes me think of, and I’m so deep in that memory that it takes me a second to surface when he stops playing, reaches for the bagged bottle on the piano, and takes another swig.

“That was beautiful,” I say, crossing the room, and he spins on the bench and spits out his mouthful across the carpet.

He drags one thick, suntanned arm across his mouth and says, “Who’re you?”

“Me?” I laugh. “Are you serious?”

Laughter comes spilling down the hall, and the boy grabs my arm and pulls me toward the back of the room. “Hey!” I object, trying to shake him off. “What are you doing?”

He whips back one of the curtains that cover two deep
window bays and an alcove full of stacks of chairs and metal music stands. He pushes me behind the curtain and steps in after me, just as I hear the doors creak open and the laughter spill inward. I recognize the voices immediately: Matt, Megan, Rachel, and Derek Dillhorn.

“Tonight’s the night,” Rachel says triumphantly. “We’re going to find that ghost.”

“Or we could go back out to the parking lot. Nat’s probably waiting for us by now,” Matt says.

“Let her wait,” Rachel says. “
I’m
not graduating without a good Band Room Ghost story.”

“Woo-
ooo
-ooo-
ooo
,” Derek says. “The ghost of a nerd—what could be scarier?”

“Okay, say what you will,” Rachel says, “but last summer at Matty’s birthday, I accidentally got drunk on Cinnabon Vodka with Kelly Schweitzer, and I made out with Wade Gordon, and I am
not
kidding—he was a really good kisser for someone who spends all his time with his mouth on a trombone.”

“As if you even remember,” Derek shoots back. “You threw up on him, and he still probably counts that as the best night of his life.”

“Omigod, I forgot about that.” Rachel breaks into hysterical laughter.

I look up at the boy, standing between the curtain and me. With the moonlight spilling in from the big window behind us, I can see him clearly now. He’s definitely the same guy from the field. As his eyes shift down to mine he lifts a finger to his lips, then lowers his mouth beside my ear and just barely whispers,
“Don’t wanna ruin their ghost
.”

He has the smile of a shy little kid, completely at odds with his serious hazel eyes, which are hard to imagine looking any way but mildly concerned. When he pulls back, I nod understanding.

Matt, Megan, and the others are still moving around the room, and the non-ghost and I seem to realize what’s going to give us away at the same time, because he points down to our feet. The curtain hangs almost to the floor, but not quite, and if my friends explore the room much longer, the myth of the Band Room Phantom is bound to get debunked.

He reaches over my shoulder to set his bottle down in the concave bay window behind me. His eyes meet mine, and his hands hover over my hips, silently offering to lift me into the bay. I nod, but when he picks me up, I feel myself blushing, my heart rushing from being so close to a stranger. And not just because he’s a stranger, but because about an hour ago I watched him looking up at the moon and I then listened to him playing that song, and now I’m close to
that
person.

His skin and shirt are warm, damp with perspiration, his hair soft on the side of my neck. His scent is a nice mix of grass and sweat and the sweet liquor in the bag.

He sets me down, and I shift silently until my back is flush against one side of the deep window bay. I mess with my ponytail just so I have something to do as he lifts himself up into the bay and leans back against the wall right across from me, his head tipped back and full lips parted.

For a while I try not to look at him, and every time I give in and do, he’s got that shy-kid smile, which makes me smile like an idiot in turn. It’s so embarrassing I look away, but when I look back, it happens again, only worse. Eventually I give up and
just let myself sit in the window well, staring at this complete stranger, smiling with all my teeth showing while my friends are talking behind a red curtain on the other side of the world.

The boy holds out his paper-bag-wrapped bottle, and I take it and sip, even though for all I know, he may have herpes or at least never brush his teeth. Whatever’s in the bottle, it’s syrupy and sour and makes me wince to swallow. When I open my eyes again, I see the boy’s big shoulders sort of shrug in a silent laugh. He takes the bottle back and holds it in his lap.

“Where do you think Natalie went?” The sound of Matt saying my name pulls me back to the conversation on the other side of the curtain.

“Natalie, Natalie, Natalie,” Rachel groans. “Seriously, Matty, don’t you know that ever since that girl got into Brown, she’s been waaaaay too good for all us little people in Union?”

“Oh, shut up,” Megan says. “Matt, she’s probably back out at her car by now.”

“Try calling her again,” Matt suggests.

My heart hammers in my chest as I dig through my purse. I manage to find my phone and set it to silent before Sheryl Crow and Stevie Nicks can give away my hideout by demanding to know, in sonorous volume, whether the whole world’s “strong enough to be my man.”

But my phone never lights up with a call alert, and Megan says, “Straight to voice mail.”

I look down at the screen, expecting to see that I don’t have service, but according to the little bar icons, I do. Piece of junk.

“Maybe rather than waste another minute with us, she just started
walking
to Rhode Island,” Rachel says. “Maybe she’s so
smart she already built a hover car to take her.”

“Or she could’ve summoned a horse spirit,” Derek says.

“You guys suck,” Megan says. “Let’s go back to the parking lot, Matt.”

“Oh, we’re just kidding,” Derek says. “You know we love Natalie.”

They’re still talking, but the door has creaked open, and I hear it swinging shut again over their voices. I listen as their conversation recedes down the hall, and, for a long moment, the boy and I don’t move or speak. I have a hard time even looking up at him. I don’t really care what Rachel or Derek say about me, but I’m a little embarrassed that they said it in front of a stranger I now have to talk to.

Finally I meet his eyes again, and after a long moment of silence, he dips his chin and says, “Hi.”

I laugh, but it comes out a little quiet and a little strange. Maybe that’s just because it’s dark and we’re still sitting pretty close together. “Hi.”

He holds the bottle out to me again, and I take it even though whatever’s inside it tastes disgusting. I down another sip with difficulty that I try to hide but surely don’t. His thick eyebrows quirk, and the corner of his mouth shifts up, amused, and I pass the bottle back to him.

“Keep it,” he says, leaving his hands loose in his lap. “I think you like it more than I do.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” I wheeze.

He laughs again and takes the bottle, looking at it as though trying to read the label through the paper bag. “Yeah, it’s pretty bad.”