The music buildings were essentially a row of temporary trailers lifted from the ground by ugly blocks of cement and connected to an unreliable, rickety generator. The district had always intended to build a more permanent arts building—or so they said—but Gavin liked the hollow sound of his footsteps as he walked up the ramp to the doors, and the way the quiet seemed to seal him in when he closed the aluminum door.
For the past three and a half years the practice rooms had provided an odd sort of sanctuary: soundproofed and separated from the main buildings of the school by a long stretch of grass used for phys ed classes, it was where Gavin would go when he was mad at House for one reason or another, when he’d broken up with a girl or she’d broken up with him, or when he simply found people and their general assholery too much to bear and needed to really feel alone. Even now, when he was starting to suspect he wasn’t ever really by himself, it was quiet enough inside the practice rooms to feel as if he were.
It wasn’t that he was avoiding Delilah exactly, more that he wasn’t sure what to say. He didn’t know what had happened yesterday. He was still reeling himself and couldn’t quite get past the look of terror on her face, the way she’d been so scared she couldn’t even turn the doorknob to get out. Gavin wanted to apologize, and he wanted to explain.
The problem was, he had no idea what to say.
It was only a matter of time before Delilah realized he wasn’t coming to class and would slip out, determined to find him. Which wasn’t a bad thing, really—Gavin couldn’t think of much he’d enjoy more than getting a few moments alone with her, but he was no closer to an answer now than he’d been last night.
Had House ever reacted that way before? Gavin tried to think back but couldn’t recall anything. Neighbors had always steered clear of House; trick-or-treaters walked straight past its gate. Door-to-door salespeople might stand on the sidewalk outside, narrowing their eyes as they peered up through the wrought-iron bars and tangle of vines, but they never came any closer. The only people who came to the door were deliverymen bringing packages, the occasional doctor making a house call, Dave with his grocery delivery, and now Delilah. Gavin’s friends were the kind he would talk to in class occasionally, or stand near during PE. He didn’t have any who would think to come over after school or on the weekend; he didn’t have relatives to speak of. It had been only him and House for most of his life. It had never seemed strange until now.
He’d never imagined when or where he would move someday. At nearly eighteen, he barely thought beyond the next week. But he also never believed House expected him to live there forever, alone.
After last night. . . he wasn’t so sure.
Gavin didn’t know much about religion—it seemed a thing people pulled out when they needed and disregarded when it suited their purpose—but he remembered finding an old Bible wedged under a loose board in his bathroom. A marble had fallen to the floor and rolled beneath the wooden armoire before he could reach it. It was his favorite—an oxblood swirl—and so he’d crawled over to get it, cheek pressed to the cool wood and arm stretched into the dusty shadows. His fingers had stumbled along the groove where two planks had lifted, and he’d felt the worn leather and embossed pages. He’d marveled over his secret find, somehow knowing he wasn’t supposed to have it. The paper was so thin, like flower petals, and he wondered how something could seem so sturdy and also so delicate.