Page 24 of Disharmony

“You should do it,” Cookie encourages, then whispers in my ear, “You want them off your back, don’t you? Give them what they want, and show them why you’re here.”

Her words give me something else to consider. I have been offered a scholarship to develop my vocals, but nothing in the contract outlined that I have to perform how McCallister wants me to at social events. Although I’m not dumb enough to fully be myself, I can pick a song I actually like to sing.

“Fine,” I say, accepting Tiffany’s challenge. “Pass me the guitar.”

“You’ll do great.” Cookie squeezes my arm in support. “Go kick some acoustic ass.”

Let’s prove the fuckers wrong.

I’m going to sing one of my all-time favorites—definitely not something you’ll hear on mainstream radio, but a song with power and meaning. The lyrics perfectly portray how it feels to be an outsider when you’re standing in a room of people.

Lion Slayeris one of the lesser-known songs from the Basilisks first album. Some of their fans don’t like it because it’s softer than their usual material, but that’s why I love it. They show a different side to themselves in the record, an added vulnerability. They make me feel like I can do anything—even wiping the smug smirk off Tiffany Lockhart’s flawless face.

I sit on a rock in front of the fire, and the campers fall into a hushed silence. My fingers find the strings, then I allow the music to flow effortlessly out of me. As I’m strumming and plucking, I go to a world in my own head and forget about the people surrounding me. I recite every word as easily as breathing and, as the song progresses, my worries melt away. I let the music speak for itself and hope I’m doing it the justice it deserves.

A deathly silence follows as I stop playing. The water laps at the shore and the fire crackles at my side, then Conor shatters it with a cheer. Others join in. Among the unfamiliar faces, Tiffany claps along politely but her narrowed eyes say otherwise. This isn’t the result she’d been hoping for.

“Thanks.” I smile awkwardly as the cheering dies down. I’ve never been great at accepting compliments. I hold up the guitar, desperate to slink away from their scrutiny. “Well, who’s next?”

A shy young-looking guy steps forward. I assume he’s a new camper too, he isn’t in our singing class, which means he picked a different specialty. Although, most musicians here can do it all.

“But he’s a first-year!” Tiffany objects. “First-years don’t sing, and he’s not even a vocalist.”

“So?” I challenge, passing him the guitar. Tiffany is livid, but resists having a complete meltdown under Zach’s watchful eye. “This is about having fun, right?”

“Thanks.” The kid grins, taking my spot. “I’m gonna sing an original.”

“Woah…” Cookie says as I re-join her and the others to watch the rest of the show. “You gave me goosebumps.”

“Was that one of your songs?” Conor asks. “I didn’t recognize it.”

“It was a cover,” I reply. My cell buzzes in my pocket and stops me from elaborating. I check the caller ID. “I’ll be right back, I’ve gotta take this. It’s my dad.”

If I don’t, he might shrink his clothes or burn the house down.

* * *

I walk further away from the party and into the forest to try to find a better signal. As beautiful as Camp Harmony is, the reception is terrible because we’re in the middle of nowhere.

“Hello?” I say for the fifth time. We managed to talk for ten minutes, but the line is getting worse. “Dad? Can you hear me?”

I wave my phone in the air to see if it makes a difference.

It doesn’t.

If we can’t reconnect, I’ll have to call him on the camp phone tomorrow to catch up properly. I noticed earlier that there’s one in the Administration Block.

As I make my way deeper into the cluster of trees, twigs snap behind me.

Shit.

Dad took me camping every summer when I was a kid. He enjoyed going on our outdoor trips and showed me how to take care of myself in the wilderness. We did everything from starting fires to foraging for food. There shouldn’t be any bears around, right?

I gasp as a shadowy figure steps out from behind a tree trunk. “Fuck!”

“Sorry,” the figure says. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

It’s Damon Archer.

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