"Think they'll be expelled?"

"I hope not." Treasa wrings her hands and squirms in her seat. "This is all my fault." Her shoulders sag and tears roll down her face. I hate it when girls cry-I never know what to do. Would comforting her seem patronizing? Would not comforting her make me an a.s.shole? I slide closer on the piano stool but don't touch her.

"It's not your fault."

"Oh, it is." She chokes back a sob and looks up at me with such heartbreak in her eyes that I can't help but put my arm around her.

"How is it your fault?"

She rests her head on my shoulder and takes a wobbly breath. "Jordan and Hannah have always been at each other, name-calling and so on. Recently, Hannah spread a nasty rumor about Jordan around Cosmas, so I...." She shudders. My shirt is wet with her tears.

"So you what, Treasa?"

"Remember what Dirk said about Hannah?"

"How could I forget?"

"Yeah, so I sort of started a rumor of my own to get back at Hannah for Jordan."

"And then Hannah destroyed Jordan's art?" Girls can be pa.s.sive-aggressive b.i.t.c.hes.

"I thought she'd get revenge on me, not Jordan. This is all my fault." She hiccups and starts crying again.

"No, it's not." I kiss her hair, wishing it was still red. "You didn't force Hannah to do what she did. You didn't even know she'd do it. The situation was beyond your control. Totally not your fault."

She presses the heels of her hands into her eyes. "I should've known, though."

"You couldn't have known she'd do this." I don't know what else to say to make her feel better.

"Maybe." Treasa eases away from me. Her eyes are puffy and bloodshot, her cheeks pale, making the freckles stand out more than usual. I kiss her gently on the lips, and she smiles. "I don't think I can play today." Her hands are shaking.

"Actually...." An idea ignites. "Do you think I could play something for you?"

"Sure." She scoots off the piano stool to stand in the corner. "A new piece?"

"Just let me know what you think, honestly."

"Always."

She chews on a cuticle, and I turn to the keys. Somehow, memorizing my own compositions is never a problem. As soon as I've got the music written down, that's it. It's locked in my memory. The first movement goes smoothly, even though I take the syncopated sections slower than my own tempo indication. The piece goes well, and the modulations sound as good out loud to an audience as they did in my head and empty house. Treasa even claps at the end.

"More?" she asks.

"The second movement isn't finished yet."

"Wait, this is your own composition?" She stares, wide-eyed.

"Ja." Now it's my turn to squirm as I rub the back of my neck. My hair is too long. It's making me sweat.

"Even if it's not finished, could you play me just a little? Second movements are my favorites."

With a smile, I turn back to the piano and start playing. The music unspools beneath my fingers and s.n.a.t.c.hes of melody coalesce into a theme I haven't written yet, unraveling from the dissonance of the Tristan chords peppering the movement. Must be Treasa's presence inspiring me. The music runs out a section before the end, and I diminuendo toward the last unresolved chord.

"Play it again." She perches next to me on the stool. I do, and Treasa starts to hum a descant over the notes of my right hand. Why is the most beautiful music always so sad? She continues to hum, and I scramble to accompany her with chords. She trails off after an augmented fourth.

"Should've recorded that."

"If you forget it, I can just hum it again." She smiles. "Your piece is beautiful. Does it have a name?" There are fresh tears in her eyes.

"Not yet."

"I love those dissonant chords."

"Tristan chords."

"What?" She stares at me with eyes the size of flying saucers.

"Tristan chords, named after the leitmotif used by Wagner in Tristan und Isolde Tristan und Isolde." I play the notes of the chord. "Augmented intervals."

"Diabolus in musica," Treasa says.

"That's an augmented fourth. This is an augmented sixth." I play both intervals, ill.u.s.trating the difference. "But I think the augmented fourth is my favorite."

"You are so talented. G.o.d, if I had a quarter of your ability." She bites her bottom lip and looks at me with something close to awe, and it makes my skin p.r.i.c.kle.

"This is nothing special. Not compared to Scriabin or Rachmaninoff."

"Stop being so self-deprecating. You're brilliant and you know it."

I wish I had her confidence in me. Before I can stop myself, I lean in and kiss her. She kisses me back, opening her mouth to mine. She tastes like tears, and I wrap my arms around her. I get hard and ease away from her before I embarra.s.s myself. I smile and she licks her lips. All I want to do is spend the afternoon with Treasa, composing while she sits next to me, fueling my muse. Now I can understand why that guy in The Red Violin The Red Violin could only compose when surrounded by beautiful women. could only compose when surrounded by beautiful women.

"Can I ask you something?" she says.

"Depends."

Her forehead puckers in a frown, and she fiddles with the hem of her skirt. "When you kiss me, do you, I don't know... feel different? Weird? Like maybe see stuff?" She keeps her gaze on the piano keys.

"Um, see stuff?" The penny drops, and I chuckle. "You mean like how the girls Resa kisses see stuff, alien stuff?"

Her scarlet face is answer enough.

"You really think you're an alien?" Sort of cute, mostly troubling. Please let Treasa not be a head case.

"Forget it." There's unexpected bitterness in her tone, and I grab her hand as she stands up to leave.

"Hey, wait. I'm sorry. Just sit for a minute." She slides back down, keeping her gaze averted.

"So you really think aliens walk among us?" I ask gently.

"You've read Strieber's books, Hanc.o.c.k's. You think they're making it all up?" She glances at me, her blue eyes twin cobalt marbles.

"Honestly, I have no idea. I guess it's possible."

"Sometimes I just feel like that's the only explanation for...." She catches herself and clenches her jaw.

"For what?" Bells and whistles shrill in my ears that Treasa might've forgotten to take her meds this morning.

"For sometimes feeling like I don't belong."

"At St. Bridget's?"

"At school, in this country, in this body, on this planet!" She wrings her hands then turns to me and forces a grin. "You must think I'm crazy."

I take a while to answer, wanting to frame my words just right. She's opened up to me, and I should return the gesture, but there are some things I just can't talk about.

"I feel like that too sometimes. Like I should be someone else and not me."

"Exactly." This time her smile is genuine, and I want to kiss her again. We're about to take a giant leap toward being in a relationship, which means sharing truths and secrets about ourselves, which means telling Treasa the truth about my mom, which means toppling off that pedestal and turning into splinters. I can't do it.

"Treasa, I've got to go."

"Gabriel." She tugs on a strand of her hair nervously. "Would you like to come over for lunch on Sunday?"

"You mean, like, to your house?" To meet the parents? I never even met Karla's parents.

"My mom has this thing about wanting to get to know you better. It's stupid. Forget about it." She heads for the door.

"No, it's okay." I hold the door open for her and follow her out into the afternoon sunshine. The southern horizon is black with storm clouds.

"Really?"

"Why not?" Because this brings us precariously close to being an official couple.

"I'll SMS you details."

"Perfect." I choke on the word as we stroll toward the car park together. "Did you watch Project Blue Book Project Blue Book this week?" I ask while we wait for our lifts. this week?" I ask while we wait for our lifts.

"Oh my G.o.d, yes. How cool are Resa's new powers? Imagine being able to project a force field like that. If I were an alien, I'd like to be one like that and not a Klingon or member of the Borg."

"You're into Star Trek Star Trek?"

"If you give me a Vulcan salute, I'll punch you."

I laugh, and she squints up at the sky.

"You think Resa'll ever get back to Kazar?" she asks.

"I think the big irony of the story is that by the time he can go home, he won't want to." We share a complicated look, her gaze boring right through me. I'm about to apologize for saying the wrong thing-even though I'm not sure I have-when she sighs and turns her attention back to the parking lot as her mom's Toyota pulls up.

"See you Sunday," she says with a wave.

"What about Sat.u.r.day?"

"Jordan's grounded," she calls over her shoulder, as if that explains everything.

A blue Honda Civic pulls in as the Toyota turns out of the gate. I'm still waiting for Dirk's Beetle, so it takes a minute to realize why I recognize the car. Jean-Pierre. Seeing him annihilates all thoughts of Treasa and aliens. It takes me another minute to get over the shock of seeing my brother and command my feet to walk.

"Howzit, boet boet?" JP says as I open the car door.

"What are you doing here?"

"Get in and I'll explain."

At least JP's car is air-conditioned, although I'd rather have to suffer the cigarette swelter of Dirk's Beetle if it means avoiding the techno c.r.a.p JP insists is music.

"Did something happen to Dad?"

"Nothing like that. Don't worry." JP offers me chewing gum and I accept. Better to be chewing on something rather than grinding my teeth together.

"How's life?" he asks.

"Fine. Yours?"

"Can't complain." He gives me a sideways glance and punches my shoulder. "Looking good, boet. You been hitting the gym?"

"Karate."

"Girlfriends?"

"No. You?" I say it too quickly, and JP grins.

"Ja, still with Mich.e.l.le. How's school?"

"Why are you here?" There's no way my brother drives up from Stellenbosch just to play catchup with me, considering our shared DNA is the only thing we have in common.

"Dad called."

"About what?"

"You." He pulls up to a red light, and I try to keep my hypervigilance to a minimum, but he notices. "You still freaking out at robots?"

"No."

"Let's go get a drink." He does an illegal U-turn and heads in the opposite direction of home.

"I'm in uniform."

"No one will see us."