Free There Will Come a Time by Carrie Arcos Page A

kid. A sophomore. Not too tall, but not short either. I probably only have two inches on him. Black nails. Eyeliner. Looks like he’s going for early glam rock/punk, more Ramones than Autistic Youth. I remember when Brandon transferred last year. He’s a good musician. This year we’re in orchestra together, but we’ve never really had a conversation.
    â€œHis head cracked open,” he continues. “Sounded kind of like a watermelon splitting. That’s what they use for the sound effects in zombie movies, you know. My uncle works in the industry. The school cleaned everything up, but . . . blood stains.”
    â€œYeah,” I say, and back away from the edge. “Blood, it stains.”
    â€œName was Ryan.”
    Then I get it. “Were you friends with him?”
    â€œBingo.”
    â€œSorry.”
    Brandon places the cello between his legs. “You never know what a person is going through. Ryan seemed like he was fine, and then I guess he wasn’t.” He holds his bow over the strings and begins to play warm, deep notes.
    â€œHave you thought about it?”
    He shrugs. “Everyone thinks about it sometime, but only the insane do it. No offense, man.”
    â€œI don’t think about it,” I lie. I don’t as much as I used to.The more time passes, the more my self-preservation instinct seems to have kicked in.
    Brandon continues to play. I look out at the skyscrapers in the distance and wonder why I’ve never brought my bass up here. Brandon shifts now to Bach, one of the pieces we’re working on in class.
    â€œSebastian played me a new track this morning and it’s pretty sick,” I say. “Thought I might lay some bass over it. Cello would be a nice touch.”
    As if on cue, the door to the stairs opens and Sebastian and Pete burst through.
    â€œTold you he’d be here,” Pete says. “Santos, we’ve got your food.”
    He places a white paper bag in my hands. “Thanks.” I pull out one of the tacos, unwrap the foil, and take a bite. So cheap. So simple. So good.
    â€œHey, Brandon,” Sebastian says.
    â€œHey.” He stops playing.
    â€œI’m Pete.” Pete holds out his hand to Brandon. They shake.
    â€œBrandon.”
    â€œWhat’re you doing?” Sebastian asks.
    â€œJust messing around,” Brandon says. “Mark says you’ve been working on some new beats?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œBeats? What beats?” Pete asks.
    Sebastian pulls out his phone and lets us listen to what he played me this morning. Brandon starts to softly play along, and I can hear the beginnings of a piece.
    â€œYou could add the cello,” Brandon says to me as if he hears what I’m composing in my head.
    I nod. “Cello, bass, beats.”
    Sebastian, Brandon, and I keep listening to the track, moving our heads to the music.
    â€œI have an idea,” Pete says. His eyes are all lit up and huge. “It’ll be perfect. You know how I’m doing a fashion show, right?”
    We all give him a blank look.
    â€œSeriously? It’s for my senior thesis. I’m getting a big block of time during the winter talent show.”
    The talent show at our school is a big deal. It’s not some free-for-all where you’re embarrassed for the people on the stage. Students really get to shine. Sure, there are recitals and concerts and plays that each artistic discipline puts on throughout the year, but the talent show is strictly run by students, and there are serious auditions. It sells out every year, so it’s also a major fundraiser for the school.
    â€œYou three are going to supply the music,” Pete says.
    Sebastian and Brandon keep nodding their heads. “Cool,” they both say.
    I don’t know if I want to be roped into one of Pete’s performances. There’s the time factor, along with having to engage with others. “I don’t know,