Tuning


It was awful…
And it was okay.


Leaving Nate’s side for the first time since they were reunited on Hannibal’s doorstep was awful, and each consecutive look back made Cam’s feet heavier, as if he were walking in cement. The sound when he found himself in a strange building with humming fluorescent lights and hundreds of other boys and girls his age all shuffling belongings and talking was awful. The way his hand shook and the thick paper class schedule was marked with sweaty fingerprints was awful.
The way everyone was too wrapped up in their own business to notice him was okay. With green eyes downcast, he moved through the hall in search of the first classroom. H12.
The entirety of the day was assigned “awful” and “okay” with an attitude that was almost detached. Hannibal Lecter-esque. Though Cam meant to present these to Nate at the end of the day, he was more likely to be relating them in his next therapy session.
Homeroom was awful, if only because fifteen minutes after the trauma of seating (sit wherever you want! Eased somewhat by the fact that he was the first one in the room) and learning basically nothing about what would be expected of them class during that block of time, it was on to the next classroom hunt.
First period was awful. It was English, room T7. The lesson’s difficulty paled in comparison to the task of actually finding the class. Unlike the BSHCI, the school’s lettered halls rambled in a fashion common to buildings that had been expanded over time. The A-K buildings were set up predictably, but after that they grew haphazard. Cam’s strategy—locating the Z rooms and working his way back, since it was closer in the alphabet to T—failed on the simple principal that there were no Z rooms. He’d been late as a result, blushing and flustered in the doorway even as the teacher ushered him in. “There aren’t any tardy cards the first week—just take an empty seat.”
Second period, history, was okay. Cam had flipped through a textbook while the teacher ran through the syllabus and was pleased to recognize practically everything he saw.
Third period, Algebra, was also bearable. The teacher had already assigned seats by last name and the boy in front of Cam seemed kind, although a long-time friend sitting to his left kept the Asian boy from being overly friendly to the newcomer.
Life Science was awful. Cam began fourth period with a knot of apprehension in his stomach so big it actually began to ache. The resemblance between his teacher and Doctor Peters was slight, and potentially imaginary, but it made him fumble when it was his turn to stand up and say his name to the class. He said Lecter first, then stammered his given name as a hasty amendment before sitting back down, red-faced.
The extravagant lunch Hannibal had sent was eaten in seclusion by choice, and therefore okay, even as he pined for his fathers, his brothers, for his sister and home.
Fifth—PE—was a foregone conclusion. Cam’s knees hadn’t seen the sun much even during the summer, but the process of dressing out with the other boys didn’t bother him nearly as much as it did some of the others. It was only when he’d have to pair up and play on teams with these boys would their vast difference in attitude potentially become a problem.
Finally, at the end of an utterly exhausting series of relocations, came a rather unpleasant discovery. The classroom where he would spend his final hour wasn’t really a classroom like the others—mainly, the band room had no windows. Cam glanced rather anxiously at the clock, knowing that even if Nate did wave at all the windows like he promised, there was no way Cam could see. Crushed and exhausted, he took a random chair in the back of the room.
There were no desks, just a piano set up at the front of the room. The teacher paced beside it. Mr. Abel, according to the schedule. He was short, gray, and bearded—and Cam disliked him even before he spoke.
“Drummers in back, everyone else come to the front of the room!”
It occurred to Cam then that he had no idea what he was supposed to be doing here, except that it didn’t include a triangle or bass drum. Reluctantly dragging his chair closer to the front, he watched as Mr. Abel scribbled names down on a clipboard in a particularly haphazard fashion. That was why the man bothered him, he decided—the sudden, jerky movements.
“Instrument? Adamski, Cameron? Instrument?” That clipboard was suddenly gesticulating at him.
“Cam…just Cam.” He cast a nervous look around the room. “My dad’s taught me a few keys on the piano…”
One or two of his new classmates smirked. The one Mr. Abel had addressed as Underwood, Phoenix muttered ‘keys? Please’ under his breath. He bore a faint resemblance to James, but his longish hair was a whiter blond and it stopped there. Before Cam could bristle much at the statement, however, Mr. Abel reclaimed his attention with a dry cough.
“I play the piano, the ensemble has other holes to fill. You have no other experience?” Cam gave a small nod. “Our brass section is looking a little weak. Move back there, and I’ll see what I can do about a school instrument.”
Right next to Phoenix…perfect. Although, the boy’s derision didn’t seem to extend to hostility. He remained wordless as Cam pulled up a chair beside him, setting up a trombone that had seen better days.
“So which is it?”
“…what?” Cam turned, half sure that the girl who had spoken up wasn’t actually talking to him. She dragged a case identical to Phoenix’s over and smiled at Cam. “Adamski, or Lecter?”
Oh…that explained why she looked familiar. Life Science. Cam forced a return smile. “Adamski...it’s a bit confusing. I’m adopted.”
“Phoenix is adopted, too.” Something clicked in Cam’s head when the girl smirked, noticing a resemblance between the two. Fraternal twins. “At least I wish he was. I’m Underwood, Grace.”
“Hi.”
After the awkward pause that had ended most of his conversations that day, the brunette cleared her throat. “It’s just Grace, if you want.” Then, sparing him any prolonged eye contact, she bent over to open her trombone case and started assembling it.
“And I’m just Cam.” Any further discussion was ended as Mr. Abel shoved a battered case into Cam’s hands, but the smile lingered on his face. The minute hand had crawled another slice past 1:30 before he remembered to look up and check; the pang he felt very small. Just under half an hour more and he would be done with the day. He’d survived. Learning to assemble and reassemble the unwieldy saxophone wasn’t as hard as it looked.
He didn’t realize he might have made a friend. Not yet. For now, he was pleased that he had spoken to someone without sounding like he’d spent half his life in a mental hospital. It wouldn’t even be half his life, soon. Years out would outnumber years in on his next birthday.
In a little over four days, he would turn thirteen. In a little under four months, he would become a murderer.

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