Chapter 22: BAND ROOM
The hallways were empty after practice, that particular quiet that settled over schools when the last bell had rung and most students had fled for freedom.
I should have been heading to the parking lot. The Camaro was waiting, and there was training to do at the quarry—range work, shaping exercises, all the incremental progress that would eventually make the difference between survival and death. But my feet had other ideas, carrying me deeper into the school instead of toward the exit.
That's when I heard the music.
Not the usual high school band fare—marching tunes and pep rally anthems, the kind of stuff that made me want to stuff cotton in my ears. This was something else entirely. Jazz, complex and fluid, the kind of playing that required years of practice and genuine talent.
I followed the sound down a corridor I hadn't explored yet, past classrooms with their lights off and doors closed, until I reached a door marked BAND ROOM. Through the small window, I could see her.
A girl, maybe my age, standing alone in the empty room with a trumpet pressed to her lips. She played like she was the only person in the world—eyes closed, body swaying slightly with the rhythm, completely absorbed in the music.
I knew who she was. Not personally, not yet, but from another life. Robin Buckley. Future Scoops Ahoy employee, future member of the Scoops Troop, future key player in the Starcourt Battle. One of Steve's closest friends, though they hadn't met yet.
One of the smartest people in Hawkins, though nobody seemed to notice.
The piece she was playing was familiar—a Miles Davis standard, something my old life had appreciated during a brief jazz phase in my late twenties. Not exactly Top 40 material. Not exactly what you'd expect from a small-town Indiana teenager.
I opened the door.
The music stopped mid-note. She turned, trumpet still raised, expression shifting from surprise to annoyance.
"This room is reserved."
"Door was open."
"It wasn't."
We stared at each other. She was taller than I expected, with short hair and sharp eyes that seemed to be cataloguing every detail about me. Assessing. Judging. Coming to conclusions I probably wouldn't like.
Then she smirked. "Let me guess—jock lost on the way to the gym?"
"Followed the music, actually." I stepped further into the room, letting the door close behind me. "Miles Davis. 'So What.' Good choice."
That surprised her. The smirk faded, replaced by something more curious. "Most people here think music stops at Top 40."
"Most people are boring."
She laughed—a short, sharp sound that seemed surprised out of her. "Robin Buckley." She lowered the trumpet, but didn't put it away. Keeping her weapon ready, in case this conversation went somewhere she didn't like.
"Billy Hargrove."
"The California guy." Her head tilted, studying me. "Everyone's scared of you, you know. The rumors say you're dangerous. Violent. Got kicked out of your last school for something terrible."
"Do I look scary?"
"Honestly?" She considered the question seriously. "You look like you're pretending not to be scary. Which is almost more interesting."
Smart. Dangerously smart. The kind of smart that noticed things other people missed and filed them away for later use.
"Can I sit?" I gestured toward an empty chair in the trumpet section. "I won't interrupt. Just want to listen."
Robin studied me for another long moment. Whatever test I was being subjected to, I apparently passed, because she nodded toward the chair.
"Don't touch anything. And don't applaud. I hate applause."
"Deal."
I sat down. The chair was uncomfortable—standard-issue school furniture, designed for function rather than comfort—but it was better than standing. And it put me at her level instead of looming over her.
Robin raised the trumpet again, hesitated, then started a different piece. Something slower, more contemplative. Chet Baker, maybe, or someone from that era. The notes filled the empty room, bouncing off the acoustic panels on the walls, creating the kind of intimate sound that live music always had over recordings.
I let myself enjoy it. The fire in my chest settled into something calmer, responding to the music the way it sometimes responded to other peaceful moments. A pilot light dimmed to embers, still present but not demanding attention.
The piece ended. Robin lowered her trumpet and looked at me.
"You didn't fidget."
"Should I have?"
"Most people do. Jocks especially. They don't understand sitting still for something that isn't sports."
"I'm not most people."
"So I'm gathering." She started disassembling her trumpet, movements practiced and efficient. "What's your angle, Hargrove? New kid, trying to make friends with the weird band girl? Some kind of bet with your basketball buddies?"
"No angle. No bet." I shrugged. "I like music. I heard good music. I followed it."
"That simple?"
"That simple."
She didn't believe me—I could see it in her eyes—but she didn't push further. Instead, she packed her trumpet into its case with the same careful attention she'd applied to playing it.
"You know what I've noticed about you?" she asked, not looking up from her work.
"I'm sure you're going to tell me."
"You don't fit." She snapped the case closed. "Your reputation says one thing—California bad boy, dangerous, aggressive. But you walk around school like you're trying not to be noticed. You don't start fights. You don't chase girls. You sit in the back of class and watch everyone like you're studying a documentary."
I kept my expression neutral. "Maybe I'm tired of living up to expectations."
"Maybe." She picked up her case, met my eyes. "Or maybe you're hiding something. I haven't figured out which yet."
"Let me know when you do."
"Oh, I will." A small smile. "I'm very good at figuring things out."
She headed for the door. I stayed in my chair, processing the conversation. Robin Buckley was going to be a problem—not in the hostile sense, but in the "might see through my cover story" sense. She was too observant, too curious, too smart to accept surface explanations.
She was also, potentially, an invaluable ally. The same qualities that made her dangerous also made her useful. When the supernatural chaos hit—and it would hit—having someone like Robin in my corner could make all the difference.
"Same time tomorrow?" I called after her.
She paused at the door, didn't turn around. "Room's usually empty after five."
Not a yes. Not a no. An invitation disguised as information.
I'd take it.
The walk to the Camaro gave me time to think. Robin Buckley was a new variable in the equation—someone I hadn't planned to engage with this early, but who'd presented herself through pure chance. The music had drawn me in, and now I had a connection that could be cultivated or abandoned as circumstances required.
I chose cultivation. Robin was worth knowing. Worth trusting, eventually, when I understood how much she could handle.
The quarry was waiting. Training called. But for the first time since arriving in Hawkins, I felt like I'd made progress on something other than fire.
Human connection. The foundation everything else was built on
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