Read Online Between the Bridge and the River by Craig Ferguson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Craig Ferguson
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The other regulars of detention were also present: Geary McFar-lane, a painfully thin young man with the body of a consumptive withrickets, who was always in trouble for his undiagnosed narcolepsy; Todd Bledsoe, the graffiti artist; and Millie Watson, who was forever writing articles in the school paper denouncing the fascist junta the teachers were part of.
Mrs. Cameron, who was meant to be supervising this punishment session, had left to take another long phone call from her hysterical sister in Des Moines, who had just broken up with her husband for the eighth time in two years. She told the students to continue to read quietly, and for the most part they did so apart from Django, who was noodling on the ancient upright piano that Mrs. Cameron used to murder Broadway standards for her drama group.
Django’s genius transcended the old instrument’s failings and he made it sound cool, like they were in a speakeasy or the lobby of the Waldorf-Astoria.
Leon, lost in the music, gazed out the window, across the soccer field to the school fence and the woods beyond. He watched a jet travel across the clear winter sky, and even though it was only six P.M. , it felt like all the world was asleep but those in the room and the pilot of the jet. Leon thought of his mother, as he did often in quiet moments, his love for her still a pain in the pit of his stomach.
In the half-light bleeding out of the window, he watched a fat bee hover above a purple thistle underneath the sill.
Django’s soft playing had a powerful impact on everyone there, everyone felt good. Cool. Relaxed. Somehow, air-conditioned. Before Leon knew it, his father stirred in his soul and the voice was out, unconsciously doo-be-doing over Django’s tinkling.
The others looked over at Leon. He was still lost in reverie, not really aware he was singing out loud. He had forgotten where he was.
Django, with the ease of a born musician, played along instinctively, feeling that something weird and groovy was occurring.
Leon turned and looked directly into the eyes of Deborah Thorn-hill. He kept on singing, feeling the passion his father had felt for Ava when they first met.
Deborah flushed crimson. She felt an amyl nitrate–like rush. Her heart went boom boom. Leon almost buckled under his embarrassment,similar to the time he had inadvertently called Mrs. Cameron Mom when he had been asked a question in the middle of a daydream. He nearly stopped but he saw something in Deborah. The unattainable girl, especially to him, one of The Bastards, the outcasts.
He saw what his voice had done to her, he knew that it had gone to places on her body that he wanted to go with other parts of his body. He saw surprise and the beginning of something else.
Fuck it, he thought. Here goes nothing.
He opened up and Django went right along with him. An old standard about how champagne was no thrill and cocaine was boring.
This kind of song was not what most teenagers wanted to hear at that point in the history of popular music but the effect of the combined talents of Django and Leon knocked over that prejudice with ease. The sheer cool of what they were doing, the corniness of the number, made it even better.
Saul heard his brother singing from the room next door. So did the rest of the Astronomy Club. They left the telescope and walked cautiously as if toward a landed spacecraft, in the direction of the voice.
What he saw made Saul’s blood run cold with terror.
The kids in detention were already under Leon’s spell. By the time Mrs. Cameron came back from her phone call, the Astronomy Club, the detainees, and Mr. Petrov, the effete Russian janitor, had gathered round the piano where Leon stood next to Django.
Leon had moved through “It Happened in Monterey” and was on “Summer Wind,” singing directly to Deborah, who was already wet.
Mrs. Cameron stood and listened. She didn’t say anything, she looked
The other regulars of detention were also present: Geary McFar-lane, a painfully thin young man with the body of a consumptive withrickets, who was always in trouble for his undiagnosed narcolepsy; Todd Bledsoe, the graffiti artist; and Millie Watson, who was forever writing articles in the school paper denouncing the fascist junta the teachers were part of.
Mrs. Cameron, who was meant to be supervising this punishment session, had left to take another long phone call from her hysterical sister in Des Moines, who had just broken up with her husband for the eighth time in two years. She told the students to continue to read quietly, and for the most part they did so apart from Django, who was noodling on the ancient upright piano that Mrs. Cameron used to murder Broadway standards for her drama group.
Django’s genius transcended the old instrument’s failings and he made it sound cool, like they were in a speakeasy or the lobby of the Waldorf-Astoria.
Leon, lost in the music, gazed out the window, across the soccer field to the school fence and the woods beyond. He watched a jet travel across the clear winter sky, and even though it was only six P.M. , it felt like all the world was asleep but those in the room and the pilot of the jet. Leon thought of his mother, as he did often in quiet moments, his love for her still a pain in the pit of his stomach.
In the half-light bleeding out of the window, he watched a fat bee hover above a purple thistle underneath the sill.
Django’s soft playing had a powerful impact on everyone there, everyone felt good. Cool. Relaxed. Somehow, air-conditioned. Before Leon knew it, his father stirred in his soul and the voice was out, unconsciously doo-be-doing over Django’s tinkling.
The others looked over at Leon. He was still lost in reverie, not really aware he was singing out loud. He had forgotten where he was.
Django, with the ease of a born musician, played along instinctively, feeling that something weird and groovy was occurring.
Leon turned and looked directly into the eyes of Deborah Thorn-hill. He kept on singing, feeling the passion his father had felt for Ava when they first met.
Deborah flushed crimson. She felt an amyl nitrate–like rush. Her heart went boom boom. Leon almost buckled under his embarrassment,similar to the time he had inadvertently called Mrs. Cameron Mom when he had been asked a question in the middle of a daydream. He nearly stopped but he saw something in Deborah. The unattainable girl, especially to him, one of The Bastards, the outcasts.
He saw what his voice had done to her, he knew that it had gone to places on her body that he wanted to go with other parts of his body. He saw surprise and the beginning of something else.
Fuck it, he thought. Here goes nothing.
He opened up and Django went right along with him. An old standard about how champagne was no thrill and cocaine was boring.
This kind of song was not what most teenagers wanted to hear at that point in the history of popular music but the effect of the combined talents of Django and Leon knocked over that prejudice with ease. The sheer cool of what they were doing, the corniness of the number, made it even better.
Saul heard his brother singing from the room next door. So did the rest of the Astronomy Club. They left the telescope and walked cautiously as if toward a landed spacecraft, in the direction of the voice.
What he saw made Saul’s blood run cold with terror.
The kids in detention were already under Leon’s spell. By the time Mrs. Cameron came back from her phone call, the Astronomy Club, the detainees, and Mr. Petrov, the effete Russian janitor, had gathered round the piano where Leon stood next to Django.
Leon had moved through “It Happened in Monterey” and was on “Summer Wind,” singing directly to Deborah, who was already wet.
Mrs. Cameron stood and listened. She didn’t say anything, she looked
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