Angelina had arranged for UNC party tents and tables and chairs to serve as classrooms in a two-acre field she owned near the lodge. Kaya had resisted this: how much easier to hold classes on campus and visit the lodge in the evenings?
But the carpentry and cooking, the study of native vegetation, and the painting classes required Angelina’s lodge and the adjacent field. Past a rolling strip of forest and up a steep bank of rock, the open land spread out evenly. The grass reached mid-calf. Birch trees, hawthorns, and a few maples grew along the border.
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The students spent less than an hour there before asking Brian—Kaya was still off with Alec somewhere—if they could camp in the field rather than sleep in the Asheville dormitory. Brian turned to Angelina, who had to suppress her pleasure. This was the arrangement she had wanted. Camping wasn’t necessary, if they didn’t mind sharing close quarters. Angelina’s last empty cabin, next to the guest teachers’, contained four bedrooms, which with trundle beds, could easily sleep everyone. Less privacy if they stayed at the lodge, less showering and bathroom time but more community. “With community,” Angelina said, “being key.”
Around Sunday evening’s bonfire, which started after dinner and before dark, the students and guest artists braided their hair. Except Marc Swift, the video artist, who was bald. A girl from Iowa, Crescent Rheingold, offered to work on Brian’s short, thin hair, with gel and persistence, but he shook his head. “More trouble than it’s worth, I’m afraid.”
Only then did Brian wonder where Carla was. He hadn’t seen her except in passing yesterday or today.
He was looking around when Trevor appeared at his side. “Carla’s with Marc Swift. He’s making a video of her.”
“Oh, that’s good,” Brian said.
“You don’t even care that she’s moved out on you?” Trevor asked.
Brian felt a twinge of guilt. It hadn’t occurred to him before now. He hadn’t missed her.
“Want me to tell her you’re not sad?” Trevor asked. “You overstand her, and everything’s fine.”
“No, Trev, but thanks.” He patted Trevor’s shoulder and sought Carla among the bonfire’s flickering shadows, so they could officially break up.
She was sitting between Marc Swift’s legs. Marc jumped up, asking, “What do you want to do?”
Carla pulled on her new boyfriend’s arm. “Just stay here. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Away from the fire, close in fact to their cars, Brian said, “Friends?”
“Yeah. Friends.”
He said if the cooking got to be too much, now with the students, “Tell me. You know how it is. Their help might make more work for you.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Carla said. “Hailey works as hard as I do. And the students can clean up, if nothing else.”
She walked back to where Marc was sitting. Trevor materialized beside Brian, saying, “You should call that girl who took you dancing. Link with her at Tuesday’s gig.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Is it because you love Hailey? You can tell me.”
“Trevor, don’t talk about Hailey that way.”
“She doesn’t mind. She likes you. And admires you, Brian.”
“That’s what comes first for you: who likes you. Well, everybody likes you, Trevor. You know that. So, respect it. Respect Hailey’s feelings for you.”
“Maybe your one love is here and you don’t know it yet.”
“Probably not, Trevor. I’d rather you didn’t think about that. My life, right? And right now, I’m so committed to the Consortium there’s no time for—”
Crescent Rheingold darted between them, waving a burning stick. Bits of ash fell on them. She danced around, too close to people. Brian grabbed her and gave the stick to Trevor who stamped it out. Crescent ran toward a cabin, laughing. She sat in the gravel, holding her knees and laughing—too loud, and for too long.
Trevor wrapped his arm around her and whispered. Then he said, “It’s funny. I know. So funny, but you’re safe now. See the stars. The moon is like you. A crescent.”
Jacob was standing next to Brian. “That girl can’t smoke ganja. Some people are made that way. All day she’s desperate for more. But it makes her crazy.”
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