Blackbird Fly (12 page)

“Nothing. Just came to talk to Mr. Z about something.”

“Are you sure you just wanted to ‘talk'? Or maybe you're running short on cash and you wanted to pop in and see if Mr. Z left his wallet out again?” She crossed her arms. Gretchen stood next to her, looking straight at me without saying a word. “I saw you put something in your pocket.”

I looked at the clock on the wall.

“I'm not a thief,” I said.

“That's not what I heard.” Alyssa rolled her eyes. “You're practically a juvenile delinquent. It's a good thing me and Gretchen aren't hanging out with you anymore. We have reputations, you know.” She nodded toward my pocket. “So what did you steal,
Apple
? Did you find a tiny guitar that would fit in your pocket for you to take home?”

“I didn't steal anything,” I said. A sick, warm feeling moved up my body to my neck and cheeks.

Alyssa nudged Gretchen with her elbow. “Maybe it's a love letter for freakboy. Maybe this is where they meet. Their secret love hideaway.”

“Shut up,” I said.

Alyssa stuck out her hand, palm up. “Hand over whatever you stole, or I'm gonna turn you in to Mr. Z.”

“I didn't steal anything.”

“Hand it over, or I'll tell the whole school the truth about you being a kleptomaniac.”

The guitar book slipped out of my arms and slammed onto the floor. The loud
thump
made all of us jump, but even worse it made Alyssa squeal in a weird, surprised way, which made Gretchen giggle.

“Give me what's in your pocket, klepto!” Alyssa yelled, coming at me.

We both fell. I'd never been in a fight before—never even close—so I had no idea what to do. The first thing I did was cover my face with my arms, which was when Alyssa went into my pocket and pulled out the note. When she stood up, I was still on the ground.

Alyssa unfolded the note. Gretchen read over her shoulder.

I found my footing and stood up. “Give me that!”

I snatched it from Alyssa just as the bell rang. Marie McCarron came in humming. She stopped when she saw us. Others came in behind her, along with Mr. Z. They all looked confused to see me there, since I didn't belong.

“What's going on in here?” Mr. Z asked, looking at my red, angry face and at Alyssa and Gretchen standing in front of me. He took long strides toward us.

“Nothing, Mr. Z,” said Alyssa. “We came in for rehearsal and we caught Apple in here going through all the band things. Right, Gretchen?”

Mr. Z looked at Gretchen. She didn't say anything.

He turned to me. “What's going on here, Apple?”

“Nothing, Mr. Z. I just came to—”

“—to steal something,” said Alyssa. “She has a serious problem, Mr. Z.”

“That's enough, Alyssa. Why don't you find your place?” He waved his hand toward the bleachers, where most of the members of the swing choir now stood, watching us curiously.

“Did you need something, Apple?” asked Mr. Z quietly.

I handed him the note—crumpled and ripped in one corner—and ran out, holding back tears.
I heard Alyssa yell, “Ugly thief!” just before the door closed behind me.

It wasn't until later that night, when I was eating dinner, that I remembered I'd left the guitar book on the floor of the band room. What a perfect way to end a perfectly terrible day.

“You not feeling well?” my mother asked as I threw my leftover dinner noodles into the trash. Usually she scolded me if I threw anything away, but this time she didn't. She just watched me over her magazine.

“I feel fine,” I said. I put my bowl in the sink and hoped to escape to my room without answering any more questions.

“How was school today?”

“Fine.”

“How is your friend? The boy.”

“Fine.”

“Is that all you can say? ‘Fine'?”

“No. I can say other things. Like Fender Starcaster. But you don't want to hear that, so I just say ‘fine' instead.”

“Apple.” She put down her magazine. “What are you talking about?”

She would know what a Fender Starcaster was if she would ever listen, but she never did, so I went to my room, turned on some music, and took out my notebook. It was time for another apology note. This time, to Evan.

The first draft took up almost a page—it explained how sorry I was and why I asked him to the dance—but it rambled on and sounded like nothing but a load of excuses, so I crossed it out and started again. The second note was shorter but more apologetic. I mentioned how much my mom liked him and how cool and interesting I thought his mom was. I even started explaining my IF theory. But that note didn't feel right either, so I crossed it out too.

I tapped the end of my pencil on the paper, then
turned my music even louder than usual. I don't know why. Maybe because I was angry and sad all at once. I turned it up and up and went back to my paper and wrote just two words:
I'm sorry
. I signed it
Analyn, aka Apple
.

Then I turned off the light and, even though it was only eight o'clock, I crawled into bed. I closed my eyes and imagined myself relaxing on a white sand beach. I heard Alyssa's voice calling out
thief
, and I imagined the word rolling off with the waves, into the deep blue sea.

T
he three most interesting IFs I could come up with about most of my teachers are pretty boring. Ms. Bonnabel, for example, loves to say, “Believe you me.” Like, “If you don't quiet down, there will be trouble, believe you me.” I have no idea what it means, but during one class I kept count of how many times she said “believe you me,” and I swear she said it ten times. At least.

Miss Lattis eats bananas before class. Mr. Teche makes clicking sounds with his tongue when he's thinking. Mrs. Henry is super clumsy—she drops her dry-erase marker at least three times per period, and she usually runs into the bookcase next to her desk at least once.

Besides Mr. Ted, who is interesting in his own weird way, the teachers at my school have an uninteresting list of IFs. But there is at least one cool teacher at every school in America. This is the teacher that all students want for history, science, whatever. The teacher laughs
with
them instead of
at
them. At Chapel Spring Middle School, it's Mr. Z.

For some reason apologizing to a teacher I liked seemed harder than apologizing to one I didn't. As I walked up to the band room after fourth period I wished I was apologizing to Ms. Bonnabel or Mr. Teche.

It was a big day for apologies. I had already slipped my note to Evan into his locker, and now I opened the door to the band room slowly and peeked inside.
The last thing I needed was to barge into a crowded room, blurting out my “I'm sorrys.” Mr. Z was in his office. I could see him through the open door.

My heart thumped with every step.

“Mr. Z?” I said. My voice was small.

He looked up and tossed some papers on his desk. Sheet music.

“Yes?”

I played with the straps of my backpack.

“Did you come for your book?” he asked.

“Uh . . .”

“I have it right here.” He turned around without getting up from his chair, slid
Teach Yourself Guitar
off his shelf, and placed it on the desk in front of me. I picked it up and hugged it to my chest.

“Thank you,” I said.

He leaned back in his chair. “Is that all, Apple?”

“No,” I said. “I also wanted to say again that I'm sorry about the twenty dollars. It was wrong for me to take it. I tried to put it back. That's what
I was doing when you walked in.”

“Hm,”
he said. “Why were you so desperate for twenty dollars anyway?”

I clutched the book. “I don't know.”

He sighed. “So you tried to put it back?”

I nodded.

“Okay,” he said. “Fair enough.”

I turned around to go.

“Just one more thing, Apple . . .”

In the span of two seconds, a million thoughts went through my head:
Just one more thing, Apple—you should be imprisoned for life. Just one more thing, Apple—you are a menace to society. Just one more thing, Apple—never set foot in my band room again. Just one more thing, Apple—what kind of stupid name is Apple anyway?

“. . . if you've never played guitar before, it might be easier to learn from a teacher instead of a book. Everyone learns differently, but that's how I did it.”

I let out a deep breath and turned back around to face him.

“If you bring in your guitar, I can give you some lessons during lunchtime or after school,” he said.

“Uh . . .”

“Any day but Tuesdays, because I have another student on Tuesdays. How's that sound?”

Fantastic. There's just one problem. I don't have a guitar.

“Great,” I said. “Thanks, Mr. Z.”

“No problem, Apple.”

I didn't even care that he called me Apple. All I cared about was taking him up on his offer. Somehow.

W
e go to school eight hours a day with only an hour of freedom—otherwise known as lunch. I wasn't in love with the idea of spending my forty-five minutes in the library again, so I decided to go into the quad and figure out my next move. I needed to show everyone that I wasn't afraid. I couldn't spend the rest of my life with Fastaband, after all.

Unfortunately Jake and Lance were walking to the quad at the same time.

“Hey, goddess of the dog pound,” said Jake as they passed by.

Lance laughed and smacked him on the back.

I turned around and headed to the library.

Mrs. Fastaband smiled when I walked in. I wondered if it made her happy to see students come to the library during their free time. There weren't many kids at Chapel Spring Middle School who wanted to hang out there, that's for sure.

I sat down and pulled out my notebook. The library can be a lonely place when you're by yourself, and I was really by myself. Heleena wasn't even there.

I guess any place is lonely when you don't have any friends.

Luckily I had a lot to think about. My first order of business was to revisit my Guitar-Getting Plan, which didn't take long, since there were only two things written down. I stared at my notebook for a
while, waiting for a fantastic idea to magically appear. When it didn't, I doodled a few guitars for inspiration. I even drew a Dutch Egmond flat top. I also drew a Fender Starcaster acoustic, which is the one I really want one day.

“Cool guitars,” said Evan.

I stopped midsketch. I hadn't even noticed him walk in. Suddenly I was embarrassed by my doodles, even though Evan's head was tilted toward my paper and it seemed like he really did think they were cool.

“How come you're not outside with Evil Dorothy?” he asked.

“We're not really friends anymore.”

“They didn't seem like they were your friends in the first place.”

“I guess not.”

“I got your note,” Evan said. “Since you're in the library, I guess that means you're friendless now, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

He sat across from me. “Not anymore.” He ran
his fingers through his hair and stacked his books on the table.

It's amazing how quickly an accepted apology can change a relationship.

“Why're you drawing guitars?” he asked. “Do you play guitar or just draw them?”

“I want to be a songwriter like George Harrison.”

“Who's George Harrison?”

“George Harrison was one of the Beatles.” I raised my eyebrows. “You've heard of the Beatles, right?”

“Of course. My dad listens to them sometimes, I think. They have a weird song about a yellow boat or something.” He shrugged.

“‘Yellow Submarine.'”