Guitar Notes
Authors: Mary Amato
Hear all the songs from the book, sing with the karaoke tracks, and learn how to write your own songs on the
Guitar Notes
website,
www.thrumsociety.com
.
EGMONT
We bring stories to life
First published by Egmont USA, 2012
443 Park Avenue South, Suite 806
New York, NY 10016
Copyright © 2012 by Mary Amato
All rights reserved
Illustrations and design elements: M
AX
A
MATO
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Amato, Mary.
Guitar notes / Mary Amato.
p. cm.
Summary: Tripp, who plays guitar only for himself, and Lyla, a cellist whose talent has already made her famous but not happy, form an unlikely friendship when they are forced to share a practice room at their high school.
eISBN: 978-1-60684-300-0
[1. Interpersonal relations–Fiction. 2. Musicians–Fiction. 3. Guitar–Fiction. 4. Cello–Fiction. 5. High schools–Fiction. 6. Schools–Fiction. 7. Single-parent families–Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.A49165Gui 2012
[Fic]–dc23
2011038115
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright owner.
v3.1
In memory of my dad, Jack Koepke, whose hearty rendition of “On the Road to Mandalay” was the beloved soundtrack of my childhood car rides; for Mr. James McCauley, my eighth-grade English teacher in Libertyville, IL, whose lesson on song lyrics as poetry made my soul thrum; and for all the singers with whom I have sung, most especially the earliest ones: my sisters—Cathy, Nancy, and Suzanne—and my high school friends-in-harmony, Jane Donndelinger Victor and Mary Donndelinger Neuberger.
1. Wear the white belt.
2. Pick up your guitar.
3. Tune.
4. Play.
—from
Zen Guitar
by Philip Toshio Sudo
SEPTEMBER 2. TUESDAY.T
RIPP
B
ROODY’S
R
OOM
; 7:33
A.M
.
… BUMPER-TO-BUMPER DUE TO AN ACCIDENT ON THE LEFT SHOULDER. RESCUE CREWS ARE ON THE SCENE. UP-TO-THE-MINUTE TRAFFIC BROUGHT TO YOU BY MONTGOMERY AUTOPARTS …
The clock-radio alarm drills into Tripp Broody’s ears, and his eyelids open. After three slow blinks, he realizes what he is seeing three feet from his bed: a note taped to the metal stand where his guitar should be.
He sits up, pushes his long, messy hair out of his eyes, and reads it.
Dear Tripp
,
I know you’re going to be mad at me, but you didn’t keep up your end of the bargain. You didn’t do your summer reading or math packet. You didn’t do anything but lock yourself in this room and play the guitar. It’s like you’re addicted to it. It’s unhealthy and isolating. You are capable of getting straight A’s. You can have your guitar back if you have all A’s at the end of the semester and if you at least attempt to be more social. Don’t bring a sour face to school. Nobody likes that. Talk to people this year, okay? It won’t kill you
.
Love, Mom
P.S. You have brought this on yourself. I really believe that you’re going to thank me for this in the long run
.
It takes a moment for the reality to sink in. His room is hot and small, the air conditioner wheezing out a pathetically small stream of cold air molecules.
He wants to scream, but he keeps his mouth closed.
S
he must have planned it all out, he thinks, to take his guitar on the night before school begins so that there would be no time to discuss it. She is a thief and a coward.
After pulling on shorts and a T-shirt, he walks into the kitchen, takes her bag of ground coffee out of the cupboard, and pours the coffee down the garbage disposal. Then he walks over to a potted aloe plant, spoons dirt into the coffee bag, apologizes to the plant, neatly refolds the top of the bag, and puts it back in the cupboard.
Finely ground French Roast dirt.
Take that.
YLA
M
ARKS’S
R
OOM
; 7:34
A.M
.
Lyla Marks is lying on her bed, staring at the ceiling, fully dressed, her frizzy dark hair fanning on the white pillow like a fern. Her heart is beating abnormally loudly. She puts her hand over it.
Calm down
.
Her phone buzzes. She knows without looking at the little screen that it’s Annie. She doesn’t want to hear her friend’s voice right now, because she knows that it’ll make her heart beat even faster. But she answers.
“What are you wearing?” Annie asks.
“Tangerine top. Blue skirt,” Lyla says.
“And the shoes that I picked out?” Annie asks.
“Yeah. I’m lying on my bed. I feel like a corpse.”
“That’s sick. Stop talking like that. You’re freaking me out,” Annie says. “We’re picking you up in five minutes. Be ready.”
Lyla slips her phone into the pocket of her jean skirt. Her black cello case is on its side in the middle of her bedroom floor. She imagines opening the window and pushing the case out, imagines it splitting open when it hits the ground, and the cello splintering into pieces.
“Lyla!” her dad calls.
She picks up her cello and walks out the door.
Her dad is at the bottom of the stairs, looking at his phone. “Dr. Prevski just e-mailed. She said yes to adding an extra fifteen minutes to your lessons so you can work on the Coles audition piece!”
Lyla’s heart starts pounding again. “That’s great,” she says, and busies herself by checking what’s in her backpack.
When Annie’s car pulls up, Lyla’s dad picks up her cello and follows her out. “Play the Bruch piece,” he says. “Just the second part. That’ll show Mr. Jacoby your range.”
“Got it, Dad,” she says, and smiles.
“Have a great first day, sweetie!” He puts the cello in the back and says hi to Annie’s mom as Lyla gets into the car.
“Lyla, you look adorable,” Mrs. Win says.
“Just absolutely adorable,” Annie says, and laughs.
“Thank you,” Lyla says to Mrs. Win.
“You both look adorable,” Lyla’s dad says as he closes the back of the car.
“We don’t want to look adorable,” Annie says. “We want to look sophisticated.”
As Mrs. Win is about to pull out, Lyla’s dad knocks on the window.
Lyla looks out.
“Where’s your head? Put your seat belt on,” he says through the window.
“Sorry,” she says, and buckles up.
“Ready?” Mrs. Win asks.
“Yeah,” Lyla lies.
OCKLAND
S
CHOOL
; 8:05
A.M
.
Tripp wants to turn around and make a run for it. Too many students are streaming through the school doors at the same time, yelling and laughing. As soon as he’s inside, a girl next to him screams at another down the hall. “Beanie, you look totally cute!”
Beanie screams back, “Casey, I missed you all summer!”
Tripp turns to the girl called Beanie, who he doesn’t know at all, and asks, “Why did you just lie?”
“What?” The girl gives him a look.
“From the sound of your voice, it’s obvious you’re lying,” he explains.
“From the sound of your voice, it’s obvious you’re an idiot.” The girl runs ahead.
Who wants to hear the truth? Nobody. Well, he talked
to someone today. He can tell his mom that. He adjusts his headphones and turns up his music.
Mr. Handlon, the vice principal, is standing outside the main office. “Welcome back, Alex. Nice to see you, girls! Tripp Broody, headphones away or they’re mine.”
“I promise to put them away when I get to class,” Tripp argues.
“Put them away now or they’re mine. You know the rules.”
Reluctantly, he puts away his music and is pushed forward by the crowd. The shouts and clatter, along with the smell of fresh paint, make him dizzy. He pulls his schedule out of his pocket—Intro to Tech in Room T113—and heads toward the T hallway.
