Guitar Notes (11 page)

Lyla presses
CALL
. He doesn’t answer.

She ends the call.

Three seconds later her phone rings.

“Hi,” she says, and winces. Kind of a lame way to start.

“This is Broody’s Rug and Carpet. That blasty rug you ordered is ready for pickup.”

She laughs.

“That’s my opening line,” he says. “I worked on that all night.”

“I like it. Hey, did you really like my song?” She winces again. Why did she ask that? It sounds like she’s trying to get a compliment.

“Indeed,” he says.

She smiles, her mouth making a little sound, and she wonders if he heard it. “Now it’s your turn to do a song,” she says quickly.

“I’m a formless meanderer.”

“Lame excuse.”

“I don’t sing.”

“Liar. I heard you.”

“When?”

“Wednesday. Practice room.”

“What! Were you spying? I was NOT singing.”

“You were humming along. Jacoby does that when he’s into it.”

“Are you stalking me?”

“You have a good voice. You sound like hot chocolate.”

“Your ear cilia aren’t working.”

“Ha.”

“I sound like a wounded aardvark.”

“I had an aardvark when I was young!”

“You have got to be kidding.”

“Not a real one. A small fuzzy one. It had big ears. My mom brought it back for me from some trip she took.”

“Most kids have teddy bears. Having an aardvark is so odd … it’s actually … 
un
even.”

She laughs. “I don’t know what ever happened to it. I loved that aardvark. What does an aardvark sound like anyway?”

“Like me trying to sing.”

“You’re not an aardvark; you’re a chicken.”

“You are insulting my aardvarkian ancestors.”

She laughs again. “Where are you?”

“Outside on the wall by the maple tree. Where are you?”

“Science hallway.”

“Are you coming out?” He sounds nervous.

“I have to meet Annie.”

“Okay. Talk to you later—”

“Wait. When can I pick up my blasty rug?”

He laughs.

“I want to hear your song soon,” she adds.

“Okay.”

Tripp is standing at the kitchen sink, eating leftover Chinese food out of the carton. Soy sauce spills onto the counter, and his mom wipes it up.

She tosses the sponge in the sink and carries a basket filled with small bottles of sparkling water to the dining room and sets it next to a plate of brownies.

“What are you going to do tonight?” She comes back into the kitchen and pulls the coffeepot out of the coffeemaker.

“Well, if I had my guitar …” He looks out the window. The sun is setting. The sky is drained of color, with only a hint of orange at the horizon. He wants to finish his song and practice it a thousand times until it’s good enough to record.

She rolls her eyes. “Please don’t start this now, Tripp.”

He puts down his fork. “I have gone forty-six days
without it. I am forty-six times closer to insanity.”

She fills up the pot and pours it into the coffeemaker. “You can’t see it, but that guitar has been nothing but trouble.”

“What?”

“It was okay at first, but then you started isolating yourself. Every day after school. All day Saturday and Sunday—”

“I had nothing else to do. Josh moved away.”

“Exactly. You should have been out making new friends. And then your grades started sliding and they’ve been downhill ever since. You have been using it to waste your time when—”

“Just because you don’t value music doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be able to play. I don’t tell you that I think you’re wasting your time on whatever it is you’re doing tonight.”

She groans. “This is called duty.” She flips on the coffeemaker and grabs a stack of small white napkins. “Susan signed me up to be chairperson for the Slater Creek Parkway Cleanup Committee, and I’m too nice to back out, so I’m hosting the meeting.” She walks the napkins into the dining room and calls back. “And I do value music.”

He feels a pang of guilt about the cleanup committee, but it is quickly replaced by anger. “You do not.”

She storms back into the kitchen, hand on her hip. “You think I’m a monster.”

He grabs his coat and walks past her to the front door.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“Bike ride,” he says.

“No way.”

“I finished my homework.”

“It’s dark—”

“I have a light.” He opens the front door just as a woman is about to knock.

“Cindy!” his mom chirps. “Welcome, welcome!”

“Hi, Terry!” the woman chirps back. “Oh my Lord, is this Tripp? You’ve grown!”

“Indeed,” Tripp says. “Miraculously, the local termites have not stunted my growth.”

The woman’s laugh has a hollow ring.

“I’m going for a ride on Slater Creek Parkway,” he adds. “As a user of the bike path, I thank you in advance for your committee’s cleanup efforts.”

The woman thinks this is hilarious.

His mom fakes a smile and calls out: “Be careful and wear your helmet, Tripp.”

In the cool air, Tripp rides to the parkway, a road that follows a narrow creek with a thin strip of woods on either side. He breathes in the muddy smell of the creek and the woods, a rich smell that reminds him of his dad, and his throat closes. A thought emerges:
I wish it had been Mom instead of Dad
. As soon as he thinks it, he fears lightning will strike. It’s horrible, but true.

As he coasts down a hill, he sees a young deer in the
grassy area between the picnic tables and small parking lot, her head bent, nibbling the grass.

Tripp holds his breath and starts to brake. Farther beyond the deer, he sees an approaching car on the road. The deer raises her head, the patch of fur at her neck so white, and she looks right at Tripp. Her ears twitch. “Please don’t be spooked,” Tripp whispers.

The deer bolts away from Tripp and leaps onto the road. The car screeches and swerves. Tripp sees the flash of the deer’s tail as she makes it to the other side and disappears into the shadows of someone’s backyard. The car passes by, and the road is quiet again.

Tripp’s heart is pounding. He stands for a long minute, straddling his bike, feeling like he is the one who just escaped being hit. He wants to call Lyla and tell her what just happened, talk to her about how sad it is when you see a deer in such a crowded area because they have no place to go. He has this feeling that she would understand, but what if she thought it was strange that he called out of the blue? He rides on and, when he gets to the stoplight, turns onto the busy street. The pawnshop is just five blocks up; the guitar he noticed the last time he passed is still in the window, propped against an ugly green chair. After he locks up his bike, he walks in and asks the big bald guy behind the counter if he can see the guitar.

“You just want to play it or are you actually interested in buying?” the guy asks, without moving.

“I’m interested in buying,” Tripp says.

The guy gets it for him, and Tripp plays until the guy says it’s closing time already and he gets kicked out.

 OCTOBER 18. SATURDAY.

Tripp walks into the Bank of America and looks around. He has been to the bank only two or three times his entire life, and he’s not entirely sure how it works. Four people are waiting in line to see one of the three women who are sitting behind windows. Tripp joins the line, pulling out the black book that has his account number and deposit and withdrawal forms. While he waits for his turn, his phone buzzes and he grins.

Lyla texting out of the blue. Nice surprise indeed.

“Next,” the woman on the end says.

He steps up, slips the form under the glass partition, and smiles.

“Photo ID,” the teller says.

Tripp wasn’t expecting that. He pulls his school ID out of his pocket while she looks at the form and taps something into the computer. After a moment, she slips the form back to him. “Sorry, I can’t process this. It’s a minor account and the custodian”—she checks the screen—“Terry Broody, has essentially placed a freeze on it.”

“A freeze?”

“You can’t withdraw funds without her signature.”

“She can’t do that. It’s my money.”

“The way the account is set up, she can. Sorry.” She gives him a fake smile. She isn’t sorry at all.

He leaves and rides back home.

Depressed, he opens up the desk drawer in the kitchen and slips his black book back in. Her checkbook catches his eye. He takes it and hides it in the back of the freezer, underneath a bag of frozen lima beans. If she can freeze his account, he can freeze hers.