Authors: Mary Amato
Guitar Notes (12 page)
He can’t believe he has just agreed to record and send his song. Tripp steps away from the computer and looks at himself in the mirror to confirm the truth: Yes, he looks absolutely insane.
OCTOBER 19. SUNDAY.T
RIPP’S
R
OOM
; 7:13
P.M
.
Tripp is singing when his mom walks in with a plate of warm brownies.
“Were you singing?” she asks.
“Are those brownies?” A deft subject change.
“Superchunk chocolate.” She smiles, obviously unaware of the fact that her checkbook is currently on ice. “I thought you might need something to keep you going,” she says. “Your Intro to Tech teacher finally put up the review sheet on Edline. And there’s a new physics worksheet posted. How’s that unit going?”
Fie, villain! I see right through your wily ways
, he thinks.
Mere melted chocolate will not warm my heart toward the
tedious task ahead. Nor will it warm my heart toward you, O Termite in Residence
.
She hands him the plate. He is craving a scoop of vanilla ice cream for the warm brownies, but he doesn’t dare bring attention to the freezer, where the checkbook is hidden. He breaks a brownie in half and stuffs it into his mouth.
“How are your tutor sessions going?”
Pang of guilt. He chews and swallows. “Well, Benjamin Fick is certainly a nice young man,” he says.
“That tone.” She shakes her head. “There is no need for sarcasm. He’s probably nice.”
“Indeed. Sarcasm is the enemy of the people.”
His mom sighs and starts to leave. “By the way, have you seen my checkbook?”
Superchunk pang of guilt. “I am not allowed to bank. I believe that includes writing checks.”
Her glance is full of suspicion. “It was right where I always keep it.”
Tripp shrugs, mouth full.
You scream. I scream. We all scream for frozen things.
OCTOBER 20. MONDAY.P
RACTICE
R
OOM
B; 11:23
A.M
.
How odd it feels to be going to the little room on an even day. Patricia Kent arrives at Room A just as Tripp is opening the door to B.
“Lyla Marks has that room,” she says.
“I know. She’s letting me use it for today.”
Patricia gives him a strange look, so he adds: “It’s all good” and a smile.
Once he’s inside, he pulls his lyrics from his pocket, sets them on the music stand, and gets out the guitar. Scratched into the back near the top are two words:
Just sing
.
He laughs. Lyla Marks snuck in before orchestra and defaced school property. For him.
He sings and plays, and he even likes the way it sounds.
Woke up today, saw my face in the mirror.
Eyes don’t lie, message is clear.
I can hear it. I can see it. I can say it.
I’m odd
.
I’m a graph without coordinates, a shape without form,
Always deviating away from the norm.
Logic can’t fix what’s wrong with me.
I’m odd. I’m odd. I’m odd. Indeed
.
I’ve got superhuman cilia in my ear
,
Which gives me the ability to hear the fears
And lies that people hide behind, and what’s more
,
I can hear which crayon’s happy in a box of sixty-four
.
I’m a graph without coordinates, a shape without form,
Always deviating away from the norm.
Logic can’t fix what’s wrong with me.
I’m odd. I’m odd. I’m odd. Indeed
.
But when he turns on the recorder, he can’t seem to get a line out without making a mistake. The period ends before he has anything worth saving. He is a failure.
After turning down the main hallway, he sees Lyla with a group of friends walking in his direction. Urgent
need for a plan. What if she says hi? What if she doesn’t? What if she asks about the recording?
A few feet away, a drinking fountain calls to him. He races over, grateful to have something else to steer toward. The group of girls walks by, and he is just about to breathe and continue on to class, when he hears Lyla’s voice. “I’ll catch up in a minute!” She steps out of the group and walks over to the fountain. His feet have frozen, but his face is hot. “Excuse me,” she says without really looking at him. As he moves aside, she slips a note on top of his notebook and bends over to get a drink. Then she’s gone.
He ducks into the nearest bathroom and reads it.
Dear Mr. Odd
,
Okay. I admit it. I snuck by the practice room and listened in at the door again, hoping you’d be singing your song. And you were! Fun song, indeed! I love everything about it. Plus you can sing. I knew it
.
—Ms. Even
P.S. Teach me some chords or something. I want to learn more
.
Tripp looks at himself in the mirror and grins.
To the One Who Spies on Unsuspecting Aardvarks
,
I should be paying attention in
science, but I’d rather write you a letter. You should be ashamed for spying. But thank you for saying you liked my song. When I tried to record it, I choked
.
Maybe if you want to learn more about playing guitar, you should start with the 12-bar blues because it’s easy and it’s the basis of a lot of songs. I learned all about the different blues progressions off the Internet. Once you learn the basic chord progression, you can play it in any key. The easiest key to start with is probably E. So here’s a chord progression:
E-E-E-E7
A7-A7-E-E
B7-A7-E-E
—Odd
P.S. Since you gave up the little room today, you can use it tomorrow. Write a blues song. You can mix up the chords, use less, use more, whatever
.
When the bell rings, he hurries to Lyla’s locker and slips in the note.
YLA’S
R
OOM
; 7:16
P.M
.
Dear Odd,
I would have replied right away, but after school I had to practice. Thanks for the tips and the offer to have the room, but Annie is in Room A on odd days. If she knew we traded days, she’d want me and you to switch so that I’d always have the little room on odd days, and to be honest, I am kind of enjoying a break from Annie. That sounds horrible. I feel guilty about it, but it’s true.—Even
Okay, twist my arm. I’ll take the little room two days in a row. I’ll try to find a way to make it up to you. Stop feeling guilty about everything. It’s okay to want a break from Annie.—Odd
Stop feeling guilty? Okay. The next song I write will be “The Guilt Song.” I’m like the murderer in “The Tell-Tale Heart”—when I’m feeling guilty or panicky, my heart pounds like that. Boom. Boom.
—Ms. Even
Dear Ms. Even: How fascinating that you can relate to the murderer in “Tell-Tale Heart.” If I hear any boom booms coming from the floor in the room, I’ll rip up the boards in search of a still-beating heart. I like the idea of “The Guilt Song.” Maybe a boom boom beat. I have massive quantities of guilt. I’ll write one, too, and we’ll see who finishes first. My problem is that I tend to have ideas throughout the day instead of when I sit down to write.—Odd
You need a notebook you can keep in your pocket.—Ms. Even
OCTOBER 21. TUESDAY.P
RACTICE
R
OOM
B; 11:25
A.M
.
When Tripp opens the guitar case, there is a pocket-size homemade notebook waiting for him, paper cut to size and stapled at the fold. On the front cover, a sketch of a guitar. On the back:
Brought to you by the Thrum Society
.
He records his “Mr. Odd” song—the whole thing this time without stopping once—and e-mails her the MP3 file. It isn’t perfect, but it’s done and it feels good. Then he opens the notebook and starts writing song number two. “Guilty.” He writes the title in the center of a page and jots down anything and everything that comes to mind, searching for connections and rhymes.
OCTOBER 22. WEDNESDAY.P
RACTICE
R
OOM
B; 11:44
A.M
.
Lyla is singing her song again. She doesn’t know quite where this voice of hers came from. It’s as if there’s a creature living inside her that she never realized was there. And now it’s coming out in this song.
Guilt on my sleeve and the bottom of my shoe
.
Guilt under my collar sticks to me like glue
.
Swallowed it on Sunday, and it’s eatin’ me alive
.
Buried it on Monday, but it just won’t die
.
’Cause it’s beating beating beating
Like a telltale heart
.
Can’t make it stop once it starts …
When she’s done, she glances up. A small notebook of her own has been slipped under the door. She picks it up. The first page has a note:
