Guitar Notes (14 page)

“Tomorrow at lunch … come to Room B.”

“But it’s an even day.”

“That’s the point. I’ll let you in. And then we’ll play each other the songs we’ve been working on. I finally
figured out the chorus for my Hendrix-chord guilt song.”

“What about Jacoby’s rule? There can’t be more than one person using a room at the same time.”

“You make it sound like a law of physics. Jacoby’s Rule: If Mr. Odd and Ms. Even are ever in the same room at the same time, they will cancel each other out in total annihilation, like when matter and antimatter collide.”

“You’re blowing my mind. First, I never thought Lyla Marks would break a rule, and second, you sound like a science geek.”

“I love physics. Force equals Mass times Acceleration.”

“Okay. Maybe I’ll accelerate my mass to the little room tomorrow.”

Lyla laughs, and the sound makes him happy.

 OCTOBER 28. TUESDAY.

Tripp is almost at the door to Practice Room B when he loses his nerve and turns around. He is heading back to the orchestra room when he hears Patricia Kent’s voice in the hallway ahead. She is coming this way. He turns back and quickly knocks on Room B’s door.

The door opens and he slips in.

Lyla is wearing blue jeans, a soft green T-shirt, and a scarf with lots of fringe. Her brown eyes have this intense warmth, as if they have some superhuman power to mend broken bones or unlock doors, he thinks.

“You made it!” she whispers.

The guitar is out, propped against the bench, like an old friend. He relaxes a bit.

“Did Jacoby see you?” she asks.

“No,” he whispers back.

They listen to the sound of Patricia approaching. Her door closes.

Lyla puts her finger to her lips. “Wait ’til she starts playing,” she says.

After a minute, the French horn begins.

Lyla holds up her lunch. “I’m eating tuna fish,” she says.

“No pomegranate?” he asks.

“Just tuna.”

He nods. “I can smell.”

“Sorry,” she says. “I’ll open a window.”

“Yes, please,” he says. “The one with the ocean view.”

She laughs.

“I’m just realizing this room is the size of a Pop-Tarts box,” he says.

“Tuna fish–flavored Pop-Tarts. Sorry.”

“This is momentous,” he says.

“The smell?”

“No. Being in the same room at the same time … I’m nervous.”

Lyla smiles. “
That’s
what is so different about you.”

“That I’m nervous?”

“That you admit it. Most people don’t say that kind of thing out loud. Most people pretend they’re not nervous about stuff like this.”

“What does that make me?”

Her eyebrows raise. “Odd?” She is about to add that she is nervous, too. But he has crouched to look at the cello lying sideways on the floor.

“Play me some Mozart-arello on the cello,” he says.

“No. Play me your new song on the guitar.” She picks it up and hands it to him.

He sits on the floor and strums a chord, then sings.

“Home, home on the range, where the deer and the antelope play …”

She laughs.

“Okay. Let your song rip.” He holds out the guitar to her.

“I’m too nervous. It’s easier to play my cello in front of a million people than it is to play one guitar chord in front of you.”

“I won’t look.”

“I’ll only do my song if you do yours,” she says.

“Okay, but you go first.”

She takes out the notebook he had given her and opens it up so that she can look at the lyrics if she starts to forget.

“Nice notebook,” he says.

She smiles and he turns so that his back is to her. The wall is absolutely blank.

She plays and sings, her voice sliding into the room, picking up confidence and strength as she goes.

When she gets to the final chorus, her voice opens up and envelops him.

She finishes and there is silence. “You didn’t like it?”

He turns around. “It was amazing. Really. I’m stunned.”

Lyla smiles. “Yeah?”

“Where did that come from? It’s so … not Bach.”

She laughs. “I know. A month ago, if you would’ve told me that I’d write a song like this, I’d say you were crazy. I used to think that, in order to write a song, I’d have to hear it in my head, and then I’d sit down with a pen and write it out in notation. That’s the way you see Mozart and Beethoven doing it in movies about them. But your way, of just playing until you find something by accident, makes a lot more sense. It’s like every song is a series of accidents.”

“Your song is a really good accident.”

His smile makes her smile.

“Well, anyway,” she says, “I’m not sure how to end the song.”

He takes the guitar. “Maybe go back to the Hendrix E chord and punch up the rhythm?” He tries it and teaches her a new strumming rhythm and her eyes light up. She takes the guitar back and practices.

“That’s great.” He watches her. “I can’t believe how fast you learn.”

“All that cello,” she says. “Let me borrow your pick.”

Tripp hesitates.

“I’m not going to steal it,” she says.

“It’s …

“Ssh!” She whispers. “I thought I heard Jacoby’s voice.”

“His rule is stupid.”

“He’s afraid if there are two people in here, we’ll talk instead of play.”

“Two students talking to each other. Call the police.”

Lyla listens until she’s sure the teacher isn’t there. “Okay. It’s your turn.” She hands him the guitar and turns to face the wall. “No wailing or we’ll get kicked out.”

“I’m not going to sing.”

“Bawk.”

“My lyrics aren’t great.” He pulls out the notebook that she’d given him.

“Nice notebook,” she says, and smiles.

He opens it to his lyrics page and reads over his notes. “What’s interesting is that we both wrote in the key of E.” He plays a chord.

She smiles. “We’re on the same wavelength. Come on, sing.”

He’s nervous, but he sings.

When he’s done, she leaps to her feet. “I think they’re polyphonic!”

“Polyphonic?”

“Two different melodies that fit together! Lots of baroque music is polyphonic. Bach was all over it. This is so cool. Let’s record both our songs and play them at the same time and see if they fit.”

They record Lyla’s song first and then Tripp’s at the
same tempo. Then, they layer them in the same file and play them back. Each phrase neatly overlaps the other, their voices fitting together in harmony.

Lyla’s eyes sparkle. “The opposite of annihilation!”

Tripp laughs. “Indeed.”

As Lyla walks down the hall, she pulls out her cell phone and calls Tripp.

“Howdy,” he answers.

She presses the phone against her ear so she can hear him over the hallway noise. “Hey, do you have Sanders for science?” she asks.

“No. I have Peakly.”

“Are you on chapter three? Didn’t you think it was interesting? The whole eardrum thing.” There is a tap on her shoulder. She turns—it’s Tripp—and she almost screams.

“Sorry!” He laughs.

She looks around for Annie. “It’s just—”

“You don’t want anybody to see you talking to me?”

“No! It’s not that. It’s just Annie. She’d make a huge deal out of it. She wouldn’t leave it alone.”

“Well, some people make a big deal about everything. Anyway, you’re lucky you have Sanders for science. Peakly’s voice is so annoying. I try to block it out.”

“But the sound unit is so interesting! My voice is
literally playing a tiny little teeny drum in your ear.”

“What?”

“How sound works. Right now, I’m talking and the sound is coming out of me as a wave of air, each air molecule pushing on the next until it travels all the way to your ear. When the wave reaches your eardrum, your eardrum vibrates, and that’s how the sound gets in you. So my voice is literally playing a little drum in your ear. Tell me that’s not cool.”

“You really are a geek. And it’s cool.”

Lyla spots Annie down the hall. “You have to go.”

“I do?”

“Annie’s coming.”

“Okay, science guru.”

He leaves and she rushes over to her locker and makes herself busy, pretending to text.

“So,” Annie says. “Who are you texting?”

“My dad.” Lyla puts away her phone and crouches down to pull her French book from the stack on the bottom. “I was just reminding him that we’re staying for Sweet Tooth.”

“What’s this?” Annie pulls the notebook Tripp gave her out of Lyla’s back pocket.

Lyla stands up and grabs it back. “Nothing.”

“Wow!” Annie says. “Somebody’s touchy.”

Lyla sees the suspicion in Annie’s face, but she smiles as if nothing is wrong.

 OCTOBER 29. WEDNESDAY.

The room is empty without Lyla. Tripp misses her immediately. He opens the guitar case and finds a note.

He gets it. A challenge. A dare.