Authors: Mary Amato
Guitar Notes (6 page)
The parents of the groom walk down the aisle, and then the mother of the bride comes, his mom’s older
sister, who always wears the same bitter expression.
Tripp nudges his mom to look at the priest, who is asleep in a chair next to the lectern. “The music bored him to death,” Tripp whispers.
His mother’s eyes widen. “He better wake up.”
Tripp starts to laugh and she shushes him.
The priest wakes up, the wedding begins, and the musicians play another coma-inducing tune.
To stay awake, Tripp slips cracker crumbs that he has found in his pocket into the birds’ basket. One of the doves pecks up the crumbs as soon as they drop. The other dove doesn’t move. They haven’t made a sound. What kind of bird remains silent when imprisoned? he wonders. Shouldn’t they be screaming their heads off?
After the ceremony, they all gather in the stifling heat on the steps outside the church. The limousine pulls up, which is the cue for the birds.
Tripp’s mom holds up the basket and lifts the lid.
Nothing happens.
She hoists the basket with a quick small motion and one of the doves flies up.
A few people clap, but everyone is still waiting.
She tilts the basket and hoists it up harder. The second bird falls out and lands on the concrete with a dull thud.
Another silence. In one quick move, the groom’s father kicks the corpse into the bushes.
No one says a word.
Lorinda gives an exasperated look and pulls on the groom’s arm. “Let’s just go.”
As they get into the limousine, a few people begin to clap and everyone joins in.
“Congratulations!” someone calls out.
Tripp’s mom looks like she’s going to be the next one to hit the pavement.
“It’s not your fault,” he whispers. “You did a great job.”
She throws him a doubtful glance.
“Really, Mom. They gave you a very elderly bird.”
She smiles.
His hugely generous heart has leapt free of the cage of anger to bestow compassion on the lowly Termite in her time of need. He can only hope she will remember this.
OST
O
FFICE
; 2:22
P.M
.
Annie gives her application package to the clerk, takes the large padded envelope from Lyla’s hand, and sets it on the counter. “They’re both going to the same place.”
“Anything fragile, liquid, or perishable in these?” the clerk asks.
“Just our fates,” Annie says to him, and he laughs.
“An application and a DVD,” Annie’s mom says. “The girls are applying for a special music school. Priority mail, please.”
Annie grins at Lyla. “This is sooooooo exciting.”
He stamps
PRIORITY MAIL
on each envelope.
“Do you have a good-luck stamp you can put on it?” Annie asks.
The clerk smiles again and shakes his head. Annie’s mom pays, and, as he tosses their envelopes in a shipping bin, Lyla feels her stomach drop.
“Good luck,” he says. “Next in line.”
“Now all we have to do is wait,” Annie says. “The suspense is going to literally kill me. I’m going to die.”
“Yeah,” Lyla says. “The headlines are going to read: Two girls got accepted into the Coles Conservatory of Music but died of suspense before finding out.” As soon as it is out of her mouth, she knows she’s just going through the motions.
I don’t want to go to Coles
. She says the truth to herself as they walk out.
“Enough of this!” Annie’s mom says. “We’re going to celebrate. It was a project just getting those applications together and out the door. What’ll it be? Ice cream or frappuccinos?”
SEPTEMBER 29. MONDAY.P
RACTICE
R
OOM
B; 11:37
A.M
.
Dear Ms. Even
,
I have superhuman ear cilia to pick up vibes, and your even-day vibes have been all over this guitar. So on Friday I snuck in and stood next to the practice room door and hearkened. At first I thought it was all in vain because there was cello music, but I pressed my ear to the crack in the door and lo and behold what did I hear? The beat-beating of the telltale heart? The tiny hooves of reindeer? No. I heard this guitar. Scales
.
Liar liar strings on fire, you are playing this guitar. The cello music on the computer is your cover. You have that on so nobody hears you playing the guitar
.
So you’re a closet guitar player, Lyla Marks. I have two theories. Number One, you secretly want to be a Rock Goddess, but you are worried that people will make fun of you because you are quite the opposite of a Rock Goddess. (Rock Goddesses use picks, play power chords, and wail.) Or Number Two, you read in a book that you can play the cello even more perfectly than you already do if you strengthen your fingers by playing another instrument and so you’re just doing this so you can play Bach more beatifically and add mozzarella to your Mozart, which will give you an edge so you become a cello star. Which one is it?
—Mr. Odd Day
SEPTEMBER 30. TUESDAY.P
RACTICE
R
OOM
B; 11:48
A.M
.
Dear Mr. Odd
,
How pleasant to think of you stalking me. What business of yours is it if I am playing the guitar? You do not own it
.
Okay. I am playing it. Are you happy? And I don’t have to tell you why. Please do not tell anybody. It’s not because I’m embarrassed or anything. It’s just that there’s a lot of pressure on me. I am playing a solo in front of the entire school on Friday, and I have a Kennedy Center audition on Saturday. I really should be practicing
.
—Ms. Even
P.S. Did you put the strings on right? They are messed up at the top. You should ask Mr. Jacoby if it’s okay to fix the scratches on the front. There’s this wood filler stuff you can get in a tube. Look it up on the Internet
.
OCTOBER 1. WEDNESDAY.P
RACTICE
R
OOM
B; 11:39
A.M
.
Dear Ms. Even
,
This is the guitar writing. Your secret love for me is safe with Mr. Odd. He does not engage in gossip
.
I am somewhat hurt by the casual remarks about “fixing” my scratches. Does everything have to look perfect to be worthy? If you would only hearken! I have a great sound—warm and golden—especially with the new strings that the talented and charming Mr. Odd put on, and, indeed, he put them on right
.
Some people clip the ends of the strings off close to the tuning peg and some people make “loops” at the top
.
Perhaps Mr. Odd
likes
the mess at the top. A reminder that life is messy
.
—The Guitar
P.S. Scales are boring. If you’re going to play,
play
.
OCTOBER 2. THURSDAY.P
RACTICE
R
OOM
B; 11:36
A.M
.
Dear Mr. Odd
,
You are indeed odd
.
—Ms. Even
OCTOBER 3. FRIDAY.R
OCKLAND
S
CHOOL
A
UDITORIUM
; 9:04
A.M
.
“… and now to play Allegro Appassionato by Camille Saint-Saëns … here is Lyla Marks.” Mr. Handlon nods at Lyla, who is waiting in the wings.
Applause.
Lyla picks up her cello and walks to the black metal folding chair that is waiting for her onstage. Her dad is standing off to the side with his video camera on a tripod.
Her heart is pounding. Tripp’s words are in her head: If you’re going to play …
play
. As she sits, she feels the eyes of the audience on her face. Someone calls out something, and a few students laugh.
She imagines that she is not Lyla. She is a fake one, with arms made of metal, the one programmed to perform today. A computer chip in her brain will fire the neurons that will make her fingers move. The real Lyla is still waiting in the wings.
She lifts her bow and begins.
PANISH
C
LASS
; 10:53
A.M
.
Greetings, Ms. Even
,
I’m in Spanish class right now and I’m bored out of my finely constructed skull. To stay awake, I could either chew on the spiral binding of my notebook thus inducing metal poisoning or I could ask you this question about the International Culture thing. Please don’t take this the wrong way
.
I was there first period, sitting in the back, not paying any attention at first because assemblies are always a joke, and then Mr. Handlon introduced you
.
Two guys in front of me snicker. “What’s she gonna play?” one of them says
.
“ ‘The Fart of the Bumblebees’ by Mozart,” the other guy says, and they both laugh
.
“Play some Lady Gaga,” the first guy calls out
.
Just so you know that wasn’t me
.
I don’t know if you saw it, but a paper airplane flew from the back to the middle of the auditorium, and some people laughed. You looked up then like they were laughing at you, but they weren’t. People laugh at flying paper
.
You sat down and started to play like it didn’t really matter if anybody heard you or not
.
Everybody got quiet, the two guys in front of me even. One of them says, “She must practice fifteen hours a day.” Awe. Respect
.
But that’s not why I’m writing
.
Here’s why I’m writing. I looked at your face really carefully, and I think you’re faking it. You make your face look like you’re into your music and everything, but I don’t think your emotions were real. You weren’t really thrumming
.
Am I right? I’m not criticizing you. I’m just fascinated by people faking things
,
so I guess I just want to know, does playing the cello make you happy?
—Mr. Odd
P.S. I hope you don’t think I’m stalking you or anything because I’m not, but I saw you at your locker yesterday, so I’m thinking, why not slip this note into your locker instead of the guitar case because that way you’ll get it today instead of waiting until Monday. Not that it makes any difference really
.
