Authors: Mary Amato
Guitar Notes (8 page)
Her heart sinks.
Lyla/
did Annie make it?
Dad/
don’t know. I’m so proud of you.
Lyla/
thanks dad. got to go. talk later.
She puts away her phone and paces back and forth in the little room. It’s a big deal, the Kennedy Center program. She should be excited.
She gets out her cello music, sets it on the music stand, and stares at it. Then she rereads Tripp’s note. Finally, she calls up the cello music on the computer, turns up the volume, and picks up the guitar.
OCTOBER 9. THURSDAY.P
RACTICE
R
OOM
B; 11:27
A.M
.
No note from Ms. Even. Tripp is disappointed and wonders if he went too far, if he offended her. She has left only cello music on the music stand, which looks ridiculously complicated.
He picks up the guitar and plays.
OCTOBER 10. FRIDAY.L
YLA
M
ARKS’S
H
OUSE
; 7:02
A.M
.
The newspaper is open to the Arts page, and Lyla’s face is smiling in the featured photo.
Young cellist Lyla Marks is among the four talented string players chosen for solo concerts in the Kennedy Center’s Young Strings program.
“Good morning, Star!” Her dad brings two glasses of orange juice to the table.
Lyla’s stomach sinks.
Her dad looks at the newspaper over her shoulder.
“I’m so glad we did that photo shoot. Didn’t it turn out great?”
Lyla nods. She manages to smile and eat her breakfast, listening to her father go on and on about what this will mean, how he’ll call Coles and let them know, how they’ll be certain to want to schedule an audition.
Later, when she gets into Annie’s car, Mrs. Win smiles nervously and congratulates her, and Annie doesn’t say a word. As soon as they arrive at school and get out of the car, Annie erupts.
“Why didn’t you tell me you made it? You must have been perfect. Were you perfect?”
Lyla doesn’t answer.
Annie pushes through the school doors. “I was better than the idiot who went before me.”
“Violins had more competition.”
“Shut up.”
“It’s true, Annie.”
“I know what’s going to happen.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not going to make it into Coles and you are.”
“Stop it.”
“I hate you. Stop making every audition.”
“Please stop saying that, Annie.”
Annie storms ahead.
Kenneth Chan yells to Lyla, “Hey, I saw your picture in the paper!”
Lyla wishes she could go home.
All morning, Annie avoids her. Finally, the lunch break arrives, and by the time Lyla gets to the practice room, she is almost shaking. She closes the door and sits with her face in her hands.
After a few minutes, she pulls out a piece of paper and a pen and begins to write.
Dear Mr. Odd
,
I lied. You blew me away when you asked me if playing the cello makes me happy. Nobody has ever asked me that, and it seems profound, and I didn’t answer you honestly because the truth is I’m not happy
.
When I was playing the solo during the school assembly, I
was
a machine. I played all the right notes, and all day people kept saying how great it was. But something was wrong, and I didn’t even let myself admit it. Then I got your note. Thrumming. That’s interesting. I don’t think I’m thrumming a lot right now. I want a break from the cello, but I feel guilty about that
.
—Ms. Even
She doesn’t know if writing makes her feel better or worse. She sets the paper and pen down and plays through the scales on the guitar until the end of the period. Then she rushes out and slips the note into Tripp’s locker before she loses her nerve.
NGLISH
C
LASS
; 12:57
P.M
.
Dear Ms. Even
,
I’m in English right now. I stopped at my locker after lunch and found your note. I’m going to put this in your locker after class. I thought you might want to get a reply before having to wait until Monday rolls around
.
Yesterday, I was at the store—ever go to Broody’s Rug & Carpet? Well, it’s our store. I had to go there after school yesterday, and there was this mom and this kindergarten kid looking at rugs for the kid’s room. And the kid picked out this pomegranate-colored rug with all these colorful swooshes and he called it the “blasty rug,” and the mom kept pulling him over to this plain brown rug and saying, “This will match your bedspread, Henry.” My mom kept saying how nice brown is because it doesn’t show dirt. And Henry kept going back to the “blasty” rug and tracing the swooshes with his finger, making different sounds for each one, like that’s what the rug
sounded like to him. And then Henry’s mom bought the brown rug behind his back and then she said, “Come on, Henry honey. You’re going to love this.”
I know it’s going to sound morbid, but I had this negative fantasy that Henry died and the mom was eaten alive by guilt because she didn’t buy him the blasty rug, and then I felt guilty about fantasizing that a kid dies. I know. There’s something wrong with me. But there’s something wrong with moms who think they know what is right for their kids. Maybe the blasty rug was the perfect rug for him, a magic carpet. Maybe he would sit on it whenever he was feeling sad and it would make him feel better. Why do moms smile and lie and say they know what’s good for you?
Tell your parents you want to take a break from the cello. Tell them you want to play guitar. No guilt allowed
.
—Mr. Odd
P.S. By the way, scales are good, but maybe you need to pick up the guitar and let yourself experiment. Start with one note and let your fingers find a
place to go; and if you like the tune, repeat it until it wants to go somewhere new, then follow it, even if it peregrinates. This message has been brought to you by The National Peregrination Society
.
OCKLAND
H
ALLWAY
; 3:16
P.M
.
Lyla is reading Tripp’s letter at her locker when Annie shows up. Reluctantly, she slips the note into her backpack and shifts the backpack to her other shoulder.
“I have decided to forget about the Kennedy Center thing,” Annie says. “I think we need to focus on the talent show. I just heard that Brittany and three other girls are calling themselves the Canticle Quartet and they signed up for the five thirty audition slot.”
Lyla tries to focus on what Annie is saying, but she wants to be alone with the letter, to read it again without interruption.
“Did you hear me?” Annie says. “I’m talking about the auditions for the talent show. We have the three twenty slot, which I think is bad. By the time the auditions are over, Jacoby will have forgotten how good we are. Let’s go see if we can change ours.”
“Stop obsessing. Just leave it the way it is.”
Annie frowns. “I’m not obsessing. I’m strategizing.
Okay. Let’s go to my house and practice first and then we have to make banana bread for the bake sale. Text your dad right now. My mom is on her way.”
“Stop telling me what I have to do!” Lyla snaps.
Annie makes a face. “What is wrong with you?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re so lying.”
“I’m … I’m just not feeling good today.”
Annie’s eyes flash. “It’s the article, isn’t it?”
“What are you talking about?”
“That newspaper article. Now that you’re famous, you don’t want to do a duet for the talent show, do you?”
“No! That’s not it. I’m not feeling good,” Lyla says. “I have to go to the bathroom. Just go with your mom. I’ll call you later.”
“You can’t be sick,” Annie calls after her. “I’m trying to get past the Kennedy Center thing, Lyla. The least you can do is help me out here. You’re coming over tonight.”
Lyla bites the inside of her cheek to keep from screaming. “I’ll call you later,” she says without looking. She walks into a girls’ restroom and reads Tripp’s letter three times in a row.
OCKLAND
H
ALLWAY
; 3:19
P.M
.
Tripp is walking down the hallway, looking for a glimpse of Lyla even though, if he saw her, he wouldn’t
know what to say. He can’t wait until Monday when he can play in the little room again and find, hopefully, another note.
His phone buzzes. A text message from an unfamiliar number.
This is Benjamin Fick. I am your peer tutor. We’ll meet Mondays and Wednesdays at 11:30. Resource Rm. See you Mon.
Tripp stares at the screen of his cell phone. The Termite did it. She signed him up and gave his cell phone number. He wishes there was a phone number he could call:
IS YOUR MOTHER A TERMITE? CALL 1-800-555-5555 AND WE’LL GET HER OUT OF YOUR LIFE!
YLA’S
R
OOM
; 5:00
P.M
.
Lyla crawls into bed the minute she is home. She tells her dad she’s sick and she texts Annie with the news that she can’t come over.
“Head or stomach?” her dad says, touching her forehead.
“Head. Ache, but no fever.”
“Well, hopefully, by tomorrow morning you’ll be right as rain so you don’t miss your Metz Youth Orchestra
rehearsal.” He pats her leg. “I’ll bring you up a strawberry smoothie. Does that sound good?”
She nods, and he leaves.
Her cell phone buzzes. A text from Annie.
Annie/
Get well fast. Tomorrow let’s practice after MYO rehearsal. You can’t say no.
Lyla/
Sure. See you tomorrow.
Lyla turns off her phone. Tomorrow morning, she will wake up and go to MYO and then practice for the talent show with Annie. Already, she is dreading it.
OCTOBER 13. MONDAY.R
OCKLAND
H
ALLWAY
; 11:21
A.M
.
After the bell rings, dismissing Tripp from Spanish, his cell phone buzzes.
Mom/
don’t forget tutor session in resource room.
Tripp/
you’re not supposed to text during school.
Mom/
I know your schedule. It’s lunch. go to tutor.
Tripp/
fine. I’m turning off phone.
Tripp puts his phone in his pocket and reluctantly heads toward the resource room. His feet are heavy. The guitar, waiting for him in the little room, acts like an invisible magnet. He can’t fight it. He pulls out
his cell phone and sends a message to Benjamin Fick:
Tripp/
severe abdominal cramping. going to health room. sorry.
In a perfect world, he would not lie. He would not need to.
He hurries to the music room. As soon as he closes the door to the little room, he feels better. It’s like every other part of his life is a bad dream and this is the only part that’s real.
The last flurry of notes between Lyla and him was in their lockers, so that means a letter in the guitar case is unlikely, but he opens the guitar case and there it is: another note. He sits on the floor to read it.
