by Tia Souders
I closed my eyes and pulled fresh air into my lungs. From inside, the muffled shouting of Laird and Marcus ensued, but I blocked out the sound. Carrie said nothing, just stood with her arm still around my shoulders as if I might fall if she let go. The back of my eyes stung, a sensation I knew would only recede with the passing of tears.
Sometime later, the air grew still and the night quiet save for the cheeping of crickets and other night insects. I focused on these sounds. They steadied me until I heard approaching footsteps.
“Sam?”
I glanced over my shoulder at Laird. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans and kicked a rock by his feet. “What can I say? I’m sorry.”
I nodded, still unable to trust myself with words for fear of the dam holding back an ocean of tears breaking loose. With his head down, he walked past me and to his Jeep. He opened the passenger door for me and went around to the other side. I hopped in, wishing I had met him here instead of The Clover in order to avoid the awkward ride and conversation to come.
He put the keys in the ignition but didn’t start it. He stared straight ahead at the car parked in front of him. “He’s a jerk… Well, there are worse words for him, but…” He spoke as if talking to himself then lifted a hand and rubbed the bruised spot on his jaw. I swallowed hard at the sight of his pink knuckles spotted with blood.
“Don’t worry. It’s not mine, but he’s sporting a busted lip now.”
I exhaled a long breath, trying to find words. “Why’d you invite me here?”
“I didn’t know he was going to be here. Marcus and I are… well, I guess you could say we’re long-standing rivals.” He clenched the steering wheel, the skin on his knuckles turning white. “I’m good friends with his two roommates. They swore he wouldn’t be here.”
“I’m not asking because of him. Why’d you bring me? You spoke with me for all of three minutes before holing yourself in the corner of the room with some girl.”
He sighed and turned to me. “I just… It’s a long story with her… There’s just something about you I can’t get out of my head. But at the same time, I guess I don’t know how to gauge you. It’s like you shut down whenever I talk to you. You’re different than other girls, and I don’t know how to take you.”
He didn’t know how to take me? I stared at him, partly in disbelief and unsure of what to make of the things he said until he continued.
“You know, at The Clover, there are a few guys that call you “The Wall” because you don’t share anything with anyone. You’re so secretive, and if someone tries to get to know you, you shut them down. And this is before the hand. You don’t talk to anyone except your band friends and out of necessity, Carl.”
I snorted. “Is what you’re telling me supposed to make me feel better? Because it doesn’t. And it definitely doesn’t change my complete and utter humiliation. To know people think they can’t talk to me—”
“You don’t give anyone a chance,” Laird said, raising his voice.
“I wonder why,” I said, waving my arm in the direction of the house. “With people like that lurking around! So, again, what’s this all about? Your interest in me? I don’t get it.”
“Neither do I! Okay?” Laird smacked the palms of his hands against the steering wheel. “I just…” His face softened along with his voice. “When you play, sometimes… if you really look, you can see a part of you that’s so exposed. All the times I’ve seen you lurking around the club, I’ve never seen you without a guitar in your hand. I guess I just wanted to find out who you were apart from it. To see behind the wall. These other girls, the ones mostly concerned with their hair and how much makeup they can pile on before they hit the bar for the night or the nearest frat party, I don’t want them. They’ve got nothing to offer me. But you…”
I blinked, at a loss for words, hoping with every fiber of my being he’d finish his sentence, but he didn’t. Instead, he turned away and started the ignition.
He nodded toward the house as he pulled away from the curb. “Jerks like him are everywhere, Sam. I’m sorry tonight, because of me, you met one of them.”
With that, he drove away while my mind spun along with the hum of the engine.
11
The school day passed by with little excitement. I tried not to think about Laird and our disastrous evening. I found myself constantly tucking my hand away in the pocket of my hoodie or sliding it under the books on my desk. Marcus’s disgust at my hand and the words Laird said to me in his car plagued me. To help, I kept busy throughout the day. But as I pulled into the driveway, snippets of the evening started to come back at me, and I knew it would be much harder to keep my mind occupied.
Sighing, I parked behind my father’s car. Tad was about the only person I thought capable of keeping my mind off things. So, the plan was to drop my school things off and head over to June’s house. I swung open the front door, fully prepared to sprint to the stairs to avoid my father. But the second I stepped in the house, my plans dissolved. Judging by the sheen of sweat on my mother’s forehead and her vacant eyes, she was in one of her crazed states.
I froze, willing my legs to move but unable to tear my eyes away from them. Though I had seen her throughout the years in varying degrees of insanity, I never got used to it.
My mother leaned back on the sofa, rubbing her concave stomach while her body shook from the force of her sobs. “Why him? Why did he have to die?”
Next to her, my father put his head in his hands, then sat up and grabbed her arms. His hair was a disheveled mess of inky black. A mixture of expressions competed for dominance on his face—anger, sorrow, fear, regret. “Sandra, why don’t you lie down for a bit? Come on.”
“No!” My mother flailed her arms. Her forearm whipped into my father’s face, smashing into his nose. A trickle of blood ran down his tan skin, which he quickly swiped away before taking another blow to his head.
He gripped her arms, and she went wild. Flashes of her pink robe whirled as she became more frantic, pushing, hitting, and pulling at him. Her forehead beaded with perspiration and her eyes glinted as she bucked her body, trying to loosen my father’s hold on her.
The hair on my arms rose as I watched. I hugged myself, but nothing warded off the chills of witnessing my mother’s madness.
Holding her arms down tightly to the sides of her body, my father’s restraint on her did little to calm her down. One arm broke free, digging for something I couldn’t see, and within a second, her arm emerged from the bottom of the couch with an empty bottle. She threw the glass with force. I jumped out of its way before it smashed into the door behind me with a loud crack and shattered into a million pieces.
My eyes widened, but my muscles remained frozen when my father glanced back at the door to the source of the shattering glass and did a double take. Surprise flickered in his eyes as my presence registered, sharpening the icy blue.
In the background, my mother grunted in a struggle against my father’s hold on her. “Why did you let me go alone in the car? Why?” she wailed.
My father lifted her up like a child, cradling her in his arms. Her fists beat his chest erratically. “You did this! I lost my only baby. You did this to me.” Tears streamed down her face, soaking into the collar of his shirt.
My heart slammed into my ribs at her words, and all I could do was swallow the nausea rising in my throat. Then as if on cue, he ascended the stairs with her, and the invisible force gripping my legs released me. I turned and rushed out the door, jumping back with a small scream when I nearly slammed into someone. I placed my hand over my chest and the frantic beat of my heart.
“I’m sorry!” the delivery man said. “I didn’t see you there.”
Shaking the image of my mother from my mind, I glanced up at him. “No. It’s my fault. I was just leaving.”
“I have a package for Samantha Becker.” He held out an electronic pad for me to sign.
“Um. That’s me.” I scribbled my name without l
ooking while I glanced down to his booted feet and the long box propped against the porch rail.
He bent over and handed me the package. Meanwhile, I tried to clear the haze from my mind. I took the package as the delivery man left and walked with it to my truck. I got inside and sat, closing the door behind me. I cracked the window and let the cool autumn air clear my head. Although I didn’t care about the package, opening it served as a distraction. I cut the tape on the cardboard with my keys and pushed the large flaps of the box open. And in a single moment, the fog lifted when I saw Laird’s scrawl on the note inside.
Sam,
Take this as an apology for Saturday night. I thought you could use this. Seriously. The mental playing you mentioned on the ride there made me think you could take it one step further without stressing your injured hand.
I hope to see you soon. I want another stab at that wall. You know where to find me…
Laird.
My fingers traced over the spot where he signed his name, then I leaned my head back on the seat and closed my eyes, the scene with my parents moments before fresh in my head. His interest in me was clear, but if he knew how dysfunctional my family was what would he think then?
A soft breeze blew through the truck, fluttering over my skin and ruffling the tissue paper inside the box. I leaned forward and pulled the paper out, a thick blanket of apprehension coating my insides. But when I stared down at the contents, I squelched a laugh. Inside, lay a toy guitar. It was one of those new, cardboard thin ones. There were no buttons on the surface. Instead, the guitar looked more like a paper cutout, smooth to the touch but with all the details of the real thing—the frets, fretboard, strings. When I curled my hand around it and moved my finger across a couple of the strings, I lifted my brows at the sound.
Laird must have put it in the freestyle mode before he shipped it. The accuracy was actually pretty good.
I smiled as I imagined him picking this out. When was the last time someone got me a gift? One that mattered? A present they had put thought into? I couldn’t think of one. Christmases these days consisted of a few generic gifts thrown in bags no longer set under a tree, not even for pretense. Birthdays had been forgotten. Because a birthday meant remembering the ones we loved whom weren’t with us to celebrate. And that was too much for my mother to bear and as a result, too much for my father as well. Instead, the anniversary of my birth passed each year in silence, as if it never happened.
I leaned back in the seat, in awe of the gesture. My stomach fluttered, and suppressing my smile proved impossible. I glanced up at the house to make sure my father hadn’t appeared. He’d be busy with Mom for a while. Calming her down in this state usually took medication and a lot of coaxing until she exhausted herself into sleep.
I risked a few chords, relishing in the silliness of the toy, when a loud screeching stole my attention. Glancing behind me, I watched as a yellow school bus stopped. From its folding doors Tad emerged, his backpack slung low on his back. He bounced when he walked, causing the loose laces on his black sneakers to flop with each step. Feeling a pang of regret for how we left things, I shoved the toy guitar back in the box and opened the door.
It was an exceptionally warm day. The sun shined across the lawn, warming my back as I made my way across the yard to where Tad stood in front of the door, fumbling for his keys. I took in the soft curve of his face, the rounded jaw, more boy than man, and soaked in the spattering of freckles on his cheeks and his pale, milky skin. Everything about him was soft, yet to be hardened and chiseled, unlike myself whose life had weathered my already worn interior.
At the thought, something deep inside me stirred. I wanted to protect him even though I had no idea if he even needed protecting.
I cleared my throat. “Hey.”
He turned around. A smile formed on his lips before it vanished into a crease of worry between his eyes. “Hey. You helping June today?”
I nodded. “But I wanted to talk to you first, if that’s okay.”
“Yeah. Come on in.”
Within seconds, he unlocked the door and we both walked inside. He dropped his backpack by the door and plopped down on one of the blue floral sofas. I debated on telling June I was there but decided I’d rather talk to Tad first. I sat down next to him and placed the package at my feet.
“What’s with the box?” he asked, bending to look at it.
“It’s a gift from Laird. I just got it.”
He glanced up at me, a crooked smile inching its way across his face. “Laird? I take it you called him then?”
At the casual way he said it, I knew things were okay between us. No questions, no explanations needed. If I wanted, I could continue the conversation with no mention of the other day in the hospital, nor my unusual absence the last couple days.
“Tad, I’m sorry about the other day. In the hospital, when you said what you did, I know you didn’t mean it how I took it. I don’t even know who I was mad at. Myself, the doctors, the circumstances… You’re probably right. It’s probably not worth all this, and I should probably lay off for a while. But I can’t do that.”
I paused, fighting back the urge to turn and run in the other direction. Opening up was not something I was used to. I had no idea how, yet I knew I had to.
“When I discovered the guitar, it was at a time when I needed something, anything to rely on. I needed something to ease me through dark days with my mother. When my father screamed and blamed me then rushed off to work or eventually, another woman. I was eight years old, so I couldn’t play much, of course. My hands and fingers needed strengthening. Not just from practice and experience but from age and maturity. But it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter if I was playing some beautiful ballad or the national anthem. Playing soothed me, even then, in a way I can’t explain. A couple years later, I took lessons at school. Then I was introduced to Mr. Neely who I thought, at the time, was a genius on the guitar.” I chuckled at the thought.
“When I was eleven, the conversations with my father about working at the bank started. Over those next few years, the bank was one of the only things he talked to me about. Like he had nothing else to say. He never asked if I even wanted to work with him or what else I might like to do with my future. And who knows that young? It became an expectation I would work there. But the moment Mr. Neely introduced me to classical, I was a goner. The sounds, the cadence of the music, the complexities of it. For the first time in my life, I felt powerful. I could manipulate the strings to play what I wanted, to bend the music to my will. Juilliard soon became the thing. I still want it more than anything. If I don’t have music, I have nothing. It’s not just a hobby or even just something I love. It’s a way of life for me. It is me.”
The solemn expression on his face told me he understood without him having to say anything. He blew out a long breath. “Juilliard is your way out of here. Away from your parents and your father’s bank.”
I nodded. “That too.”
“All those things you just said… that’s why you’ll make it. You’ll make history, Sam. I know it. Someday…” He shook his head. “I love the guitar, but not like… with my whole being. Not like you do.”
I cleared my throat, trying to extinguish the gnawing ache and wishing Tad’s words didn’t affect me.
“Pretty heavy after-school conversation, huh?” he asked.
I nodded, but before I could say anything, his face brightened. “Hey, you know. This is kinda cool. We had our first fight. That must mean we’re pretty tight.”
I rolled my eyes and laughed. “Sure.”
“So, what’s with the gift?”
I pursed my lips. He certainly wasted no time. Or was this his attempt at lightening the conversation?
I pulled the guitar from the box and showed Tad. I explained about how I had been playing in my head the last few days and how I could use this to help me. And though a part of me hated to rehash it, I filled him in on my evening with Laird.
“That’s h
eavy,” he said, rubbing his jaw.
“Yeah.”
“I’m glad he punched the jerk though. If I would’ve been there, I woulda given him one of my famous uppercuts.” He ducked his head down and swung his curled arm up in the air, nearly knocking his glasses right off his face.
I snorted. “Okay, slugger, settle down.”
“Obviously he’s into you though. Are you going to see him again?”
I bit my lip, I wanted to say ‘no’, but I knew I’d be lying. “Probably.”
“Um. Sam, I hate to ask the obvious, but what are you gonna do about Derek? I mean, he’s your boyfriend, right?”
“Yeah. There’s not much to do about it though. Laird and I are just hanging out. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“I’m pretty sure eventually it will to him. I’m a guy, take it from me. He’s totally into you.”
I stifled a laugh. “You’re twelve.”
He drew his brows together and nudged his glasses further back on his nose. “Doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m talking about. The way he looked at you the other night at The Clover was the way I look at Lauren. Except slightly less hopeless, maybe. Because he actually has a chance. I mean, sending you this guitar? Genius. I could use some of his game.”
I snorted. “Yeah, well, I’m just going to meet him at The Clover.”
His face scrunched. “So? It doesn’t count as a date unless he picks you up?”
“Exactly.” I flipped my hair over my shoulder and sniffed.
Tad rolled his eyes. “Whatever. What were you doing sitting out in your truck, anyway?”
“You saw me?”
He didn’t say anything, just waited for my answer.
“My mom was having one of her episodes.”
The way he glanced down at his hands told me, despite never having mentioned it, he knew about my mother. Who in the surrounding neighborhood didn’t? Just because it had been years since her condition was breaking news didn’t mean people had forgotten.