by Mary Amato
“Well, if I had my guitar …” He looks out the window. The sun is setting. The sky is drained of color, with only a hint of orange at the horizon. He wants to finish his song and practice it a thousand times until it’s good enough to record.
She rolls her eyes. “Please don’t start this now, Tripp.”
He puts down his fork. “I have gone forty-six days without it. I am forty-six times closer to insanity.”
She fills up the pot and pours it into the coffeemaker. “You can’t see it, but that guitar has been nothing but trouble.”
“What?”
“It was okay at first, but then you started isolating yourself. Every day after school. All day Saturday and Sunday—”
“I had nothing else to do. Josh moved away.”
“Exactly. You should have been out making new friends. And then your grades started sliding and they’ve been downhill ever since. You have been using it to waste your time when—”
“Just because you don’t value music doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be able to play. I don’t tell you that I think you’re wasting your time on whatever it is you’re doing tonight.”
She groans. “This is called duty.” She flips on the coffeemaker and grabs a stack of small white napkins. “Susan signed me up to be chairperson for the Slater Creek Parkway Cleanup Committee, and I’m too nice to back out, so I’m hosting the meeting.” She walks the napkins into the dining room and calls back. “And I do value music.”
He feels a pang of guilt about the cleanup committee, but it is quickly replaced by anger. “You do not.”
She storms back into the kitchen, hand on her hip. “You think I’m a monster.”
He grabs his coat and walks past her to the front door.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“Bike ride,” he says.
“No way.”
“I finished my homework.”
“It’s dark—”
“I have a light.” He opens the front door just as a woman is about to knock.
“Cindy!” his mom chirps. “Welcome, welcome!”
“Hi, Terry!” the woman chirps back. “Oh my Lord, is this Tripp? You’ve grown!”
“Indeed,” Tripp says. “Miraculously, the local termites have not stunted my growth.”
The woman’s laugh has a hollow ring.
“I’m going for a ride on Slater Creek Parkway,” he adds. “As a user of the bike path, I thank you in advance for your committee’s cleanup efforts.”
The woman thinks this is hilarious.
His mom fakes a smile and calls out: “Be careful and wear your helmet, Tripp.”
In the cool air, Tripp rides to the parkway, a road that follows a narrow creek with a thin strip of woods on either side. He breathes in the muddy smell of the creek and the woods, a rich smell that reminds him of his dad, and his throat closes. A thought emerges: I wish it had been Mom instead of Dad. As soon as he thinks it, he fears lightning will strike. It’s horrible, but true.
As he coasts down a hill, he sees a young deer in the grassy area between the picnic tables and small parking lot, her head bent, nibbling the grass.
Tripp holds his breath and starts to brake. Farther beyond the deer, he sees an approaching car on the road. The deer raises her head, the patch of fur at her neck so white, and she looks right at Tripp. Her ears twitch. “Please don’t be spooked,” Tripp whispers.
The deer bolts away from Tripp and leaps onto the road. The car screeches and swerves. Tripp sees the flash of the deer’s tail as she makes it to the other side and disappears into the shadows of someone’s backyard. The car passes by, and the road is quiet again.
Tripp’s heart is pounding. He stands for a long minute, straddling his bike, feeling like he is the one who just escaped being hit. He wants to call Lyla and tell her what just happened, talk to her about how sad it is when you see a deer in such a crowded area because they have no place to go. He has this feeling that she would understand, but what if she thought it was strange that he called out of the blue? He rides on and, when he gets to the stoplight, turns onto the busy street. The pawnshop is just five blocks up; the guitar he noticed the last time he passed is still in the window, propped against an ugly green chair. After he locks up his bike, he walks in and asks the big bald guy behind the counter if he can see the guitar.
“You just want to play it or are you actually interested in buying?” the guy asks, without moving.
“I’m interested in buying,” Tripp says.
The guy gets it for him, and Tripp plays until the guy says it’s closing time already and he gets kicked out.
OCTOBER 18. SATURDAY.
BANK OF AMERICA; 10:01 A.M.
Tripp walks into the Bank of America and looks around. He has been to the bank only two or three times his entire life, and he’s not entirely sure how it works. Four people are waiting in line to see one of the three women who are sitting behind windows. Tripp joins the line, pulling out the black book that has his account number and deposit and withdrawal forms. While he waits for his turn, his phone buzzes and he grins.
Lyla/Hey what’s up?
Lyla texting out of the blue. Nice surprise indeed.
Tripp/I’m at the bank.
Lyla/Robbing it?
Tripp/taking out money I saved. gonna buy a guitar.
Lyla/Cool! Hey how did you learn to play if you don’t have one?
Tripp/I have one but my mom confiscated it.
Lyla/harsh
Tripp/she locked it in a closet at her store.
Lyla/steal it back
Tripp/honking lock on it.
Lyla/wait. won’t your mom be mad if you buy one?
Tripp/beds are meant to hide things under
Lyla/Good luck with that. I gotta go. I’m on a break at MYO rehearsal.
Tripp/What’s MYO? The Merry Yogurt Organization?
Lyla/Metz Youth Orchestra. Bye.
“Next,” the woman on the end says.
He steps up, slips the form under the glass partition, and smiles.
“Photo ID,” the teller says.
Tripp wasn’t expecting that. He pulls his school ID out of his pocket while she looks at the form and taps something into the computer. After a moment, she slips the form back to him. “Sorry, I can’t process this. It’s a minor account and the custodian”—she checks the screen—“Terry Broody, has essentially placed a freeze on it.”
“A freeze?”
“You can’t withdraw funds without her signature.”
“She can’t do that. It’s my money.”
“The way the account is set up, she can. Sorry.” She gives him a fake smile. She isn’t sorry at all.
He leaves and rides back home.
Depressed, he opens up the desk drawer in the kitchen and slips his black book back in. Her checkbook catches his eye. He takes it and hides it in the back of the freezer, underneath a bag of frozen lima beans. If she can freeze his account, he can freeze hers.
TRIPP’S ROOM; 12:47 P.M.
I couldn’t get a guitar. My mom froze my bank account. I’m beyond mad.—Mr. Odd
I’m so sorry! Maybe you should write a song about it.
Ode to Rage. IF I HAD MY GUITAR I’D BE FINE.
You know how in that note you said, tell your parents you want to take a break from the cello? Well, there’s only my dad. My mom died when I was six. She was a cellist and she performed all over the world and she was on a flight going from one country to another and something went wrong and the airplane went down in the ocean. It was weird—there wasn’t room on that flight for her cello because of some mix-up and she had agreed to have it sent on the next flight. I remember my dad crying when the cello was delivered.
When I got older I thought the fact that the cello survived was like a sign that I wa
s supposed to play it. When you and I first started exchanging notes, I thought we had nothing in common, but we are sort of living parallel lives. We both have one parent, and we both don’t have any brothers or sisters, and we both feel pressured even though it’s in different ways.
I think your mom is insane to take away the one thing that makes you feel sane. Why don’t they get it? It’s like the blasty rug. Okay. This is ridiculously long.—Ms. Even
It is weird how we have so much in common. One day you had a mom and the next day you didn’t. Same with me. One day he was my normal dad and then a blood vessel inside his brain exploded and he was dead. Sometimes I look at myself in the mirror and imagine my brain exploding. Do you ever have morbid thoughts?
Sometimes I imagine my cello exploding. And sometimes I look at myself in the mirror, and my own face looks like a mask to me.
When I ride the Metro, and it goes under, I stare at my reflection in the window and it’s like a dark ghost version of me is whooshing along at the exact same speed outside the train. And it’s like, “Who are you?”
Okay, here’s something else weird about me. You know how I said that the kid (Henry) had a connection with the blasty rug, like he was hearing the rug’s vibe and humming along with it? Well, I have a Vibe Theory. Ever since I can remember, I’ve felt like everything has a vibe, which I could sense. Inanimate things, like socks and pencils and stuff. Hard to explain, but I would look at a bunch of pencils and one would call out to me, “Pick me! I’m the happy pencil!”
That’s funny. I’ve always tried to hear things that I shouldn’t be able to hear. You know how dogs can hear a high-pitched whistle and we can’t? Annie just reminded me how I thought I could hear my bones grow in the fifth grade. Speaking of hearing things … Did you write a song? If so, I could come to the practice room at lunch tomorrow and you could play it for me. Okie-dokie?
I did write a song, but no okie-dokie on coming to the practice room. I’m not good at in-person stuff.
Bawk bawk.
I’m not a chicken. I’m an aardvark. Remember? I’m just finishing the lyrics. I haven’t even had a chance to play it with guitar.
Okay. Monday is an even day. You can have the practice room at lunch, but you have to record your song and send me the MP3.
Deal.
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.
TRIPP’S ROOM; 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.
PRACTICE ROOM 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.
LYLA’S ROOM; 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