Guitar Notes

by Mary Amato

  She hurries to her locker, and just as she is about to send him a text, Annie arrives.

  “Hey, Lyla, I heard something interesting about Tripp Broody today.” Although Annie’s voice is light, Lyla can hear a current of hostility running through it.

  “Really?” Heat rushes to Lyla’s face. She focuses on her backpack, pretending to struggle with the zipper.

  Annie goes on. “It was my day to tutor and I was in the resource room, and Ms. Kettering found out that Tripp has been skipping tutoring sessions with Benjamin Fick.”

  Lyla stuffs a notebook in her backpack and zips it up. “How did she find that out?” She tries to sound casual and starts walking.

  Annie follows. “I’m not sure, but anyway, I was talking to Patricia Kent, and she said that Tripp was playing guitar in one of the practice rooms, which doesn’t make any sense because you’re in there. Did you see him? I mean, you were there today, right?”

  Lyla’s heart pounds. “I don’t know anything about it.”

  Annie stops and glares. “That was a test, Lyla. And you failed. You’ve been lying, and I’m so sick of it. You promised that you weren’t going to hang out with him, and so what do you do? You go behind my back.” She speeds ahead.

  “I wasn’t trying to deliberately go behind your back, Annie. You don’t understand.” Lyla catches up.

  “I do understand. I talked to Patricia Kent. She said you never even asked her to trade days. She said she heard you in the practice room with him.”

  “Did you tell on us to Ms. Kettering?”

  “I’m sure she figured it out on her own.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Annie stops and shrugs. “Well, that’s too bad.”

  “Look, Annie. I’m sorry I lied. But I … I was … I’ve been feeling like …”

  “Like you want to dump me—”

  “Stop it, Annie.”

  “No, you stop it, Lyla.”

  “I don’t think there’s a law that says we have to do everything together all the time.”

  “That’s what friends do, Lyla.”

  “But you put this pressure on me, like I can’t ever disagree.”

  “Just say it, Lyla. You hate me. You think you’re better than me.”

  “Stop it! I don’t think I’m better than you. I don’t hate you! You’re the one who is always saying ‘I hate you’ to me. How do you think that makes me feel?”

  Annie’s face hardens. “So what do you and Tripp do in the practice room?”

  “We play the guitar.”

  An ugly laugh flies out of Annie.

  Lyla asks, “Why is that funny?”

  “It’s so not you.” She walks on. “Have a great life, Lyla.”

  THE BROODYS’ CAR; 4:27 P.M.

  Tripp says nothing to his mom when she picks him up. Now that he has been kicked out of the practice room, the stakes are higher. He has to get his guitar back. Ms. Kettering said she would contact his mom. Maybe she left a message on the home phone and his mom hasn’t had a chance to check the messages. Thankfully, he sees no sign of distress in her face. On the way to Crenshaw, she chatters away, reminding him of all the things he can do to make a good impression: eye contact, firm handshake, no mumbling, and definitely no sarcasm. “Act curious about something they mention,” she says, “and nod to show you’re interested even if you’re not.”

  “Dishonesty above all,” Tripp can’t resist saying.

  She throws him a look. “You know what I mean.”

  They drive into the city and turn into a wealthy-looking neighborhood. At the end of the street, the school sits on top of a hill, like an old English mansion, ivy growing up the stone walls, a clock tower in the biggest building. Tripp is led into a room with two round-faced people for a “getting to know you” session while his mom has a conference with the financial aid advisor in another room.

  When he comes out, the interviewers are smiling, Tripp is smiling, Tripp’s mother is smiling, the secretary who says good-bye to them on the way out is smiling.

  “I avoided sarcasm, whipped out some impressive vocab, and managed a straight face even though they looked like Tweedledee and Tweedledum,” he says as they walk down the steps toward the parking lot. “So … now we get the guitar?”

  His mom waits until they pass by two women talking next to a red convertible. Then her smile dissolves and her voice darkens. “I’ll tell you when we get in the car.”

  His stomach drops. She gets in the car and slams the door, and he stands there wondering how long it would take him to walk home. She reaches over and opens the door. As he gets in, she explodes. “I can’t believe you’ve been lying to me.” She grips the steering wheel with her left hand, turns on the engine, and yanks the car into gear. When she turns to see if it’s safe to back out, her eyes take a swipe at him. “If Crenshaw lets you in, you’re going. That’s it. If you get good grades there, then you can have your guitar back for the summer.”

  “What?”

  She pulls out of the Crenshaw entrance, passing through the two black doors of the imposing wrought-iron gate. “There will be no discussion.”

  His fury builds, but he says nothing. They ride in silence. She drops him off at home and tells him flatly that she is going to pick up some groceries.

  The minute he is alone in the house, he lets out a primal scream. Shaking, he walks into his own room and calls Lyla. Please answer. She does, and her voice is like a lifeline he grabs to keep from drowning. Right away she can tell that something is wrong.

  He crawls into bed and tells her what happened.

  “Crenshaw!” she exclaims. “You can’t go to Crenshaw.”

  “I know.”

  “Did she find out about the practice room?”

  “Yeah.”

  “This is so bad. Annie did, too. We had a huge fight. I really hope—” Her voice changes, and he can tell her father must be there. “It’s page seventy-three. We’re supposed to find solutions to all the odd numbers.”

  “I think my solution involves smashing something with a crowbar,” he says.

  She laughs. “I don’t think that will work. See you tomorrow.”

  Reluctantly, he says good-bye.

  TRIPP’S ROOM; 8:26 P.M.

  Lyla calls. Her voice is a whisper. “You know what I did to take my mind off everything?”

  “Smashed something?”

  She laughs. “No. I made us a website and posted our MP3s on it and said we’re available for weddings!” She laughs again. “Check it out. I sent you the URL. And I have a plan. Tomorrow night, meet me at the corner of Sycamore and Twelfth.”

  “Why?”

  “Not telling. Let’s make it seven P.M. Don’t meander.”

  “Am I going to like it?”

  “Yes. I have to go.” She’s gone.

  He gets his laptop, brings it back to his bed, and fires it up. He finds her e-mail with the URL and clicks on it: www.thrumsociety.com. The website pops up and immediately takes his breath away. Their songs are all there. The Thrum Society. Everything is somehow going to be okay.

  LYLA’S ROOM; 9:32 P.M.

  Annie/I joined canticle quartet now it’s a quintet. Tomorrow cross our names off auditon sheet.

  Lyla reads the message and a wave of relief washes over her. She doesn’t have to be responsible for Annie. It’s better this way.

  Lyla/I think that’s a great idea. Good luck. I’m sure you’ll make it.

  OCTOBER 31. FRIDAY.

  LYLA’S NEIGHBORHOOD; 7:01 P.M.

  Tripp arrives at the corner of Sycamore and Twelfth on his bike and looks for Lyla. Kids in Halloween costumes run across the lawn of a small brick apartment building. Lyla is nowhere in sight. His phone rings.

  “Where are you?” Lyla asks.

  Her voice in his ear is the first real pleasure of the day. “On the corner of Sycamore and Twelfth. Where are you?”

  “Elm and Twelfth. How did you get there?”

  “Bike.�
��

  “Okay. Walk your bike so you don’t get ahead of me. Stay on Sycamore and cross Twelfth, heading toward Thirteenth.”

  “Okay. I’m walking. Where are we going?”

  The neighborhood is old, canopied with huge trees. The small apartments give way to houses, decorated for Halloween with jack-o’-lanterns on the porches and ghosts hanging from the trees. The streetlights are on. It’s already dark, though not completely.

  “Your voice sounds so sad,” she says. “Don’t be sad. You’re going to like this. Keep walking up Sycamore.”

  “Is that where you live?”

  “I live on Ash and Tenth. Keep going up Sycamore.”

  “Am I going to find a pot of gold?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought a rainbow was supposed to be the thing that you follow to get a pot of gold, not a voice on a cell phone.”

  “Hey, look to your right.”

  As Tripp begins to cross Thirteenth Street, he glances over and sees Lyla in the glow of a streetlight, carrying a cello case, heading in the same direction one street over. “Hi, Ms. Even.”

  “Hi, Mr. Odd. We’re parallel,” she says.

  “Why aren’t we walking together?” he asks.

  “We’re avoiding suspicion,” she says.

  “Ah. Why do you have your cello?” he asks.

  “You’ll see.”

  Tripp stays on Sycamore and heads up the next block. Most of the houses have fences, which makes it impossible to catch another glimpse of Lyla. “Do I keep walking?”

  “Yep.”

  When he approaches Fourteenth Street, he looks to the right. “The suspense is killing me.… Wait … wait … there you are. Hello, yonder cello player.”

  “Hello, yonder Oddman. I’m glad to hear some fun in your voice. Keep walking straight ahead. Hey, you know what this means?”

  “What?”

  “If we keep seeing each other when we’re crossing, it means we are walking with the same approximate stride. We could use algebra to determine the length of our strides.”

  “Geek! Do I keep going straight?”

  “Turn right on Fifteenth. If the length of our strides remains the same, we should remain one block apart.”

  Tripp turns right on Fifteenth and sees Lyla one block ahead. “Hey, where are you going?”

  “Left on Walnut.”

  “You disappeared.”

  “Ouch.”

  “What happened?”

  “I banged into a garbage can.”

  Tripp crosses the street and heads down Walnut. “Okay, what do I do on Walnut?”

  “Go into the backyard of the house on the corner. The one on the right with lots of trees. I’m already here.”

  “Am I walking into a trap?”

  “Yes, I’m luring you into a dark alley where I intend to rob—What do you have in your pockets?”

  “Two dollars and a guitar pick.”

  “Where I intend to rob you of two dollars and your guitar pick. Hold on. I need both hands for a minute.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “What about the pot of gold for me? I would like a lot of money so I can buy my own house and my own guitar and live happily ever after.”

  “Well … you might just get your wish.”

  “You sound like you’re out of breath. How come?”

  “Just keep walking. You’ll see.”

  Tripp stops. The house on the corner has a tall fence. “You really want me to go into the backyard? Whose house is this?”

  “Too many questions. Just come!”

  “Do I go through the gate?”

  “Yep. I’m already back here. Walk past the house and into the backyard. Bring your bike. All the way in the back. You’re going to see a tree house.”

  “Tree house? What are you, a hobbit? Is your father the Lord of the Rings?”

  She laughs. “This isn’t my house. It’s my neighbor’s.”

  “We’re trespassing?”

  “Keep walking … all the way in the back.”

  The backyard is deep and dark. In a large oak he sees the faint glow of a tree house. Then the glow brightens, and Lyla peers out of a window, her hair illuminated from behind.

  “Wow.” He slips his phone into his back pocket.

  “Like it?” she calls down.

  “Very cool.”

  “Ready for the next surprise?” she asks.

  “I think so.”

  “Open the cello case,” she says. “It’s by the trunk.”

  Tripp sees a dark shape at the base of the tree. He parks his bike, crouches down, and unlocks the case. It takes a few moments for him to figure out what he’s seeing inside the case: the school guitar. He laughs.

  “I smuggled it out,” she says. “I put it in my cello case and left my cello in the practice room. Mr. Jacoby never goes in those rooms. I figured if he did, I’d tell him that I forgot to put it away.”

  “You stole the school guitar!”

  “No,” she protests. “Just borrowing until you get your guitar back. I’m merely putting it to good use.”

  “This is huge. This is monumental. I can’t believe you did it.”

  “It’s a crime for a musical instrument to go unplayed. I put the empty guitar case back in the storage closet. Mr. Jacoby won’t even know the guitar is gone.”

  “You’re like Robin Hood,” Tripp says. “The musical version. You take guitars from the rich and give them to the poor.”

  Lyla laughs. “Bring it up!”

  Tripp slings the guitar around his back and climbs up through the opening in the floor of the tree house.

  The candle, which Lyla has set on the only piece of furniture—a small wooden stool—fills the room with a warm, golden glow. The three walls not facing the trunk have windows, complete with wooden shutters. Lyla has opened them all. The floor is lined with thick, striped blankets. The room smells of cedar and wool.

  “Wow,” Tripp says.

  “I used to know Mrs. Victor, the woman who lived here—”

  “—in the tree house?”

  Lyla smiles. “In the house house. But she died and her kids are all grown up and they can’t decide whether to sell it or keep it. They send a gardener once a month, but the house is empty. My secret hideaway.” She takes the guitar and strums a chord. “Nobody knows about it.”

  The sound of the guitar fills the tree house. The moon is framed like a picture in one of the windows. It feels to Tripp as if they have traveled back in time. “I think Mrs. Victor would like that we’re here,” he says. “It’s a crime for a tree house to be uninhabited.”

  Lyla smiles.

  “My idea is to leave the guitar here so that either one of us can come anytime and play. We’ll cover it with these blankets to keep it warm at night.”

  “But that means you won’t have it to play at school.”

  “I know.” She shrugs. “But you can’t come to the practice room at all, and you really need it.”

  “You need it, too.”

  “We both need it, and I figured we could both play it here.”

  Tripp nods. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Okay. Let’s work on our waltz,” Lyla says, and pulls her notebook out. “I wrote the rest of the lyrics. Oh, and guess what else I brought?”

  “I can’t imagine.”

  She reaches in her other pocket and pulls out a small digital recorder. “My dad got this for me to record my lessons with Dr. Prevski. We can record our songs up here and post them all on our website.”

  “You’re a genius,” he says, and she nods.

  They work on the song, and after a few minutes, Lyla’s cell phone rings.

  “I’m not answering,” she says.

  They practice different harmonies until they get the song into shape.

  “Ready to record it?” Lyla asks.

  Tripp nods, and she pushes the button.

  He plays the introduction and then they sin
g:

  I like the sound of your name in my ear,

  I like to hear what you have to say,

  I’d like to pay attention to you—instead of doing

  What I have to do. Oh …

  Something inside me is ready,

  Something inside me is ready,

  Something in me’s ready—oh,

  Here I go …

  I like the way that our time intertwines.

  I want to design each day so we can meet,

  Each word a seed that’s hoping to grow—no need to hurry,

  Let’s take it slow. Oh …

  Something inside me is ready,

  Something inside me is ready,

  Something in me’s ready—oh,

  Here I go …

  I like the shape of the thoughts in your mind.

  You’ve got the kind of edge that I seem to need,

  And if you feel the world doesn’t care—I’ll send a message,

  You’ll know I’m here. Oh …

  They sing the chorus one final time and when they get to the last note, they look at each other and smile.

  “Not bad!” Tripp says.

  “Oooh, that break you did gave me an idea for something new to try. Maybe for another song,” Lyla exclaims and takes the guitar. “Let me try it with your pick.”

  He hesitates.

  “Just for a minute,” she says.

  He hands it to her. She strums, but she isn’t holding on tightly enough and the pick flies out of her hand. “I’m sorry,” she says, her voice bright with embarrassment. She kneels forward, looking for it. “If we can’t find it, I’ll get you another one.”

  Tripp looks all around the opening and then heads down the ladder without saying a word. He starts to search the dark, leaf-covered ground.

  “I’m sorry!” Lyla says again. “It’s not the end of the world, is it? You have other picks, right?” Her phone rings. She doesn’t answer it. “Use your cell phone like a flashlight,” she suggests.

  He opens his phone and crouches down, pointing the light at the leaves around his feet.

  “I’ll buy you a new pick, Tripp,” she calls down.