by Mary Amato
She leans forward. “I like how that sounds. Play it again.”
He repeats the rhythm.
“We need to make up a new song,” she says.
“What should it be about?”
She looks across the water and says, “All this.”
“The lake?”
She smiles. “This feeling. This whole day has been so cool. I feel so lucky.” The boat rocks gently.
He stops playing. “Did you ever think about how if I had been assigned to Room A instead of Room B, you wouldn’t have seen my trash or the guitar, and we wouldn’t have started writing notes, and we wouldn’t be here right now?”
She nods. “That’s what I mean. I feel lucky.”
“Trash is so lucky,” he sings and strums.
She laughs. “I want it to be a thrumming song.… When we were singing in there …”
He looks up.
“… I felt like all our souls were thrumming at the same frequency.” Her eyes are bright. “Yours. Mine. Ruby’s. Romeo’s. Everybody’s.”
He knew she felt the same way he did. He plays the chord progression again and sings, “Lucky, lucky me.”
“I like it!” she says. “That should be in the chorus. Let’s get it down before we forget.” She reaches into her coat pocket and produces her digital recorder with a smile. “I’m like a Girl Scout. Always prepared.” They sing it again and she records it.
“Let’s have a verse that is kind of sad and then when it gets to the chorus, it’s happy.”
“I can do sad.” He strums and sings, “Before today, my days were blue. I was locked in a closet …”
“… with mops and shampoo …” Lyla laughs.
“… and a kangaroo,” he adds, “and a stinkin’ shoe …”
They start to experiment with different lines when they hear a voice.
“Lyla!”
It sends a shock through them at the same time. They look back toward the dock, and there, against the backdrop of the darkening sky, is Lyla’s dad.
“Oh, this is not good,” Lyla says.
“How did he find us?”
“Lyla!” her dad calls again.
“What should we do?” Tripp asks.
“What do you mean? What choice do we have? We have to row back.” Lyla takes the guitar from him.
Tripp grabs the oars and begins turning the boat around as Lyla pulls out her phone and turns it on. Fifteen messages. “He must have found out I wasn’t at school,” Lyla says.
“What did you tell him?”
“That I was at a French club thing. I should’ve known this wouldn’t work.”
“But how did he find out we’re here?”
“He must have read all our messages on my computer.”
“He has your password?”
She nods. “He made it a rule that he has to have it, but I never thought he’d actually go snooping.”
They fall silent as they approach the dock. Her father yells as soon as they get close enough to hear. “This is the most irresponsible thing—”
Tripp winces and keeps rowing.
“We were just coming in. I swear,” Lyla says, her voice thick and anxious. “We were planning on being back in time—”
“I called fifteen times.”
She holds up her phone. “I was just about to call you, Dad. Please don’t overreact.…”
Tripp has rowed too hard; he plunges one oar in the water to turn the boat, but the bow slams against a dock post.
Mr. Marks crouches down. Holding the post with one arm, he reaches out and grabs the rope on the bow. “I know about everything,” he says. “The lies … the secret meetings … stealing the guitar from school and the money from me that was supposed to go toward lessons.…” He throws a disgusted look at Tripp. “All this ugliness is stopping right now.”
Tripp flinches. “It’s not—”
“You don’t have the right to say a single word,” Mr. Marks says. “This friendship is over. I’ve already taken steps.…” With one hand he pulls the rope so that the rowboat glides against the dock, then he reaches down and steadies it with the other hand. “Come on, Lyla. We’re leaving right now.” He glances back at Tripp. “Your mom knows, too, by the way.”
Lyla hands Tripp the guitar. The rock of the boat as she steps out breaks his heart. Tell him, Lyla. Please tell him that it wasn’t ugly.
Mr. Marks puts his arm around Lyla and leads her away. Lyla turns back and looks at Tripp, her eyes full of tears. Tripp sits in the boat and watches as they walk up the path and out of sight, everything good inside him draining out.
He pulls out his phone, turns it on, types in a message to her, and hits SEND, but it bounces back. Message failed. He tries again and again. Could Mr. Marks have blocked his number from Lyla’s phone? Is that what he meant by “already taken steps”?
Lyla’s digital recorder is on the seat. As he picks it up and puts it in his pocket, his phone buzzes. Mom calling. Reluctantly, he answers. “Yeah?”
Her exhale is loud. “Finally. Somebody named Lyla’s dad called me up and basically told me what a horrible person you are.”
“It’s not what you think—”
“I don’t know what’s going on. It was humiliating, Tripp. I’m on my way—I’m at a red light. When I get there, we’re going to—”
“You don’t have to come. There’s a cab coming—”
“A cab?”
“It’s how we came. We already paid him for the return trip. He’s coming back at—”
“You’re not taking a cab. I’ll be there in half an hour.”
“Mom—”
“The light turned green. I have to go. I’m hanging up.”
Tripp slides his phone closed. He sits for a long minute, staring at the water. Then he reluctantly gets out. On his way past the house, Ruby’s son stops him and hands him an envelope with cash and tells him how much they enjoyed their music. Guitar in hand, he heads up the driveway to the road and sits on a tree stump. He calls Aamod, who is already on his way, and cancels.
“No refund,” Aamod says.
“Yeah, I know.” Tripp replies.
A raindrop lands on his hand, and he looks up at the clouds.
THE MARKSES’ CAR; 3:14 P.M.
Mr. Marks’s voice is stretched thin. “We can make it. I have your cello and dress clothes in the backseat. We’ll go straight there and you can change and have a good forty minutes to warm up.” He leans forward and wipes the condensation collecting on the inside of the windshield.
Lyla looks at the raindrops on the window. The beauty of the wedding ceremony, of their music, and of the boat ride with Tripp seem like scenes from a play. She didn’t stick up for Tripp. She left without even saying good-bye. Tripp must think she is a coward.
“Lyla?” Her father’s voice cracks. His hands are gripping the wheel, his eyes are brimming with tears. “Lyla, I don’t understand how you could do something like this today. Didn’t you realize how worried I’d be?”
One raindrop pools into another and they form a narrow river running down her window.
“It’s like you don’t even care about the audition,” her father continues. “This is so unlike you.”
“I told you,” Lyla says. “We arranged for a cab to get us. I would’ve gotten home on time.”
“On time!? On the day of a big audition, you do not go running away from home and playing around with—”
“I wasn’t running away from home. I was—”
“This whole guitar thing. I know you feel sorry for this boy, for whatever he’s been through, but he is trouble.…”
Lyla closes her eyes.
“That’s the thing about your age group,” he goes on. “One day you like this … the next day you like that … but you can’t let an opportunity like Coles slip by and regret it.”
She can’t breathe.
The road curves sharply and he brakes and swerves to follow it.
She pulls out her phone an
d checks her messages. They are all from her dad. Nothing from Tripp yet. She starts typing a new message.
“You’re not texting him,” he says.
“Dad—”
“I blocked his number from your phone.”
“Dad, you can’t just do that—”
“Lyla.” Her dad flicks on the windshield wipers and leans forward. “Hold on. See that piece of paper? I wrote down the directions. What’s the name of the next road? Pine Top?”
“Dad, you can’t just block people from my phone.”
“Lyla, a friendship with that boy is not a good idea.” The road curves again, and he passes a turnoff for another road. “I think that was Pine Top. Look at the directions, please, and tell me if I should find a place to turn around.”
“Dad, you don’t understand. Tripp isn’t a bad person—”
“Lyla, I don’t think you’re in a position to judge—”
The road curves again and, between one sweep of the wiper’s arm, Lyla sees the deer leap from the woods onto the asphalt: the pronged antlers, the muscular haunches, the delicate legs.
She knows the instant she sees the deer that it is too late. Her father slams on the brakes, and the car begins to spin out of control. Lyla hears a scream, and she doesn’t know if it’s coming from her father, herself, the deer, or the screeching tires.
But I’m not ready to die, she thinks; and in that split second, she imagines she is still sitting in the rowboat, playing the guitar with Tripp, the boat rocking gently on the surface of the water.
The deer touches down just inches beyond the car and leaps again, his back hoof clearing the bumper. The car swerves off the road and heads for a large pine tree. Lyla braces herself as the tree seems to rush forward to meet them. A crack as loud as the splitting of the earth hits her ears as they crash. The spinning stops, and then the world goes silent.
The deer is gone.
THE BROODYS’ CAR; 3:21 P.M.
“Enlighten me, Tripp,” his mom says as she drives. “How on earth did you talk this poor girl into stealing a guitar from school and skimming money from her dad’s pocket so that you could take a sixty-minute cab ride to—”
“It wasn’t like that. You’re making it sound like I’m—”
“I’m just relaying what her dad said to me. Do you have any idea what it’s like to have a complete stranger call you up and tell you, essentially, that your kid is a criminal and that you are a bad parent?”
“I’m not a criminal.”
“According to Mr. Marks, this girl was a perfect student until you came along. He called you a ‘terrible influence.’ ” His mother’s voice rages on like a fire. “He wants you to stay as far away from his daughter as is humanly possible. What is wrong with you?”
“We’re friends. We—”
“Oh, come on.”
“What? You don’t believe I have a friend?”
“Frankly, I don’t. You haven’t made an effort since Josh moved away. That was a year and a half ago, Tripp.”
“Well, she’s a friend. I have a friend.”
“More like you have someone who can get you a precious guitar.”
Tripp looks out the window.
The sky opens, and the rain pours.
“No, really. I’m waiting to be enlightened, Tripp. Explain what this supposed music gig was all about. You expect me to believe that someone would hire a kid they don’t even know to play at something as important as a wedding?”
“I’m not just a kid. And they’re really nice people—”
“—who could have been ax murderers. Did you ever think of that?” She throws him a look. “Did you ever think that somebody could have been posing as a bride and groom to get you to lure this girl out and kidnap her? Reckless and dangerous.” She shakes her head.
Through the rain, he watches the blur of passing trees. He will not bother to explain anything to her. She just shoots him down as soon as he starts to talk.
“You’re going to write a letter of apology to that girl’s father and pay him back the money that you basically stole from him for this cab ride. I’ll drive you to their house tomorrow night and you can deliver it personally. On Monday, you’re going to return the guitar to school with an apology to that music teacher. You’re going to report to the store every day after school to do your homework. No ifs, ands, or buts. And Thanksgiving weekend, I expect you to work for me.” She throws another hard glance. “You’re going to Crenshaw if they accept you.” The road curves. She turns right onto Pine Top Road and heads toward home.
THE MARKSES’ CAR; 3:24 P.M.
“Lyla?” Her father’s voice is frantic. “Lyla?”
When Lyla opens her eyes, she sees a jumble of images like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that have been dumped into one pile. Jagged metal on her left leg and a tree branch where the window should be. Diamonds are scattered everywhere and a red river is running over her and dripping into her lap.
She tries to move her head, and the pain rips through her. Her eyes close and she feels herself sinking even though she is pinned against the seat. The rain is pouring down her neck, and she decides that she must be in the lake. It’s so cold, she says, but her lips don’t move.
Pinned to the seat next to her, her father manages to pull his cell phone out of his pocket to dial 911. “Yes, it’s an emergency. An accident. We need an ambulance. My daughter …” He is breathless.
She hears his voice. He must be swimming, she thinks, trying to hold his head above the water. Is he talking about me? Am I the daughter? I should call out to him.…
She feels as if she is sinking into dark green water.
TRIPP’S ROOM; 5:13 P.M.
Lyla, I think your dad blocked my number from your phone. Please, please meet me in the tree house tomorrow. Tomorrow night my mom is driving me to your house to deliver an apology and the money we took from your lessons. On Monday, I have to return the school guitar. That reminds me. I have the money from the gig. They paid us in cash. I have it in my wallet and I want you to have it. I’ll give it to you at school on Monday. Please write back. I’m going crazy.—Tripp
NOVEMBER 23. SUNDAY.
TRIPP’S ROOM; 1:37 P.M.
Dear Mr. Marks,
I am sorry about all the secrets. Please don’t be mad at Lyla. I’m not a criminal and I wasn’t using her. We became friends, and we started playing the guitar together and writing songs together, and it was a good thing. Lyla is an amazing songwriter, and she was also helping me with my homework, which was genuinely nice because I started to really like science. But I know you’re upset because all these things were keeping her from playing the cello.
Please accept this apology.
—Tripp Broody
TRIPP’S ROOM; 8:57 P.M.
Lyla, I waited all day. Are you mad at me? I get the fact that your dad probably blocked my phone number and my e-mail address, but I thought you’d find some way to talk to me. My mom drove me to your house, but no one was home. She didn’t want me to leave cash, but I left a note for your dad. I hope it helps. Tell him my mom is going to mail a check. I’m having a panic attack that he has taken you away and locked you up someplace. Did you do the audition yesterday? Please find a way to tell me what’s going on. Tomorrow I’m going to the grocery store to stock up on pomegranates. If your dad won’t let me see you, I’m going to lob them at his head. We have to finish our thrumming song. I have your digital recorder.—Tripp
HOSPITAL; 8:58 P.M.
Down a gleaming white corridor through a set of double doors marked SURGICAL INTENSIVE CARE UNIT, Lyla is lying in a bed, slightly upright, with her arms at her sides, bound to the metal rails to keep her from moving. Her face is swollen, and her eyelids are purple and puffy. Her head is shaved, and underneath the bandage, a piece of her skull has been removed. A breathing tube is in her mouth, held in place by white tape. A trickle of liquid is snaking out
her right ear and down her neck. A thinner tube is taped to her right arm and connected to a bag that is hanging from a silver stand. Through the needle in her arm, cold liquid drips into her veins, medicine to reduce the swelling of her brain and to keep her asleep, and fluids to keep her hydrated. Underneath the blue hospital blanket, her left leg is in a cast. The hiss of the ventilator fills the room.
She is somewhere past a dream, floating in a dark green lake. Hour after hour, the current gently tries to pull her farther away.
NOVEMBER 24. MONDAY.
ORCHESTRA ROOM; 8:13 A.M.
Tripp walks into the music room with the guitar and a note of apology. It’s an even day, which means Lyla should be coming to the orchestra room first period, so he is hoping she will walk through the door and smile.
Instead, he overhears Mr. Jacoby talking with Mr. Sanders about the accident. Bit by bit he pieces together what has happened to Lyla, then Mr. Jacoby notices him and stops talking. The teacher takes the guitar and the note and pauses, as if he doesn’t know what to say. Finally, he gives him a nod and tells him to go to class.
Tripp walks out in a daze. Ahead, he sees Annie approaching and he stops her.
She looks sick to her stomach and says, “I don’t want to talk about it.”
The bell rings and she hurries into the music room.
“I’m sure you have somewhere to go, Tripp,” Mr. Handlon says as he walks by.
Tripp walks to class and sits down. He wants to scream, but he is locked in the reality of this classroom, this day.
He gets through his morning classes. At lunch, he calls Lyla even though he knows it’s pointless, and then he writes three notes to Annie, asking her to tell him what she knows, but he throws them all away. By the afternoon, differing rumors about Lyla’s accident are all over school. She has a broken leg. She has a concussion. She is going to be all right. She is dying.