by Amato, Mary
Hear all the songs from the book, sing with the karaoke tracks, and learn how to write your own songs on the Guitar Notes website, www.thrumsociety.com.
EGMONT
We bring stories to life
First published by Egmont USA, 2012
443 Park Avenue South, Suite 806
New York, NY 10016
Copyright © 2012 by Mary Amato
All rights reserved
www.egmontusa.com
www.maryamato.com
Illustrations and design elements: MAX AMATO
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Amato, Mary.
Guitar notes / Mary Amato.
p. cm.
Summary: Tripp, who plays guitar only for himself, and Lyla, a cellist whose talent has already made her famous but not happy, form an unlikely friendship when they are forced to share a practice room at their high school.
eISBN: 978-1-60684-300-0
[1. Interpersonal relations–Fiction. 2. Musicians–Fiction. 3. Guitar–Fiction. 4. Cello–Fiction. 5. High schools–Fiction. 6. Schools–Fiction. 7. Single-parent families–Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.A49165Gui 2012
[Fic]–dc23
2011038115
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright owner.
v3.1
In memory of my dad, Jack Koepke, whose hearty rendition of “On the Road to Mandalay” was the beloved soundtrack of my childhood car rides; for Mr. James McCauley, my eighth-grade English teacher in Libertyville, IL, whose lesson on song lyrics as poetry made my soul thrum; and for all the singers with whom I have sung, most especially the earliest ones: my sisters—Cathy, Nancy, and Suzanne—and my high school friends-in-harmony, Jane Donndelinger Victor and Mary Donndelinger Neuberger.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
September 2. Tuesday.
September 3. Wednesday.
September 4. Thursday.
September 8. Monday.
September 15. Monday.
September 16. Tuesday.
September 17. Wednesday.
September 18. Thursday.
September 19. Friday.
September 21. Sunday.
September 22. Monday.
September 23. Tuesday.
September 24. Wednesday.
September 25. Thursday.
September 27. Saturday.
September 29. Monday.
September 30. Tuesday.
October 1. Wednesday.
October 2. Thursday.
October 3. Friday.
October 4. Saturday.
October 6. Monday.
October 7. Tuesday.
October 8. Wednesday.
October 9. Thursday.
October 10. Friday.
October 13. Monday.
October 14. Tuesday.
October 15. Wednesday.
October 16. Thursday.
October 17. Friday.
October 18. Saturday.
October 19. Sunday.
October 20. Monday.
October 21. Tuesday.
October 22. Wednesday.
October 23. Thursday.
October 24. Friday.
October 25. Saturday.
October 26. Sunday.
October 28. Tuesday.
October 29. Wednesday.
October 30. Thursday.
October 31. Friday.
November 1. Saturday.
November 2. Sunday
November 4. Tuesday.
November 5. Wednesday.
November 6. Thursday.
November 7. Friday.
November 12. Wednesday.
November 21. Friday.
November 22. Saturday.
November 23. Sunday.
November 24. Monday.
November 25. Tuesday.
November 26. Wednesday.
November 27. Thursday.
November 30. Sunday.
December–March
March 28. Saturday.
A Little Room to Play
Mr. Odd
Tell-Tale Heart
Guilty
The Pomegranate Waltz
Waiting in a Tree
Get Away
Lucky Me
Acknowledgments
1. Wear the white belt.
2. Pick up your guitar.
3. Tune.
4. Play.
—from Zen Guitar
by Philip Toshio Sudo
SEPTEMBER 2. TUESDAY.
TRIPP BROODY’S ROOM; 7:33 A.M.
… BUMPER-TO-BUMPER DUE TO AN ACCIDENT ON THE LEFT SHOULDER. RESCUE CREWS ARE ON THE SCENE. UP-TO-THE-MINUTE TRAFFIC BROUGHT TO YOU BY MONTGOMERY AUTOPARTS …
The clock-radio alarm drills into Tripp Broody’s ears, and his eyelids open. After three slow blinks, he realizes what he is seeing three feet from his bed: a note taped to the metal stand where his guitar should be.
He sits up, pushes his long, messy hair out of his eyes, and reads it.
Dear Tripp,
I know you’re going to be mad at me, but you didn’t keep up your end of the bargain. You didn’t do your summer reading or math packet. You didn’t do anything but lock yourself in this room and play the guitar. It’s like you’re addicted to it. It’s unhealthy and isolating. You are capable of getting straight A’s. You can have your guitar back if you have all A’s at the end of the semester and if you at least attempt to be more social. Don’t bring a sour face to school. Nobody likes that. Talk to people this year, okay? It won’t kill you.
Love, Mom
P.S. You have brought this on yourself. I really believe that you’re going to thank me for this in the long run.
It takes a moment for the reality to sink in. His room is hot and small, the air conditioner wheezing out a pathetically small stream of cold air molecules.
He wants to scream, but he keeps his mouth closed. She must have planned it all out, he thinks, to take his guitar on the night before school begins so that there would be no time to discuss it. She is a thief and a coward.
After pulling on shorts and a T-shirt, he walks into the kitchen, takes her bag of ground coffee out of the cupboard, and pours the coffee down the garbage disposal. Then he walks over to a potted aloe plant, spoons dirt into the coffee bag, apologizes to the plant, neatly refolds the top of the bag, and puts it back in the cupboard.
Finely ground French Roast dirt.
Take that.
LYLA MARKS’S ROOM; 7:34 A.M.
Lyla Marks is lying on her bed, staring at the ceiling, fully dressed, her frizzy dark hair fanning on the white pillow like a fern. Her heart is beating abnormally loudly. She puts her hand over it. Calm down.
Her phone buzzes. She knows without looking at the little screen that it’s Annie. She doesn’t want to hear her friend’s voice right now, because she knows that it’ll make her heart beat even faster. But she answers.
“What are you wearing?” Annie asks.
“Tangerine top. Blue skirt,” Lyla says.
“And the shoes that I picked out?” Annie asks.
“Yeah. I’m lying on my bed. I feel like a corpse.”
“That’s sick. Stop talking like that. You’re freaking me out,” Annie says. “We’re picking you up in five minutes. Be ready.”
Lyla slips her phone into the pocket of her jean skirt. Her black cello case is on its side in the middle of her bedroom floor. She imagines opening the window and pushing the case out, imag
ines it splitting open when it hits the ground, and the cello splintering into pieces.
“Lyla!” her dad calls.
She picks up her cello and walks out the door.
Her dad is at the bottom of the stairs, looking at his phone. “Dr. Prevski just e-mailed. She said yes to adding an extra fifteen minutes to your lessons so you can work on the Coles audition piece!”
Lyla’s heart starts pounding again. “That’s great,” she says, and busies herself by checking what’s in her backpack.
When Annie’s car pulls up, Lyla’s dad picks up her cello and follows her out. “Play the Bruch piece,” he says. “Just the second part. That’ll show Mr. Jacoby your range.”
“Got it, Dad,” she says, and smiles.
“Have a great first day, sweetie!” He puts the cello in the back and says hi to Annie’s mom as Lyla gets into the car.
“Lyla, you look adorable,” Mrs. Win says.
“Just absolutely adorable,” Annie says, and laughs.
“Thank you,” Lyla says to Mrs. Win.
“You both look adorable,” Lyla’s dad says as he closes the back of the car.
“We don’t want to look adorable,” Annie says. “We want to look sophisticated.”
As Mrs. Win is about to pull out, Lyla’s dad knocks on the window.
Lyla looks out.
“Where’s your head? Put your seat belt on,” he says through the window.
“Sorry,” she says, and buckles up.
“Ready?” Mrs. Win asks.
“Yeah,” Lyla lies.
ROCKLAND SCHOOL; 8:05 A.M.
Tripp wants to turn around and make a run for it. Too many students are streaming through the school doors at the same time, yelling and laughing. As soon as he’s inside, a girl next to him screams at another down the hall. “Beanie, you look totally cute!”
Beanie screams back, “Casey, I missed you all summer!”
Tripp turns to the girl called Beanie, who he doesn’t know at all, and asks, “Why did you just lie?”
“What?” The girl gives him a look.
“From the sound of your voice, it’s obvious you’re lying,” he explains.
“From the sound of your voice, it’s obvious you’re an idiot.” The girl runs ahead.
Who wants to hear the truth? Nobody. Well, he talked to someone today. He can tell his mom that. He adjusts his headphones and turns up his music.
Mr. Handlon, the vice principal, is standing outside the main office. “Welcome back, Alex. Nice to see you, girls! Tripp Broody, headphones away or they’re mine.”
“I promise to put them away when I get to class,” Tripp argues.
“Put them away now or they’re mine. You know the rules.”
Reluctantly, he puts away his music and is pushed forward by the crowd. The shouts and clatter, along with the smell of fresh paint, make him dizzy. He pulls his schedule out of his pocket—Intro to Tech in Room T113—and heads toward the T hallway.
“Hi, Mrs. Sykes!” a girl next to him calls out. “How was your summer?”
It’s oval-faced Annie Win, with her friend Lyla Marks, famous at his school. Perfect at being perfect. They are passing him, walking fast, carrying their instruments, happy to see their teachers, happy to be back. “Do your brains sing chipper songs inside your chipper heads all day?” he asks them.
Annie throws him a foul look and pulls Lyla to the bulletin board in front of the music room. Tripp notices what they’re reading: MUSIC PRACTICE ROOM SIGN-UP.
“Patricia Kent already has her name up here!” Annie exclaims.
He stands behind them and peers around Lyla’s hair to read:
MUSIC PRACTICE ROOMS
AVAILABLE FOR USE
DURING LUNCH PERIOD.
SIGN UP BELOW
FOR THIS SEMESTER.
THE SCHEDULE WILL
BE POSTED ON SEPTEMBER 8,
AND ROOMS WILL OPEN
SEPTEMBER 15.
While Annie writes her and Lyla’s names on the first two lines, Tripp scans the bulletin board and sees another notice: BAND/ORCHESTRA STUDENTS NEEDING TO SIGN OUT A SCHOOL INSTRUMENT, PLEASE CONTACT MR. JACOBY ASAP.
“Let’s go,” Annie says, and they head into the orchestra room.
Tripp gets out a pen. Under Lyla’s name he writes:
Tripp Broody (not a band or orchestra person) would like a practice room (if the school has a guitar to borrow).
He begins to leave and then stops and adds:
This is not a joke. This is a matter of survival.
ROCKLAND HALLWAY; 3:15 P.M.
As soon as the final bell rings, Tripp heads to his locker, and his phone buzzes.
Mom calling.
“I’m not talking to you, Mom.”
“How was school?”
“I said I’m not talking to you.”
“I spoke with your algebra teacher at lunch,” his mom says. “She’ll only take off two points if you turn in your summer packet at the end of this week.”
“I spoke with God today. He’ll only take off two points if you confess your sins and return my guitar.”
“Very funny. Look, I know it was probably a shock—”
“I can’t survive without my guitar.”
“See. It’s like you’re addicted to it. This will be good for you to take a break and focus on—”
“I can’t do it.”
“I warned you so many times this summer. I know it’s a drastic step, but I don’t know what else—”
“Is it in the attic?”
“It’s not in the house, so don’t go tearing it apart. Oh, that reminds me. The guy is supposed to be there at four to do the termite eradication thing. Take him to the basement and show him that wooden rafter they’re eating through. The one I showed you. He’s supposed to spray it with poison and put in some kind of traps or something.”
“You do realize that you are a termite,” he says. “You are eating through my soul.”
“Very funny.”
“I am an empty shell. I am going to crumble.”
“Go home and fill yourself up with math problems. I’m going to check them tonight. Bye.”
Tripp closes his phone, slips it into his back pocket, and makes his way down the noisy hallway. When he walks outside, the bright beauty of the day stabs him.
SEPTEMBER 3. WEDNESDAY.
TRIPP’S ROOM; 7:01 A.M.
“Tripp!” His mom’s voice bites the room. She’s standing in his doorway, holding up the bag of dirt. “Where’s my coffee?”
He turns to face the wall and pulls up the sheet. The Termite has arrived.
She marches over. “This is completely immature. Where did you put it?”
“Maybe it went to visit my guitar.”
“You better not have thrown it out.”
He turns to look at her. “You sound so tense, Mom. It’s like you’re addicted to it.”
She gives him a look. “If you think that by messing with my coffee, you’re going to get your guitar back, you’re dead wrong. I can always buy more coffee, Tripp. And I’ll be sure to take it out of your bank account.”
The Termite storms out. He sticks out his tongue at the door as it slams. Is he immature? Yes. If maturity means you can grow up and take away the one and only thing that gives meaning to your son’s life, then why would anyone strive for maturity?
SEPTEMBER 4. THURSDAY.
ORCHESTRA ROOM; 8:56 A.M.
With Mr. Jacoby on the podium, the Advanced Orchestra is playing through a new piece—a new teacher, a new year—and Lyla is waiting for the entrance of the cellos. Her index finger is just above the spot on the A string where her first note will be, but a dark little fantasy is flickering through her mind like a ten-second horror film: when she presses down on the string, a bomb that has been rigged inside the cello will explode.
She knows it’s just her imagination, but her palms are sweating and her heart is racing. As a new metronome amplifies an annoyingly loud, inc
essant clack, the violin bows leap in perfect unison, and all the cellos to her right pounce on their opening measure, but Lyla’s hands do not move.
Her heart is beating too loudly. Maybe the muscles around her heart are squeezing too tightly? Is that possible? Calm down, she tells herself. Jump in on the next measure.
“Measure sixty-four,” the boy next to her whispers, his voice purring with the satisfaction that for once Lyla Marks has lost her place.
She begins to play, and the cello does not explode. Her left hand fingers the pattern of notes, and her right hand holds the bow, but it feels as if her hands belong to someone else and she is merely attached to them.
“More energy!” Mr. Jacoby calls over the rising sound.
After the piece is over and the teacher is giving comments, Annie Win turns around, scrunching her eyebrows and pumping her shoulders up and down to imitate him. Lyla forces a smile.
When class is done, she is relieved to put her cello away.
“Jacoby is a joke. Everything we did is too easy,” Annie whispers. “And Jessica needs to brush her teeth. I should tell her.”
“You can’t just say that,” Lyla whispers back.
“Maybe I’ll put mouthwash on her music stand.” Annie makes another face and pulls Lyla out the door. “Jessica said that Ms. Collivet wants to start a French club and she’ll give anybody who joins an automatic A.”
“Annie,” Lyla interrupts. “I think I might … do you think it’s possible for someone our age to have a heart attack?”
Annie laughs. “I saw a show on TV where this really young guy had a heart attack and he had a disgusting nipple ring and when the doctor put the defillibrator, or whatever it’s called, on his chest, the electricity hit the metal ring and electrocuted the doctor!” Annie starts laughing. “So the moral of that story is, don’t try to save anybody who has body piercings.”
“Who has body piercings?” Kenneth Chan is on their heels.
“Lyla does,” Annie says.
“I do not!”
Annie laughs, and then as soon as Kenneth passes by, she whispers, “He likes you, but his nose is too big.”