Guitar Notes
Page 6
“He saw you twirl. What class did you say you have with him?”
Lyla tries to make her voice sound casual. “I don’t have a class with him.”
“Yesterday, he was playing way too loud.”
Lyla laughs.
Annie pushes her. “Why didn’t you say hi just now? Has he left you any more notes?”
“Leave me alone, Annie.”
“I’m glad you didn’t. He’s too weird. I saw his name on the schedule for peer tutoring. Benjamin Fick is tutoring him. I think he might be brain damaged.”
“Annie!”
“Pardon moi for telling the truth.” She waves and disappears into the stairwell to go to her next class.
He is not brain damaged, Lyla wants to say. He is … just a bit odd. In a really interesting way.
OCTOBER 15. WEDNESDAY.
PRACTICE ROOM B; 11:37 A.M.
Tripp is in the practice room, convinced that the peer-tutor police will burst onto the scene at any moment with Benjamin Fick and seize him. But how could he possibly concentrate on Newton’s laws or graphing coordinates or calculating the standard deviation from the norm with the little room waiting for him?
When he opens the guitar case, he is disappointed to find no note tucked between the strings. But Ms. Even has left a piece of paper under the guitar: notes for a song.
Inspired, he writes her a message.
Dear Ms. Even,
I hope you don’t mind that I read the notebook page you left underneath the guitar. It looks like you’re brainstorming a song? I want to hear it. I noticed that you tried writing out the notes you’re playing. Guitar players either write chords or what’s called tablature. You might find it easier to make chord diagrams. Here’s an example.
This is the top of the guitar. Put your fingers on the dots. X means don’t play that string.
As for pomegranates, I think the only part you eat is the seeds, and I don’t think I’ve ever eaten an actual seed, but I don’t know for sure. Yesterday after school, I did some research on pomegranates when I should have been working on my history report. The pomegranate is called la granada in Spanish. In French, it’s called la grenade, which makes me think of hand grenades, and pomegranates do sort of look like hand grenades. They are full of nutrients and antioxidants which are good for us, whatever those are. So maybe they are like healthy grenades. If I were a doctor, I would lob them at sick people.
—Mr. Odd
Tripp picks up the guitar. Something good is happening. He can feel it in the guitar. He can feel it in the little room. Strands of thought twine themselves together into a decision in his mind. He’ll stop peregrinating and actually write words for a whole song of his own. If she can do it, he can do it. The “Mr. Odd” song. He writes the title in the center of the page and brainstorms everything he can think of that has to do with it.
Then he plays the melody that has been bouncing around in his brain lately and under his breath. He pulls out the parts from his brainstorm that he likes and he experiments.
He sings:
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.
He laughs. It’s a start.
PRACTICE ROOM HALLWAY; 11:56 A.M.
Lyla tiptoes past Practice Room A and listens. Annie’s violin is loud and clear. Lyla shifts over to Practice Room B and listens. Tripp is singing! She grins and leans in, her ear close to the door.
Just after Lyla notices that Annie’s violin has stopped, the sound of Annie’s shriek comes. The door to Room A opens and Annie flies out.
“Lyla! I was coming to get you. My mom just texted about Coles. You heard, didn’t you?”
In a flash, Lyla knows what must have happened. It’s all over Annie’s face. Her mom must have texted her with the news that Coles has accepted her application and wants to schedule an audition. Annie must think that Lyla received the same great news and was coming to find her.
Annie grabs her in a hug.
The guitar playing in Practice Room B has stopped.
“I knew we’d make it, Lyla!” She grabs Lyla again and spins around, laughing.
Lyla tries to steady herself, noticing the door to Practice Room B is open a crack.
“Isn’t it great?” Annie says. “How come you’re not smiling?”
“I’m in shock,” Lyla says. “Yeah, it’s great.” She forces out a smile.
THE METRO; 4:43 P.M.
“I waited for you.” Benjamin Fick’s voice sounds like he swallowed sandpaper.
“My bad,” Tripp says into the phone. “No offense, but I will die if I get tutored.” There’s silence on the other end, so Tripp adds, “Best of luck helping other math-challenged people. Really.”
“Ms. Kettering knows you didn’t show,” Benjamin says. “She said that if you don’t show again, she’ll call you and your mom in for a conference.”
Tripp is in too good of a mood to let even this bring him down. He smiles. “Tell Kettering that we’re meeting in the cafeteria because I like the smell of rancid meat. I’ll study on my own and boost my grades to make you look good. It’s a win-win.”
There is a moment of silence while Benjamin considers becoming an accessory to this crime. “Fine,” Benjamin says, and hangs up.
Fine is fine is fine, indeed.
OCTOBER 16. THURSDAY.
PRACTICE ROOM B; 11:24 A.M.
Annie has been talking nonstop about Coles ever since yesterday. Finally, Lyla’s time in the practice room arrives. When she closes the door, the silence is so peaceful, it makes her want to cry. She opens the guitar case and smiles to see another letter. Tripp wants to hear her song.
She calls up the recording program on the computer and plugs in the microphone. Last year, Ms. Peabody taught her how to make a recording so that she could analyze her progress on solos; she never thought she’d be using it to record herself singing and playing the guitar. She picks up the guitar and hits the record button and then stares at the screen, not sure if she can really do it. Tripp might not like the song or the sound of her voice. She takes a breath and tells herself that she is just going to record it for herself, to hear what it sounds like. She starts again. Halfway through, she makes her first mistake and stops. It takes three tries, but she finally gets through it without making a noticeable mistake. Before she has a chance to regret it, she searches the web for Tripp Broody, finds his efriends page, and sends him a message.
[Attach: LittleRoomSong.MP3]
Hey Tripp, you wanted to hear my song, so I recorded it and attached it.
She decides to add something else to the message, so that it’s not just the song. That way, if he doesn’t like the song, he’ll have something else to comment about.
BTW, did you hear Annie screaming yesterday? We have been invited to audition for this school in Boston called Coles Conservatory of Music. Great music school. Grades 10–12. You live in dorms and they have teachers for all the regular classes, like math and science, but half the day is devoted to music. If you go there, you basically know you’re going to make it as a pro. Annie and I made this pact to apply, but now every time I think about it, I get panicky. I don’t think I want to audition for it anymore, but there’s no way I can get out of it.
—Ms. Even
Done.
She takes another breath and hits SEND.
ROCKLAND HALLWAY, 3:11 P.M.
Tripp’s afternoon classes crawl by. The thought of doing homework and spending the evening listening to the Termite drone makes him want to lie down in the middle of the hallway and be trampled by the herds. Why can’t the Winds of Fate blow something interesting in his direction, he wonders, to prevent him from succumbing to the slow death of boredom?
As soon as he is dismissed from his last class, h
e pulls out his cell phone. He can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. There is a message in his efriends in-box: Lyla Marks has sent him a song.
He’s desperate to hear it, but he doesn’t want the noises of the hallway to compete. Quickly, he grabs his books out of his locker and leaves.
He runs to the Metro, catches the subway headed uptown, and settles in a seat. He adjusts his earbuds and opens the MP3 file.
This pure sound streams into his ears: the guitar first, then Lyla’s voice dancing out neatly, line after line.
Fill in the blank, it’s time for a test.
Soon as I’m done, it’s on to the next.
True or false, just choose the one that’s best,
Through the halls, I’m running out of breath.
But now I’ve got myself a little room to play,
Now I’ve got myself a little room to play,
All my worries fade away
As soon as I start to play.
Someone measures every step of mine,
A to B straight down the line.
Everybody’s waiting all the while.
I’m supposed to show up and smile.
But now I’ve got myself a little room to play,
Now I’ve got myself a little room to play,
All my worries fade away
As soon as I start to play.
Now no one’s watching me,
No one hears.
I walk into the room
and I disappear.
Why do I choose this way to follow?
All the answers are due tomorrow.
Everybody’s waiting all the while.
Maybe I won’t show up and smile.
’Cause I’ve got myself a little room to play,
Now I’ve got myself a little room to play,
All my worries fade away … they fade away
As soon as I start to play.
As soon as Tripp gets home, he downloads Lyla’s MP3 to his laptop, puts on his headphones, and listens to it again.
Ms. Even: How do I describe your song? When I was about eight, we were driving to this property we have in the woods, and we were passing through a small town, and this squirrel caught my eye. We were at a stop sign and the squirrel was on a telephone pole next to our car. As we started going, it started running next to us … just this effortless, beautiful squirrel gallop along a tightrope of telephone wire. When it reached the next pole, and the next, it kept going, like it was keeping me company. I wanted to tell my dad to look, but I thought that might break the spell and the squirrel might stop. That’s how I felt when I listened to your song. I loved it.—Mr. Odd
That means a lot. Thanks. I want to hear one of your songs.
Tripp looks at himself in the mirror. She wants to hear one of his songs. What has he gotten himself into? He can’t do this. He makes a face. Then he grabs a pencil and holds it like a microphone. “I’m going to sing a song for you,” he sings. Then he stops. “No, I’m not,” he says, and chucks the pencil across the room. It bounces off the wall and lands on his pillow. He sounds ridiculous. He cannot do this. He goes back to his computer. Another message pops up.
Hey, what’s your cell number in case I need to call.…
She wants his cell number? Is she going to actually call him sometime and expect him to be able to talk? He runs his fingers through his hair. Then he sits down. No problem, he says to himself, just type in your number and hit send. He takes a deep breath in, does it, and lets the breath out. Why was that so scary?
OCTOBER 17. FRIDAY.
PRACTICE ROOM B; 11:27 A.M.
Odd day. Tripp’s got the little room. From his pocket, he pulls a list that he made and sets it on the music stand, just in case.
Things to say if Ms. E actually calls
The blasty rug you ordered is in. Have you ever had your appendix removed?
How do you think Western Civilization will end?
He gets out his guitar and tries to concentrate. He wants to finish his song. He wants to have the guts to record it for Lyla.
ROCKLAND HALLWAY; 3:14 P.M.
Lyla leans against her locker and looks at Tripp’s name in her contact list. All she has to do is press CALL.
Funny. She can play all the right notes on the cello in front of six Kennedy Center judges and she can’t get her finger to press CALL. Send a text—that’ll be easier.
Hey, Mr. Odd. What’re you doing?
She puts Tripp’s name in the “to” box and hits SEND just as Annie screeches behind her.
“Did I just see Tripp Broody’s name?” Annie tries to grab her phone.
“Don’t be so grabby.”
“You were sending him a text!”
“Is that illegal?” Lyla quickly pockets her phone.
“What’s going on with you and Tripp Broody?”
“Nothing.” She turns and busies herself putting folders she doesn’t need into her backpack. “He asked about a math assignment.”
“Why?
Lyla stands up and closes her locker. “We ran into each other in the hall and—I don’t know—he asked me about math and I said I’ll text you.”
“So you’re best friends with Tripp Broody?”
“I’ve had a total of one conversation. Stop making such a big deal about it.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Promise you’re not going to hang out with him.”
“Okay. Okay.”
“Good. Okay. What are you doing tonight? Hot date with Tripp? Just kidding. My mom said since we have to be back at school at seven, you can just stay for dinner.”
“What?”
“We’ll practice all our music and then we can make the poster and eat dinner. Then my mom can take us back for the bake sale.”
“I forgot about that.”
“What do you mean you forgot?”
“I mean I forgot.”
“We get beaucoup community service points for this. What’s wrong with you, Lyla? Our poster has to be better than Marisse’s. We’re voting for president next week.” Annie’s phone buzzes. “My mom is in the parking lot. Come on.”
“I’ll meet you down there. I left my science notebook in Sanders’s room. I have to run and get it.”
Annie shakes her head. “You’re officially losing your mind. Hurry up.”
Lyla heads toward the science hallway, turning to watch Annie run in the opposite direction. When Annie is out of sight, she opens her phone. He has texted back.
Tripp/hi even. i’m texting you.
Lyla/no way.
Tripp/ok. I’m not.
Lyla presses CALL. He doesn’t answer.
She ends the call.
Three seconds later her phone rings.
“Hi,” she says, and winces. Kind of a lame way to start.
“This is Broody’s Rug and Carpet. That blasty rug you ordered is ready for pickup.”
She laughs.
“That’s my opening line,” he says. “I worked on that all night.”
“I like it. Hey, did you really like my song?” She winces again. Why did she ask that? It sounds like she’s trying to get a compliment.
“Indeed,” he says.
She smiles, her mouth making a little sound, and she wonders if he heard it. “Now it’s your turn to do a song,” she says quickly.
“I’m a formless meanderer.”
“Lame excuse.”
“I don’t sing.”
“Liar. I heard you.”
“When?”
“Wednesday. Practice room.”
“What! Were you spying? I was NOT singing.”
“You were humming along. Jacoby does that when he’s into it.”
“Are you stalking me?”
“You have a good voice. You sound like hot chocolate.�
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“Your ear cilia aren’t working.”
“Ha.”
“I sound like a wounded aardvark.”
“I had an aardvark when I was young!”
“You have got to be kidding.”
“Not a real one. A small fuzzy one. It had big ears. My mom brought it back for me from some trip she took.”
“Most kids have teddy bears. Having an aardvark is so odd … it’s actually … uneven.”
She laughs. “I don’t know what ever happened to it. I loved that aardvark. What does an aardvark sound like anyway?”
“Like me trying to sing.”
“You’re not an aardvark; you’re a chicken.”
“You are insulting my aardvarkian ancestors.”
She laughs again. “Where are you?”
“Outside on the wall by the maple tree. Where are you?”
“Science hallway.”
“Are you coming out?” He sounds nervous.
“I have to meet Annie.”
“Okay. Talk to you later—”
“Wait. When can I pick up my blasty rug?”
He laughs.
“I want to hear your song soon,” she adds.
“Okay.”
TRIPP’S HOUSE; 6:33 P.M.
Tripp is standing at the kitchen sink, eating leftover Chinese food out of the carton. Soy sauce spills onto the counter, and his mom wipes it up.
She tosses the sponge in the sink and carries a basket filled with small bottles of sparkling water to the dining room and sets it next to a plate of brownies.
“What are you going to do tonight?” She comes back into the kitchen and pulls the coffeepot out of the coffeemaker.