by Rob Harrell
“Wow.” It doesn’t even sound like my voice.
“Yeah, wow. So . . . I guess, let’s just . . . We’ll talk about it more . . . soon. I guess. Tomorrow.”
“Okay.” I run a hand through my hair. “Yeah. We’ll sleep on it and . . . I don’t know. Talk about it tomorrow. Or something.”
“’Kay.” Her voice sounds so small for Abby.
“Sorry about last night. I freaked out.”
“No. I get it. Good night, Ross.” Then she’s gone.
I sit there staring off into space for maybe twenty minutes, then decide to put Frank’s mix CD back on.
It helps.
Sort of.
14
GENTLEMEN, START YOUR GUITARS
I tell my dad and Linda about the Petersons’ moving over breakfast, and my dad is genuinely shocked. It’s not like he and Abby’s dad are best friends, but they play tennis with a group of guys sometimes.
“Wow. I knew he’d talked about it, but . . .” Then his eyes change, and he looks back at me. “Buddy. I’m so sorry.”
Linda, who’s been carefully dusting and straightening one of my mom’s landscape paintings—she does that a lot—comes over to give me a hug and a kiss on the top of my head. “Oh, honey. Are you okay? I had a good friend move away my sophomore year of high school. It’s so hard.”
I look up at her. “Are you still good friends with her?”
She looks like she’s sorry she brought it up. “Yeah. I mean we . . . Yeah. We send each other cards over the holidays.”
She sits down and awkwardly adjusts the spider decoration in the middle of the kitchen table. No one’s taken the Halloween decorations down yet, but skulls and ghouls seem appropriate for my mood.
It turns out Frank doesn’t live too far from us. Only a few miles or so, but his area has a lot of houses for IU students. The lawns aren’t really taken care of—at all—and there are a lot of old couches and lawn chairs on the front porches. The house next to his has a faded Bud Lite WELCOME RACE FANS banner hanging from the front porch railing.
My dad pulls up slowly, squinting at Frank’s house. It’s a dark, ugly brown, and it’s set back from the road under several big trees—all of which makes it seem a little less than inviting.
“M’kay. It’s not too bad. It reminds me of a house I shared after college. Let’s go check it out.” My dad’s talking slow, like he’s convincing himself this is a good idea. There’s a gaping hole in my stomach—I can’t stop thinking about Abby’s move—but I hop out before he can change his mind.
I try to keep him distracted as we make our way up the gravel driveway. “I think we had a pool just like that one when I was little, didn’t we?” There’s a broken plastic kiddie pool in the yard on the other side. A couple of faded cans are floating in murky water at the bottom.
“Yeah . . .” He looks like he’s waiting for someone to jump out of the bushes and corrupt me. “Yeah, we did . . .”
Frank comes out onto the porch, screen door squeaking. He’s wearing a black button-down shirt and jeans, and I realize I’ve never seen him in anything but scrubs. It’s weird.
“Welcome, Ross! Welcome, Ross’s dad!” He raises a can of Diet Coke in salute. “The band just left, so we actually have the place to ourselves for once. Come on in, and I’ll show you the Palace.”
When we step in, I’m actually impressed. Most of the furniture is fake black leather and showing signs of serious wear, but it’s clean, and the house smells okay. There’s a scented candle lit in the middle of an old trunk that’s being used as a coffee table. Some of the area rugs have seen better days, but it looks like the hardwood floors have been swept.
The back wall is made up of bookshelves overflowing with vinyl albums and stack after stack of cassettes.
I point at them. “You know you could put all of that on an MP3 player that’d fit in your pocket.”
Frank rolls his eyes. “I don’t like my music broken down into ones and zeros. I allow the occasional CD, but only under protest.” He looks over at my dad, who smiles and gives a that-makes-sense nod.
“I get that. I like a nice hiss and pop. Adds character.”
Frank raises his eyebrows at me. “See? Your dad gets it.”
In front of the dining room table are two acoustic guitars, propped on metal stands, like they’re waiting for us.
“So.” Frank waves a hand around. “This is where the magic happens, as they say on the music television.” I don’t know what that means, but it makes my dad laugh. “You ready to have sore fingers, Ross?”
I look at him, unsure how to respond. He walks over and grabs the older-looking guitar. “Trust me. They’re gonna hurt. For a while. But you’ll build up calluses.” He holds out the guitar.
I don’t think I’ve ever held one. I take it and feel its weight. He motions for me to put the strap over my head. I do, and everything about it feels right. Not to be a total dweeb, but I can’t help but think of Luke holding a lightsaber for the first time.
Okay. Yeah. I regret saying the lightsaber thing now.
“That’s the guitar I sto . . . liberated from my cousin . . . way, way back. I taught myself on it. It’s a solid guitar. A Yamaha.”
My dad is smiling. “Your cousin didn’t want it back?”
Frank sets his can down on a faded Rolling Rock coaster. “Nah. He caught the hunting bug that year and never looked back. He’d won it in a school raffle or something, anyway. Never even tuned it.”
My dad nods, giving one last look around.
“Okay. All right. So . . . I’ll get out of here and leave you guys to it?” He pulls his keys out of his jacket, apparently convinced Frank’s house isn’t a danger zone. “I’ll be back in an hour.”
We agree, and he heads out. Frank waits until the screen door slaps shut behind him and claps his hands together.
“All right, all right, all right!” He points at the fridge. “Beer?”
I must look shocked, ’cause he laughs. “I’m kidding, Ross. Just a little icebreaker. Now, go sit in that chair. Let’s do some guitaring.”
15
STUPID FINGERS
So . . . it turns out playing guitar is really hard.
I mean, I figured I wouldn’t be laying down wailing guitar solos the first night or anything, but I also didn’t expect to be so truly disappointed in my idiot fingers.
Frank starts the lesson with a C chord. Well . . . first he shows me how to play a single note. We’re starting from scratch here.
“When you hold that down here and pluck it? That’s a note. Let’s not worry about which note yet. Try a couple.”
Then he explains that a chord is a collection of notes played together. Like, you hold a few strings down in different places and then strum with the other hand, and together they make a whole new sound.
He shows me where to put the fingers of my left hand on the neck of the guitar to make a C chord.
If you do it right, it looks all cool and easy. But that’s not what happens.
My fingers freak out and push down strings they aren’t supposed to and just misbehave in general.
Within three minutes, I’m majorly frustrated. Like, nose-itchingly frustrated.
But I keep trying, and trying . . . and finally, on maybe the eighteen hundredth try, I get it right.
“THERE! YES!” Frank looks genuinely excited. “Hold that. Remember how it feels.” I run the thumb of my right hand over the strings, and the sound is amazing. It feels like it resonates in my bones. I strum it a few more times and can’t believe I’m making that sound happen.
“No way! That’s awesome!”
Then he shows me the right way to hold a pick and how to use it with the strumming hand, and I keep playing that C over and over and over. Frank grabs his guitar and shows me an easy strumming pattern.
Once I have a rhythm going, he kicks his feet up on the trunk, grinning.
“Look at you! You’re playing guitar!”
I c
an’t help but smile, playing that same chord over and over and over.
And that’s when Darth Vader walks in the front door.
Jimmy freakin’ Jenkins.
My laugh dies in my throat as Jimmy notices me. He freezes too—even his gum chomping stops. The back of my neck is instantly on fire. I haven’t seen him since the whole meme thing, and right now he’s the only person on my list of suspects.
“What the . . .” Jimmy’s eyebrows furrow. He’s as confused as I am. The screen door keeps squeaking as his body blocks it from closing all the way. “What are you doing here, Maloy?”
I look over at Frank, who’s looking back and forth at us. “You guys know each other?”
“Yeah.” I mutter. “We . . . school . . .”
Frank starts nodding. “Oh, right! Duh. That makes sense.”
I look at him. “It does?”
Frank laughs. “Jimmy’s cousin is my drummer. Denny. He lives here. Well, he pays rent here, but he’s not around much lately.” He looks back to Jimmy. “Denny took off a while ago. I think he went to Jana’s place.”
Jimmy hasn’t moved. “This is friggin’ weird. How do you guys . . . How do you know Ross?”
“I know Ross from the proton center. Where I work?” Frank sits back. “Radiation?”
Jimmy stares. “I didn’t know you . . . What are you, a doctor or somethin’?”
“I’m a radiation tech, Jimmy. You know that. We’ve talked about it. Now, get out of here. We’ve got a serious lesson going on. I’m on the clock.” Then he stands there rubbing at the half ’stache on his upper lip. “So weird.” Then he gives me a quick scowl and backs out. “Whatever.” The screen door squawks and slaps shut as he lumbers down the front deck stairs.
I look over at Frank. “You know JIMMY?”
“Yeah, he lives a few blocks over. Comes over here sometimes to hang out with Denny. Or maybe it’s just to get out of his house.” He gets up and walks to the kitchen. He looks back and winces, like he’s debating how to say something. “Maybe not a stellar home situation for Jimmy, as you might imagine. His mom’s a bit of a . . .” He doesn’t finish the sentence. Waves it off. “Never mind.”
He grabs another Diet Coke out of the fridge—holds one up for me, but I shake my head. I’m trying to find the perfect words to eloquently explain how I’m feeling. Then I find them.
“Jimmy’s a total %$#&@!”
Frank pauses for half a second at my choice of words, then shuffles over and sits back down. “Probably.” He thinks about it for a second. “But he’s pretty harmless. Just kind of a mess, from what I can tell. So is Denny, if I’m being honest—but he’s a really good drummer.” He takes a long drink, then gestures at the guitar. “Okay. Let’s get going.”
I look down, having completely forgotten the guitar around my neck.
Frank holds his hand up and waggles his fingers. “Come on. Find your C again.”
I try, but I’m rattled.
It takes me a while to stop picturing Jimmy hunched over some grungy little computer making Cowboy Cancer memes. I think about mentioning them to Frank but decide not to.
Eventually, my dumb fingers start working again and I get a decent C going. Frank has me let go with my fingers, then find the spot again. And again. And again, until I can do it quicker and quicker. Until it feels natural.
I mean, relatively natural.
When the hour is almost up, Frank tells me I can take a guitar home so I can practice. Then he goes in the back and comes out with a beat-up old guitar case. It has band stickers all over it and RiPE SPoNgE stenciled down one side in sloppy orange spray paint.
It may be the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.
My dad shows up promptly at five, waiting out front. I stand up and thank Frank. “You’re a good coach, Coach. Not that I have any other ones to compare you to.”
“Well. Ya done good, child.” He holds out a fist, and I bump it. “But seriously, go home and work at it. Like, get crazy working at it. Your fingers are gonna hate you, but that’s how you get better.” He holds the screen door open for me. “I want to see deep, painful dents in your tips from the strings.”
“Gotcha. Fingertip dents. I’m on it. See you soon.” I’m out the door when I remember something. I hand him a folded-up piece of paper out of my back pocket. It’s the flyer Sarah gave me about the talent show.
“I realize this thing’s only, like, six or seven weeks away, but I thought maybe . . . I don’t know . . . Do you think by then I could . . .”
Frank reads it, chewing his bottom lip. “I don’t see why not. It depends on you, really.” He looks at me for a moment, thinking. “You may get tired from the treatments, you know. But if you think you’re feeling okay . . .” He hands the flyer back. “Let’s reassess in a couple of weeks.”
“Yeah. Yeah, that’s good. It was just a thought.” I turn and start down the steps.
“Wait a second.” I can hear Frank is smiling, even without looking back. “This whole guitar thing isn’t all just to impress some girl, is it?”
I keep walking and yell over my shoulder, “Not entirely!”
Frank laughs, and I hear the screen door whack shut.
Walking down that weed-infested gravel driveway with a battered guitar case hanging at the end of my arm—even as I look around nervously for Jimmy to jump out and throttle me—I feel the best I have in weeks.
16
SORE FINGERS
Frank told me to “Play it till my fingers bleed.” It turns out it’s a reference to some song I don’t know, but when I get home, that’s exactly what I do.
Actually, the bleeding fingers come later. That first night they just throb and ache so bad I think they’re going to pop. It feels like the strings—especially the thicker, copper ones—hate my fingers and are trying to cut them through to the bone.
But I don’t want to stop. I sit there on my bed with some of Frank’s song books and my dad’s CD player and try to figure out some of the chords.
It’s HARD. At times I think I’m guitar-tab dyslexic and want to throw the book across the room—but then I lie back, take a few deep breaths, and try again. And again. And again.
Abby keeps texting, but I’m putting off seeing her for some reason. I know that’s dumb, but part of me is pretty sure I’m going to bawl like a baby as soon as I see her face and we start talking about the move. I have this picture of us collapsing into a big gooey pile of blubbering sadness, and I’m not ready for that.
But she’s relentless. She wants to see a movie. She has questions about some homework. She can’t remember the punch line to some dumb joke.
The texts keep coming.
I continue to avoid her—maybe I secretly want to wait until I become a guitar expert and surprise her—which is a great plan for a couple of hours, until my bedroom door swings open.
It’s Abby, of course.
She looks around, taking in the whole scene. There are open guitar tab books on the bed next to some spilled Cheetos. CDs and their cases are all over the place. “Sounds of Silence” is playing on the CD player.
I blush like she caught me playing with Barbies. I was going to tell her about the guitar stuff, obviously. I just hadn’t yet.
“So . . .” She walks in and picks up the Simon and Garfunkel book. “You’ve decided to become a youth minister?”
I take the book from her. “Not exactly.”
“Camp counselor? Soft rock superstar?”
“Nope. I’m just . . . playing a little guitar.”
She picks up a plastic pick. “M’kay. So, Ross . . . You are Ross, right?” She makes an exaggerated face like we’ve never met. “When did you become a musician?”
I look around at the CDs. The books. “Yesterday?”
“Yesterday.” Nodding. “Gotcha.” She walks over and plops into a chair. “I came over to whine to you about the move, but this is SO much more interesting.” She waves a hand at the whole scene. “I can whine tomorrow. Fil
l me in.”
I take a deep breath and tell her all of it. I tell her about Frank, and Frank’s mix. I don’t get all crazy with all that stuff about how the music feels like a “language I never knew I needed,” but I tell her I really, really liked it. I tell her about the lesson and about Jimmy.
She’s staring. “Listen to me. You’re not gonna start hanging out with Jimmy when I leave, are you? Start spitting in bottles?”
“Oh, trust me. I’m pretty sure Jimmy made those . . . photo things.” I tip my head back and apply some eye drops. I’m like the LeBron James of putting in eye drops these days. “It was all I could do not to throw a chair at him.”
Abby kicks off her neon orange high-tops. “So, okay. Play me something. This is exciting!”
“Oh!” The idea shakes me enough that I laugh. “God, no!” I slip the strap over my head and prop the guitar carefully against the side of the bed. “I barely know how to hold the thing at this point.”
“I heard you from the hallway, dingus, and it actually sounded halfway okay. I mean, considering I’ve never seen you in the same room as a guitar.” She has her lip balm out. “So, were you gonna tell me at some point?”
I’m stacking the books and putting CDs back in their cases. “Yeah. I was just . . . I don’t know . . . You’ve got a lot going on and all, with the move . . .”
“Yeah.” She sighs. “That.” She grabs a Transformer off of my bookshelf. “I didn’t do much but stare at a wall today. And, I mean, you’ve got that plus the whole memes mess.”
I put a hand up. “Is there some other word we can use? I hate that word, meme.” I drop the pick into a little compartment in the open guitar case. “Meme.”
Abby laughs. “It is kind of stupid . . . Meme.”
“Meeeme.” I say it like the word itself is disgusting.
Then she sings it. “Meme-meme-meme-meme!”
“So stupid.” I laugh. “Why meme? Why not a flerb or a guanch?”
“Actually, I think I read it’s from the Greek word for ‘imitating.’”