No Sad Songs

by Frank Morelli

  “No Sad Songs explores the complexities of family, love, and loss, as we follow one young man on a powerful, heartwrenching journey of self-discovery—one that is perfectly balanced with both humor and hope.”

  — Amber Smith, New York Times bestselling author of The Way I Used to Be and The Last to Let Go

  “In No Sad Songs, Frank Morelli has written a beautiful, poignant book about the near-impossible burdens that can be foisted upon us by our unpredictable lives. Gabe LoScuda trudges through the mud in the front lines of his own personal war, and he does it with so much heart you can’t help but root for him. Reading Gabe’s story, we learn to appreciate, as he does, the people in our lives who can be patient with us as we struggle toward our own awakening—the friends and family who can tell us we’re being idiots while still continuing to love us, every muddy step of the way.”

  — Jack Cheng, author, See You in the Cosmos

  “Young meets old in this heartfelt, compelling debut.”

  — Jerry Spinelli, author, The Warden’s Daughter and Stargirl

  “In No Sad Songs, Morelli deftly balances genuinely hilarious moments with gut-punchingly moving ones. A big-hearted, seriously funny read.”

  — Lance Rubin, author of Denton Little’s Deathdate and Denton Little’s Still Not Dead

  “No Sad Songs is truly a work of heart! This emotional journey of tough choices is wrapped in the messy but beautiful truth of family obligation and honor. Readers will be rooting for Gabe all the way through.”

  — Jennifer Walkup, author, This Ordinary Life and Second Verse

  “With plenty of humor and heart, No Sad Songs will have you rooting for its endearing, flawed characters until the very end.”

  — Kristin Bartley Lenz, author, The Art of Holding On and Letting Go

  “An absolutely fantastic read from beginning to end, Frank Morelli’s debut novel No Sad Songs is at turns hilarious, spirited, and a little bit heartbreaking. What a ride. I’m so glad I took it.”

  — Amina Cain, author, Creature and I Go To Some Hollow

  “Relatable on so many levels and to so many ages beyond its YA target, No Sad Songs is filled with one amazingly powerful scene after another, with a perfect blend of humor and pathos that will keep you hooked throughout. The YA world is about to have a new king.”

  — R.J. Fox, author, Love & Vodka, Tales from the Dork Side, and Awaiting Identification

  “When tragedy strikes, Gabe LoScuda’s world is quickly turned upside down. Thanks to Frank Morelli’s tremendous heart and wit, we laugh through tears as Gabe takes on grief and overwhelming responsibility like a champ.”

  — Patrick Flores-Scott, author, Jumped In

  “A story of great loss, sacrifice, and struggle, No Sad Songs is a look at resilience and what it means for young and old to come together in life, love, and friendship. A highly recommended read.”

  — Ann Y.K. Choi, author of the Toronto Book Award finalist, Kay’s Lucky Coin Variety

  “No Sad Songs is lovely and funny and heart-aching and true. I didn’t want it to end. But the big-hearted story and characters—especially the very real, unforgettable Gabe—will stay with me for a long, long time.”

  — Jennifer Niven, New York Times bestselling author of All the Bright Places

  “No Sad Songs manages to be at once a funny, heartbreaking, and life-affirming coming of age story about the family we love and hate, self-discovery, and the promises we make and which we choose to keep.”

  — Estelle Laure, author of This Raging Light and But Then I Came Back

  “Frank Morelli’s No Sad Songs burns bright. With lacerating prose and emotional honesty, Morelli vividly captures the intensity and freedom of young adulthood and the crushing responsibilities of being an adult. The book veers raucously and with wild, teenage abandon from fart jokes to Thoreau and, in between, makes room for me to feel deeply for Gabe LoScuda and to break my heart.”

  — Bryan Hurt, author, Everyone Wants to be Ambassador to France

  Published by Fish Out of Water Books, Ann Arbor, MI, USA.

  www.fowbooks.com

  © 2018 by Frank Morelli.

  ISBN: 978-0-9899087-4-0

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017918452

  Pop culture · Coming of age · Travel · Culture shock · Going against the grain · Adversity · Triumph · Extraordinary lives · Ordinary lives

  We are all fish out of water.

  We publish non-fiction, creative non-fiction, and realistic fiction.

  For further information, visit www.fowbooks.com.

  Cover design by J. Caleb Clark; www.jcalebdesign.com.

  “Caged Bird” from “Shaker, Why Don’t You Sing?” by Maya Angelou, copyright © 1983 by Maya Angelou. Used by permission of Random House, an imprint and division of Penguin Random House LLC. All rights reserved. Any third party use of this material, outside of this publication, is prohibited. Interested parties must apply directly to Penguin Random House LLC for permission.

  To my grandparents.

  Lest we never forget the true identities of our elders.

  1

  SNOT, SARDINES, AND OTHER ASSORTED FOLLIES

  There’s a dried-up booger hanging from his nose. Again.

  “Let’s wipe it off,” I say.

  “Get away!” he screams, alerting every customer on the aisle and at least two cute checkout girls to my abuse.

  “You gotta keep your nose clean, kid.”

  “Keep your nose clean,” he parrots. “Keep your nose clean.”

  Grandpa used to be the one to make demands of me. Now he’s almost completely gone. His brain is, anyway. His body’s as strong as the day he stormed the beach at Normandy. Maybe stronger.

  The doctors pegged him with Pick’s Disease, a cruel form of Alzheimer’s, when I was fourteen. Back then you could barely notice. He’d lose the car keys in his own jacket pocket, forget to send birthday cards—little stuff you could overlook. By the time I was sixteen he couldn’t remember his own name. Ernie.

  It’s like one day he’s bringing me lollipops and slipping five-dollar bills in my plastic cowboy holster, and the next he’s chucking grenades at me in Mom’s spotless kitchen. The grenades are actually hard boiled eggs. He gets things mixed up, and when he does they take the shape of memories from his war days—which is fitting since being around him is like being on a battlefield, even if you’re just standing on aisle two at the grocery store.

  “Now blow, Grandpa,” I say, staying calm and measured like the doctors taught me. Alzheimer’s patients hate havoc. Any memories they have are attached to emotion, so I try not to pressure my grandfather because it makes him remember the bad times. I guess that’s why it feels like I’m dealing with a four-year-old.

  “Come on, Grandpa, you gotta blow into the hanky.”

  “No!” At least ten heads spin around to gawk at us. Man, I hate rubberneckers.

  “Keep your nose clean, kid,” I say again. It’s the only way I can get him to calm down and it feels weird. I’m eighteen years old and I’m using the same stupid trick my eighty-year-old grandfather used on me when I was three.

  “Stop! Get away from me!” he screams, oblivious to his own technique being used against him. The rubber wheels of the courtesy scooter squeak against the floor as he thrashes his arms like a toddler having a tantrum.

  The guy from the meat section is walking toward us. You know the guy. The one who wears a bloodstained apron and a shower cap and walks around the store with a cleaver like he’s in a slasher film. He has this look on his face that tells me I better get control of the old man. I grab for one of Grandpa’s twig-thin wrists. His arm feels slippery. Then I see why. There’s a can of sardines cradled in his lap. The lid is peeled back and there�
�s oil and scales and fishy grossness all over Grandpa’s arms, pants, his shirt, everything. I catch a whiff of rotten pier as I move in closer for another attempt.

  “Excuse me! You’ll need to pay for those,” the butcher says as I snatch Grandpa by the wrist and squeeze.

  “Aaah!” Grandpa has the rubber tires bouncing off the linoleum at this point. You might have thought the store manager installed hydraulics on the damn thing, like some kind of geriatric low-rider.

  I squeeze harder. “Release! Dirty Kraut! Combat!” He’s shouting random phrases again. That’s about all the communication he’s capable of these days, which might be encouraging if I didn’t get compared to Josef Goebbels every time.

  By now, the butcher is a few steps away. His cleaver reflects little sparkles of light. “Hey kid, I’m gonna need you to—”

  “Yeah, I get it,” I start to say. I’m reaching for the can of sardines when … bam! Total stars. Like Wile E. Coyote getting crushed by an Acme anvil. I’m reeling a bit. Not sure what happened. I’m on my back. Something trickles from my nose. I look up at the steel girders of a warehouse ceiling. Rows of industrial-sized lights stare down at me like huge Cyclops eyes. A pair of sneakers squeaks across a linoleum floor. And I smell fish. Grandpa. I’m at the grocery store. A man in a bloody smock stands over me. The butcher.

  “You okay, kid?” he asks. Suddenly he’s not worried about the can of sardines. “Old guy got you good. Right in the nose. He an ex-boxer or something?”

  “Ex-army,” I manage to say as I smear a trail of blood across my forearm from my upper lip. “I’m his grandson.” The butcher offers me his non-cleavered hand and pulls me to my feet. Grandpa is calm. He slides a greasy sardine around in his mouth.

  “Jeez,” he whispers, “I’d hate to see what he did to his enemies.”

  I shrug. What can I say? I just got cold-cocked by an octogenarian. It doesn’t get more embarrassing than taking a ten count on a grocery store floor after your grandfather jaws you with an uppercut.

  The butcher hands me a crisp, white towel. It’s the only thing on him that’s not covered in red blotches—until I squeeze it against my nose. Ouch. Stars again. My schnoz is probably broken. Great. Like a kid with the last name LoScuda needs an even bigger nose.

  “I’ll be sure to pay for those,” I tell the butcher.

  “This can’s on me. Keep the towel.”

  He pats me on the shoulder and gives me this sympathetic look with big eyes and all that junk. I feel like unleashing Grandpa on him, but then I get distracted.

  By her.

  Marlie McDermott. Homecoming queen. Cheerleader. Goddess of Schuylkill High. Subject of dreams I’d rather not share in public. Or in front of Grandpa, coherent or not.

  Oh. Grandpa. Crap. Marlie’s staring at me. I start to smile, but then remember it’s only because I’m hanging out on aisle two with an old guy in a cart and I’m holding a bloody rag against my face. I see her eyebrows raise and her nose crinkle. She walks toward me like a concerned mother. Great. My heart beats so fast I feel like I might puke. Please don’t puke on her, I tell myself.

  “Oh my God, are you ok?” she asks at roughly the speed of an auctioneer.

  “Oh, yeah. I’m fine, thanks. I … uh … I must have tripped into this display or something.” I point to a display of Oreo cookies that is neatly stacked and completely untouched.

  “Oh, I thought you got hit,” she says, “by that old guy.”

  “No,” I say quickly. “No, no. Definitely not. Get hit by that old guy? Come on.” Clearly, I have nothing to tell her that can make this situation any less of a nightmare so I go with, “I don’t even know the guy.”

  “You don’t?”

  “Of course not. Just trying to help out the elderly.” I can hear myself talking and I know I should shut up, but the words spill out against my will. “He couldn’t reach a can, you see, and I—”

  “Is he here alone?” she asks.

  “I guess so. Yes. I mean … I’m not sure.”

  “Shouldn’t we get the manager? He looks lost.”

  A droplet of oily sardine drool rolls down Grandpa’s chin. Great timing, old man.

  “The manager? Oh, no. That’s probably not something—”

  “But he’s alone. He could be in trouble. I’m getting the manager.”

  “No, Marlie. I … uh … just remembered. He’s my grandfather.”

  “Your grandfather? But I thought—”

  “Yeah. Just a big misunderstanding. Hit my head, you know. Memory’s a bit foggy.”

  Please shut up now, Gabe. Why are you still talking? It’s like my vocal cords fished a dragon roll out of the dumpster behind Ryoshi and gobbled it down in one bite. The result: verbal diarrhea.

  “Don’t worry,” I continue, “we mess around like this all the time. Just a gag. Right, Grandpa?”

  If only someone would gag me before another stupid line crosses my lips.

  Marlie glances over at the old man. He’s holding the tin can upside down and the remaining fishy oil drizzles into his lap.

  “Go fish!” he says with a sparkle in his eyes. “You’re the Old Maid,” he says, pointing toward Marlie.

  And he’s laughing. Hard. Like he’s watching a comedy act—and who can blame him? His only grandson has to be the biggest joke on the planet.

  “Ohhhkay,” Marlie says at a speed that would never get someone hired as an auctioneer. She’s slowly stepping away. Making her escape. I know I have to do something because I’ve been in love with Marlie since freshman year and our communication has been about as consistent as the Olympics. Once every four years—and I would hardly call it a gold medal performance.

  “So, I’ll see you around?” I say.

  That’s it? I’ll see you around? Really?

  But that’s all I can manage. My vocal cords must have washed back a dose of Imodium because the flow has stopped. The words are all backed up.

  “Yeah,” she says. But she doesn’t sound so convincing. “I guess.”

  Ugh. The dagger.

  “See you around, Glenn.”

  I spoke too soon. That was the dagger.

  Marlie sweeps past me and I catch the soft scent of her golden hair as it swooshes across her slender shoulders. Bubble gum and suntan lotion and cookies baking in the oven. She’s intoxicating, and I’m obsessed.

  I know I have to give this up. I mean, Christ, she thinks my name is Glenn. Holding out hope for a chance with Marlie carries about the same odds as me winning the Kentucky Derby. And I do mean me. With a pint-sized jockey riding my back as I slog through the mud beside thoroughbreds. Only Grandpa is that jockey, and his riding crop is a nasty can of sardines and a wicked uppercut.

  Freaking Grandpa. Why did I get stuck with him?

  Gabe LoScuda

  English 4A – Personal Essay #1

  Mr. Mastrocola

  September 19

  How To Find Yourself Alone

  They were supposed to be gone for one night.

  One single night.

  But they betrayed me.

  It was a Friday. The merciful end to a long week spent forcing my eyelids to flutter open in Dr. Wister’s Latin dungeon. I don’t know what you have to do to become a doctor of Latin. Is there a Useless Language Hospital somewhere swarming with young Latin scholars who all wear stethoscopes and dissect the fossilized remains of Roman soldiers? Did Dr. Wister have to wear a pager on her belt that beckoned her to the ER of Octavius so she could perform emergency verb conjugation surgeries?

  Doctor, we need 20cc of dico. Stat!

  Clear! Dicam—I say; Dicas—she says; Dicamus—we say.

  Only I haven’t said anything in Dr. Wister’s class since January of sophomore year. The volo incident. To fly. Let’s just say the correct answers weren’t flying out of my mouth that day. But one of those old, dusty chalkboard erasers did fly out of the good doctor’s hand and make an impression on my skull. Since then it’s been all sileo in her class. Silent.


  My buddy John Chen takes Latin with me. We’ve been best friends since first grade and have endured a lot of abuse together over the years. But none as sadistic as Dr. Wister.

  That night, John and I grabbed a slice and a Coke at Perdomo’s. It was our Friday ritual. I think we shared it with the rest of Schuylkill High because the place was always crawling with pimple-faced freshman and you had to lean against the counter and shovel molten cheese down your throat without incinerating the roof of your mouth. Mr. Perdomo was like the ultimate taste bud assassin. He’d sit back behind his pizza counter with the deadliest weapon—an oversized oven peel—and he’d sling pies out of the inferno and on to your plate like flaming Chinese stars. Each slice was equal parts crispy, bubbly, and delicious. If you bit into one too soon—and I always did—it was like drinking napalm. But hey, if you lived in the Philly area like I do—where pizza parlors dot the horizon like freaking tumbleweeds in an old Western—this was a small price to pay for the perfect slice.

  After John and I fired off a few straw-paper spitballs at the unsuspecting freshmen that had snaked our usual booth near the pinball machine, we decided to call it a week. We piled into my car—an ’81 Trans-Am with 130,000 miles on the clock and t-tops that would leak in the middle of a desert. It had once been my dad’s baby—red with silver accents and a grey, cloth interior. He’d wipe it down three times a day with old pairs of tighty-whities that he “couldn’t fit his fat ass into anymore.”

  He gave me the car when I made the baseball team and he got tired of playing chauffeur to all the games and practices. Once I got the damn thing, he stopped coming out to watch me altogether. And I couldn’t blame him, because who wants to watch his son collect two butt cheeks full of splinters week in, week out?

  I pulled up in John’s driveway, careful not to rev the engine a single RPM. John’s mom hated loud noises, or neighborhood dogs, or someone breathing or even existing near her rose bushes. Lily’s parents had grown up in Chengdu, China where the meanest muscle cars had been men peddling rickshaws, and the neighborhood dogs were strays or chickens. They’d moved to the States in the early fifties and then Lily Chen was born. A first generation American whose parents worked harder than most and, like I’ve heard Mrs. Chen tell her son from time to time, “had no time for slackers.”