by Mike Grosso
My dad breathes heavily. I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad thing until he says, “All of our neighbors have their own lawn mowers.”
“I know, but—” I try to say.
“And the money you make mowing lawns won’t cover the cost of replacing it if it breaks from overuse.”
“Dad, I’m not going to break the lawn mower.”
“Like you didn’t break the can opener.”
My mouth drops open. “That can opener was almost as old as me!”
“And the television remote?”
I wince. Yes, I did an amazing job of spilling pasta gravy on the TV remote the day I’d begged him to let me eat dinner in the living room while I watched one of my favorite shows. It seeped into the buttons and soaked the insides so that the only button that worked was zero. But that was only one time. It could have happened to anybody.
If he could only plug into my headphone jack and hear how much I want this. Because no matter how hard I try, I can’t put how important this is into a coherent sentence.
“Sam,” my dad says, his voice calm, but not any less serious, “I’d love to let you use the lawn mower to make some extra money. It’s good to learn responsibility by earning your own money. But what would we do if the lawn mower broke? Cut the grass with a butter knife?”
I really wish he hadn’t included that last line. Like I really thought that’s what we’d do.
“Honestly, Sam, you should spend more time helping out around here,” my dad says. “How can you expect to do a good job for others if you can’t do a good job for yourself?”
And it’s those last words that tell me I have really lost this one. My dad is not going to give in, no matter how much I push.
I run downstairs into our dusty basement and through the door to the laundry room. Next to the dryer, shoved into a corner between some pipes and the laundry table, is the lawn mower. It’s a small one, but I know how to use it. I even know how to position it so that it gets all the tight corners next to fences and gardens. All I need to make this happen is permission, and permission isn’t going to come.
There’s only one way I’m getting this lawn mower.
It’s not a good way. It’s a really bad way, to be honest. Risky, too. I can’t believe I’m even thinking it. If I hadn’t overheard Ms. Rinalli talking about music being cut next year, I wouldn’t have even considered it. But I’m desperate. I need to do what’s necessary.
Brian has Little League baseball games every Saturday, and my mom will be gone with him all day. My dad’s new job makes him work Saturdays. My parents won’t even know it’s gone. If I can’t get permission to use the lawn mower, I’ll just have to use it without permission. It’s the only way.
I know I’m being dishonest. But it’s not like I’m Scott or Zeke. Or Johnny Parker, already performing like the perfect rock star he thinks he is. I can’t stop caring on command. I can’t snap my fingers and magically make my parents rich. I’m working hard to accomplish and earn something, and if I have to lie to my dad a little along the way, that’s forgivable, right?
I’m thinking the hard part’s already over. I’ve got a lawn mower—now I just have to find some customers. Lawns aren’t all that big in Eastmont—property lines are pretty narrow this close to Chicago. Even so, three or four customers who are willing to pay me about ten dollars to mow their lawns shouldn’t be too hard to find.
I set out on Saturday, midmorning, my planned day and time for mowing lawns. I need to know if this is going to work before I fully commit, so I leave the lawn mower at home, dedicating today to only finding customers. The first five people whose doorbells I ring all say they “need to save money in such a bad economy.” Four of them say it nicely, but the fifth looks at me like I have potatoes falling out of my nose and says, “Ten dollars to mow the lawn? How about you pay me not to catapult you off my front porch!”
All I think to say in response is “You could have just said no.”
I decide to venture out a few blocks farther from home, and I start to get lucky. I find one house that will pay me four dollars, and another that will pay me six. It’s not great, but it’s a start. That leaves me with twenty dollars to find. An old lady who lives next to a park says she’ll pay me three, and even though that seems way too low, I agree anyway because she looks like she might be in her eighties and hasn’t mowed her lawn in the last twenty years. I feel a little guilty I’m not doing it for free.
I start worrying it’ll take way too many people to raise the money I need, but then I find a guy in a four-story house who offers me twelve dollars to mow his lawn. I thank him over and over again, jumping out of my skin with excitement.
I nab another customer, and I land squarely at thirty-one dollars. Bingo, I think. I’ve made my goal.
Wait. There’s another problem: gas.
I need to replace any of the gas I use so my dad won’t figure out what I’m doing. Gas is expensive, so I need one more customer to cover it. The only problem is I’ve blanketed the whole neighborhood. If I go any farther from home, I’ll run out of time to finish all of my mowing before my dad gets home.
I decide to scope out houses I missed on my way back home. I figure there has got to be someone else who doesn’t feel like pushing around a lawn mower every week.
It turns out I’m right. And the customer I find is the strangest one yet. I’m walking past Pete Taylor’s house when I hear a raspy voice.
“You come around here a lot.”
It’s a hoarse voice, like its owner has swallowed sandpaper. I turn around and see an old woman standing on her porch. Her hair is a perfect sphere of curls.
“I guess I do,” I say.
“What do you want with Pete Taylor?”
“Nothing.”
She laughs. “You’ve been down this block five times today. You stare at his house like it’s a chocolate cake every time you walk home from school. You’d better not be trampling my grass for nothing. All you kids going in and out of that house wouldn’t be so bad if you would stay off my lawn.”
Had I really walked past her house five times? I didn’t think I’d been down this way even once today.
“I’m just trying to make money,” I say.
“Money for what?” she asks.
“Does it matter?”
“It does if you’re going to spend it on cigarettes.”
I nearly burst out laughing. I expect to see her smile, but her face is as stern as a rock.
“It’s for drum lessons!”
“Oh, so Pete agreed to take on another student?”
My head slumps. “Not really.”
“Have you even asked him yet? Why don’t you ask him?”
I already did over the phone, disguised as my mom, and he brushed me off like a dust bunny on his shirt. “Why would he give drum lessons to some random kid who showed up at his door?”
“Why give them to some kid who doesn’t show up at all?” she says. “Listen, honey, if you don’t have the backbone to knock on someone’s door and ask an honest question, you’re better off studying with someone else. Pete would eat a shy little girl like you alive anyway.”
“I’m not shy,” I say. But I’m still staring at the ground when I say it, so I bring my gaze back to her face and say it again. “I’m not shy at all. It’s just—”
“You’re afraid. Yeah, I get it. Have fun never trying anything new.”
“It’s not that! He’s overbooked already. He already told me he’s not taking on any new students.”
She laughs. “He always says that.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means exactly what I said. Just this week he took on another student from the high school. He’s always overbooked, but I’ve known him for ten years, ever since he moved into that decrepit old house. I’ve never seen him turn away a new pupil.” The woman’s lips curl into a smile. “So long as the pupil proves they’re dedicated.”
That just co
nfuses me even more. Why would Pete have told me he was overbooked if he’s taking on new students? It doesn’t seem fair. I called him about lessons before this kid from the high school. Why did he say no? And what does this woman mean about proving that I’m dedicated?
The woman turns for a second, ready to head back into her house, when she glances back and says, “How much do you still need?”
“How much what?” I ask.
“Money. How much more are you trying to raise?”
“Enough for gas for the mower.”
“Then you can mow my lawn. Once a week, ten dollars each time.”
My heart leaps. This woman must be joking. She must be part of an elaborate prank. There’s no way she just offered me ten dollars to mow a lawn that looks like it was already cut ten minutes ago.
“You mean it?” I ask.
“No, I was talking to the squirrels,” she says, annoyed. “Of course I mean it. Besides, you’re going to need someone to buy gas. That stuff is dangerous. They’re not going to sell it to a hoodlum like you.”
I want to argue that I’m not a hoodlum, but hoodlum or not, most places won’t like selling gasoline to a twelve-year-old. I’m probably going to need her help. “Thank you, but couldn’t you get in trouble for this?”
“I’m eighty-three, honey. I’m not afraid of trouble, but this arrangement comes with an agreement from you.” She points a single finger toward Pete Taylor’s front door. “He’s between lessons. You have a little less than twenty minutes. Grow a backbone, walk in there, and demand that he give you drum lessons.”
Ringing Pete Taylor’s doorbell and asking—no, demanding—that he give me drum lessons should be easy, but it’s by far the hardest thing I’ve done. My feet and calves are shaking. I always thought that was a joke, but being so scared that you shake is very, very real.
My index finger presses the doorbell, and the sound of its chime is like an electric shock through my body. Then it gets even worse. There’s the sound of nothing, of waiting patiently. It goes on forever as I stare at the doorbell and wait for someone to answer the door. And as scared as I am to talk to Pete about drum lessons he isn’t likely to give, I’m even more scared that he won’t answer at all. Because I don’t think I can come back and try again. Not after knowing what this feels like.
Footsteps approach the door. Every ounce of blood in my body is ready to burst through my skin. The door opens, and a middle-aged man is standing there with the oddest look in the universe. He’s bald on top with twisted strands of black and gray on the sides. He has thick glasses, a large nose, and way too much hair in his ears.
“Can I help you with something?” the man asks.
I try to talk, but my throat closes. I’m afraid a tidal wave of barf is all that will come out.
“Is something the matter?” he says, his eyes opening wider.
“I was looking for Pete,” I say.
“That’s me. What do you need?”
No way. This is not Pete Taylor. If it really is, he’s totally not what I expected. I guess I was expecting something a little more, I don’t know, rock starry? This guy looks like a crabby librarian.
“I need to ask you something,” I say. “Could I come in and talk with you?”
“It’s not the best idea to enter a stranger’s house, young lady,” Pete says.
“You’re not a stranger. Everybody knows who you are.”
Pete chuckles as he waves in the direction of the old lady’s porch. She gives him a sarcastic smile as she waves back. “I doubt that, little miss. Either way, I’d prefer we keep our conversation on my porch. Now, what do you need?”
I swallow hard before asking. “I’d like to start drum lessons.”
“Sorry, miss, but I’m overbooked as it is.”
“No, you’re not.”
His eyes light up, and his face gets red. “Excuse me?”
“You took on a new student just this week. You have room for more students, and I want to be one of them.”
Pete crosses his arms in front of him. “Let’s say you were right, and I did take on a new student this week. Let’s also say that even though it’s true that I am extremely overbooked, I might consider taking on a student who shows promise anyway. What would you say to convince me that you’re that student?”
I freeze. He has invited me to make my drumming speech. To give him my spiel, my sales pitch, or whatever I want to call it. Why should I be his student? I haven’t prepped an answer, because I never had a plan—I’m only here because that old lady made me ring his doorbell.
Say something cool! Or smart! Think, Sam, think!
I have no idea what he wants to hear, but if my answer is wrong, I’ll have wasted his time. I picture the only student of his that I know, Johnny Parker, and imagine what he would say in this situation.
“I’ve been in the middle school band for a whole year. I’ve played a variety of movements, know every percussion instrument inside and out, and can outplay anyone you’re teaching right now.”
“You can outplay that many people?” he says. “That’s a pretty bold statement.”
“And I’m going to be in jazz band next year. Or I was until they cut the program.”
Pete’s eyes look like they’re about to pop out of his head. He clenches his teeth in anger and says, “Just when I thought I’d seen it all. I hadn’t heard they were cutting the program.”
I smile. “Nobody has, except me. I’m very informed, you know.”
“That’s fascinating.” Pete looks at his watch and sighs. “Look, I have another student arriving in less than ten minutes. Thank you for stopping by, but you’ll have to look for another teacher.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean this won’t be a good fit. Try elsewhere.”
“So you’re not going to teach me?”
He shakes his head.
“Why not? I’m the best drummer in town!”
“Then you obviously don’t need me telling you what to do. Go out and start your music career. You sound ready for it.”
“But I’m not ready!”
Pete leans a shoulder against the side of the door frame. “Is that so? From the way you brag, you certainly are.”
My fists clench and my toes curl. I want to storm into his house and start screaming. “That’s not what I was saying!”
“Whatever. Look, I’m more than willing to take on another student. What I’m not willing to take on is another ego. I let a student go last week because he thought he was king of the hill, and the student who replaced him didn’t show up at my doorstep acting like a busybody know-it-all. You picked the wrong teacher if you think that will work in your favor.”
I stand there, my heart spinning in circles as the fire inside fizzles and drops into the pit of my stomach and explodes.
“Thanks, but no thanks,” he says, and closes the door in my face.
I stare at Pete’s front door, my energy extinguished. What did I do wrong? I’d tried to say what Johnny Parker might have said, and the reward I got was a door slammed in my face.
That’s when I realize what Pete said: I let a student go last week because he thought he was king of the hill. Could it have been Johnny? Did I just screw up my one chance at getting what I’ve always wanted by trying to act like that jerk?
I knock on the door again. I don’t even bother with the doorbell because you can’t show anger by pushing something. When nobody answers, I check the door, find it unlocked, and walk in.
Pete is lying on the couch in his living room. The place is empty save for himself, the couch, and a practice pad perched on a stand next to a set of three congas. There is no television, no stereo, no anything.
“Is there a reason you’ve walked into my house uninvited?” he asks.
“When you slammed your door in my face, I heard a beat in my head,” I say. “I imagined five different people behind five different doors of different sizes, slamming them in rhythm.”
“That’s”—Pete hesitates before continuing—“interesting.”
“I hear drums in my head all the time. I can’t even sleep most nights because it’s like having an imaginary person in your brain who won’t put their drumsticks down. It’s amazing and horrible all at the same time. All I really want is a chance to make those beats happen somewhere outside my head, but I can’t because I have no idea what I’m doing. I’ve tried over and over to teach myself, and my reward was finding out that I belong in beginning concert band.”
“Says who?”
“Says the only two people I know who play drums. Only they don’t even care about drums now that Eastmont’s entire school district canceled its music program! So yeah, you’re right—I was acting like I was better than everybody else. Everybody else seems to act that way, so I thought it was what you wanted.”
I stop speaking, and there’s silence between us for at least ten seconds. Pete blinks a few times and says, “Is that it?”
“Not even close, but I’m too embarrassed to keep speaking,” I say. Wow. Where did that come from?
“What do you actually know about drums?” he says.
“That they’re the greatest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“You said you were in the middle school band. Which one?”
“Symphonic band,” I say. “But like I said, I should probably be in beginning concert band.”
“So what? It’s still music class, isn’t it?”
I smile. I hadn’t thought of it that way.
“Is symphonic band the only time you ever play?” Pete asks.
“Yes, unless you count my desk set.”
Pete gives me a weird look and says, “Please explain?”
I try my best to describe my desk set. I tell him what books I use, and what drum each book tries to replicate. He winces when I mention the Calvin and Hobbes snare drum.
“Wow,” he says. “You need some serious guidance.”
And even though it hurts to hear someone important definitively say that I have no clue what I’m doing, I say, “That’s what I was trying to tell you.”