by Mike Grosso
Brian stares at me a few more moments before I hear him walk away. I grab the phone from where it landed on the floor and hang it up. Then I think about Kristen, and everybody else who will be at her party, and I sink to the floor, wondering why the things that make me happy make everyone else so mad.
I am going to do a rock solo.
Those are the words repeating in my head when I wake up the next morning. Not that Kristen is angry or my little brother is annoying—I have transformed them both into something else. I am going to play full-on rock, and I do not care what the classical musicians think about it.
I practice it in my head while I sleep and on my notebook underneath my desk during class. Danny is acting differently this week. He hears me tapping loud and clear, but doesn’t say any of his usual insults. Not a single “annoying” or “idiot.” I almost miss it at this point, but not that much.
Saturday arrives with a brand-new level of heat. Summer is kicking in, but oddly enough, I don’t mind as much as I thought. I’m a tougher girl than I was when all this started. I mow Wanda’s lawn first, as usual, only this time she congratulates me on getting into the recital.
“You and Pete talk a lot, don’t you?” I ask.
“Every week,” she says. “Sometimes more if I see him out in his yard.”
Every week, I think. A crazy thought occurs to me. I ask, “Are you one of his students?”
She must see the shocked look on my face, because she narrows her eyes and says, “Is that so odd? Just because I’ve met Shakespeare in person doesn’t mean I can’t play the drums. My arthritis may keep me from hitting as hard as you rock types, but I still get the job done.”
I smile at the thought. Wanda, the eighty-three-year-old drummer. I can totally imagine what her lessons must be like. Something about a crabby old lady playing drums is just what I need to stay positive today.
I’m surprised to find Pete excited at our Monday lesson when I tell him my plan to perform a rock solo. I expected him to push me toward jazz, but he’s all about rocking the Kirkwood Music Academy.
“Just make it something memorable,” he says.
I fully intend to.
We spend the entire lesson designing it. Pacing it. Starting it off with something that builds, expanding it into new sounds, and giving it a climax that makes the whole thing soar. It’s harder to do this than it sounds, but we manage to put it together a piece at a time.
I’m playing through it for what feels like the twentieth time when I smack the floor tom hard enough to shake the room. One of the legs on the drum’s side buckles, and the whole thing topples onto the cement basement floor.
I grit my teeth and sit up straight, holding my breath. I glance at Pete, afraid to see his cherry-tomato face scowling back at me, ready to kill me for breaking his drum that was kind of broken already. What I see instead is a look of disbelief as he says, “You might want to take it down a notch.”
“Sorry,” I whisper. Then I pick the drum off the floor and fiddle with the leg stand until it’s back in place and able to support the drum. Kind of.
Then Pete says something that scares me. “You know there’s no way you’ll perfect this in time, right?”
I wait for the goose bumps to go away. “Thanks for believing in me,” I say sarcastically.
“I do believe in you. I just want you to plan accordingly. You’re not going to perfect this, and you’ll drive yourself crazy trying.” He leans in closer. “You just need to make it sound like you care.”
“I do care.”
“Of course you do. Try playing through it again, and this time try not to destroy my floor tom.”
I play through it again and mess up seven times before stopping altogether. Pete’s right. I can’t make this perfect, but I can make it look like I care.
At the end of the lesson, Pete gives me a stern look—the same kind as my teachers at school. He says, “What about your parents? Have you talked to them?”
I stare at the floor. “Not yet.”
“You’re putting me in a difficult place. I don’t like difficult places.”
I scoot my drum throne so that I’m facing away from him. “I promise I’ll do it this week.”
My teeth clench, and my brain throbs trying to think of a way to explain everything to my parents. I want to believe Pete understands and trust that he’s right about telling them, because the thought of confessing sits heavy in my stomach.
My upcoming recital haunts me the rest of the week. I can’t concentrate on anything else. Even in band, all I think about is telling someone. Scott or Zeke. I should let them know what a cool opportunity it is. Every time I come close to spilling the beans, though, I imagine them in applied arts next year, not missing band one bit.
I’m halfway through the week, at the end of school on Wednesday, when I make a last-minute stop at the music room before heading home for the day. Ms. Rinalli is in her office, writing notes all over her teaching materials. When she sees me, she puts down her pen and comes out of her office. “Do you need something, Sam?”
I look back at her, dumbfounded, not knowing what to say.
“Are you having a problem?” she asks.
“No,” I say. “I just wanted to let you know that I’ve been taking lessons with Pete Taylor.”
“Oh, I know Pete. He’s a bit odd, but he knows how to teach. His lessons are really improving your technique.” She takes a seat in one of the band chairs near the front of the room. “You know, Sam, you definitely would have qualified for wind ensemble next year. Probably jazz band as well.”
“Too bad that’s not going to happen.”
Ms. Rinalli smiles. “It’s not all terrible. You’re finding other opportunities. Just don’t quit, okay?”
“I won’t.”
Ms. Rinalli starts to walk back into her office. I open my mouth again and feel a sudden tinge of embarrassment. I shove my shame down into the pit of my stomach in order to get the words out. “I’m playing a recital at the Kirkwood Music Academy a week from Saturday!”
Ms. Rinalli turns around. “That’s great news.”
“It’s only ten days away, and I haven’t asked anybody to go. If you wanted to come, though, I would be really glad to see you there.”
Ms. Rinalli closes her eyes and sighs. I’m sure the answer is going to be no when she says, “Haven’t you asked your parents?”
“Maybe. I think. I don’t know.” I sway from side to side, trying to shake my nervousness. “It’s kind of a long story.”
“Just make sure your long story ends with you telling your parents. I’ll try my best to make it, Sam.”
I thank Ms. Rinalli and leave so she can finish up her day. As I’m walking out, I spot Scott and Jessica talking at the other end of the hall. Scott leaves as soon as he sees me, but Jessica runs over in my direction. She pulls a set of brand-new Vic Firth drumsticks out of her backpack and says, “Scott doesn’t want me to tell you that he didn’t hear about the recital from Kristen. He also definitely didn’t buy these for you so you could have a fresh set for the performance.”
I’m not sure what shocks me more—that Kristen and Scott talked, or that Scott went out of his way to buy me brand-new drumsticks. I accept them from Jessica and run my fingers over the perfectly carved wood. Not a single chip or dent. “I’m not sure what to say. Can you tell him thanks?”
“No, apparently, because that would mean I told you they were from him, which I was specifically asked not to do. Don’t worry—I’ll thank him anyway. Enjoy them, Sam, and don’t use them until the recital!”
Jessica leaves, and I hold each stick in my thumb and first knuckle of my index finger. The rest of my fingers curl around them as I wiggle them in my hands, drumming an imaginary beat in the air, and admiring their perfect weight and balance. I chuckle as I put them in my bag and make my way home.
Another Saturday of lawn mowing arrives, and with it another visit to Wanda in preparation for my b
attle against the Orb of Death. It’s a week before my recital, and by now I hardly even notice the intensity of the work. I’ve built up stamina. Sure, it’s tough and mind-numbingly dull, but compared to the first few times out, it’s a cakewalk.
I’m halfway through the third lawn, ten minutes ahead of schedule, when I hear an awful sound. The mower starts sputtering, just a little at first, and then a lot, and the louder it gets, the harder it is to push. I can feel it catching the grass below and coming to a stop in front of me. When I try to push again, a patch of grass rips away from the soil. I push the big red button to prime the engine a few times and try to start it up again. No luck.
The sputtering sound usually means it’s out of gas, but I remember filling it earlier today. A full tank gets me pretty far, especially with how fast I’ve gotten. Something else is wrong.
I start to panic. If the lawn mower is broken, I can’t finish all the lawns I’m supposed to mow today. That means a lot of angry customers, no money for lessons, and, worst of all, a very angry Dad.
If he finds out.
You stole the lawn mower, and you broke it. Two lies. Two punishments. Two reasons your parents will kill you.
This is really not good.
I come up with a quick plan. I need to get home. There’s that stash of money stuffed inside a sock in my top drawer. I’ve been saving for a drum set, but I have to use it to repair the lawn mower instead. It’s going to hurt so bad, but it’s what must be done.
I can also call some of my customers—I have most of their phone numbers—and let them know that I’ll finish up in the next few days. But there are at least three customers, if not more, whose numbers I don’t have. I curse myself for not asking for them. From now on, I’ll get phone numbers and email addresses from everyone. The customers whose names I don’t have I’ll just have to visit on my way back from getting the lawn mower fixed.
Oh, man! Where can I get the lawn mower fixed?
I freak out. I don’t know what to do, so I start pushing the lawn mower home, thinking I’ll start there and solve my problem a piece at a time.
Man, I am so busted.
Only I’m not busted. Not yet. All I have to do is get the lawn mower home and take it one step at a time. My house is two blocks away. I’ll get there if I just keep pushing.
Now I’m one block away.
A couple houses away.
I spot something that stops me in my tracks, every inch of blood inside me freezing as I see what’s in front of my house.
My dad’s car. He’s home from work. But how? It’s barely noon. He shouldn’t be home for another five or six hours, unless he was—
Oh, no.
I turn around and start pushing the lawn mower in the opposite direction. If I can get around the block and into the alley, I can go through the backyard and into the house through the big door that leads to the basement. All without my dad seeing anything.
It’s all working great until I come to the alley, which hasn’t been repaired for at least two thousand years. Trying to push a lawn mower is hard enough, but getting it over cracks and potholes as tall as my little brother is almost impossible. I’m halfway to the gate leading into my backyard when I see a dent in one of the front wheels. I’m pushing too fast—the cracks and bumps are damaging the wheels. I’ve already broken it, and now I’m running it into the ground.
I get to our back gate and hold it open with my back while I pull the lawn mower through. I’m relieved once the wheels touch the soft grass—it’s so much easier to push.
I run across the lawn with the lawn mower ahead of me and come to a dead stop at the solid, locked door to the basement.
Of course it’s locked, I think. Why wouldn’t it be?
I leave the lawn mower in front of the basement door and run to the kitchen entrance. I look through the window, checking for my dad. He’s nowhere in sight.
All you have to do is open the door, run downstairs, open the basement door, and bring the lawn mower inside. It will be like nothing ever happened.
I throw open the door to the kitchen and poke my head inside. I’m just about to declare that the coast is clear when I hear:
“Sam?”
I turn to the left and see my dad reading the paper at our little breakfast bar around the corner.
“Are you okay?” he asks. “You look like you saw a ghost.”
“I’m fine,” I say, much too fast. “What are you doing home?”
“I do live here, you know.”
“I know, but—”
“Sam, I’d rather not talk about it now.”
I shut my mouth. I know when my dad means business, and this is one of those times. It also works to my advantage if he wants to be left alone right now.
I leave my dad at the counter and walk downstairs into the basement, shutting the door behind me. Brian is in the basement, doing whatever stupid things he does down here.
“Ahhh!” Brian says. “It’s a real-life yeti!”
“Shut up!” I shout at him. He recoils at my voice, and glares at me like I’ve actually morphed into a giant snow monster. I can’t say I blame him. That’s exactly what I feel like right now. “Why are you even home?”
“My game was canceled. Mom dropped me off and headed to the store. Why are you shouting at me?”
I look at Brian’s wide, frightened eyes. “Nothing! Just forget it!”
I head to the basement door leading into the yard. There are two separate locks on it. The deadbolt turns easily, but there’s a metal latch that’s always stubborn, and today is no exception. I yank at it, then push, then rock back and forth, and finally pull it out of its hinge and open the door. I run outside and grab the lawn mower, and then carefully nudge it down the four small steps leading into our basement and shut the door as quietly as I can.
“What are you doing, Sam?” a voice says.
I spin around and see my dad standing behind me, staring. The way he spoke didn’t sound angry, but the way he’s looking at me makes it clear that he is.
“Nothing,” I say.
“What are you doing with the lawn mower?”
“Nothing.” When I realize how idiotic that sounds, I add, “I thought I might mow the lawn to help out.”
“The lawn is outside. Why are you bringing it inside?”
I have nothing to say in response. I just shrug and let out a pathetic grunt.
“What’s wrong with the wheels?” he says, pointing at the bottom of the mower.
“I guess they got a little messed up,” I say.
“And how, might I ask, did they get a little messed up?”
Chills. Everywhere. In every inch of me. My imaginary headphone jack clamps silent like a cymbal caught in a closing fist.
The phone rings. I hear it in the background, followed by the light thumping of my brother’s footsteps running to pick it up. A few seconds later, he appears at the door behind my father with a frightened look on his face. Does he know what’s happening?
“It’s for you, Dad,” he says.
Dad looks at Brian, then back to me, and says, “To be continued.” Once he’s left the room, I lock eyes with Brian, who looks more like a scared three-year-old than a third-grader right now. He mouths the words I’m sorry and disappears again behind the door.
Sorry for what? The lawn mower? Why would he be sorry for that?
“Oh, hello, Dr. Pullman,” my dad says. “What can I help you with?” It all comes together. Dr. Pullman didn’t give up.
I don’t want to move, but I don’t want to listen to one side of my dad’s conversation with the principal of my school either. So I walk out of the back room, past my father while he’s on the phone, and place a single foot on the stairs leading out of here before my dad covers the phone’s mouthpiece and says, “Don’t you dare go anywhere.”
I freeze.
“Uh-huh,” my dad says. “She did what? I see. And the other student? Uh-huh. Yes. Well, yes, I
understand. That is very serious. Yes, I take it very seriously. You tried to call how many times? Oh, my.”
Even though I only hear the muffled rasp of Dr. Pullman’s voice on the other end, I can imagine exactly what he’s saying. And I can feel my dad’s mood changing as he listens. My very angry dad.
My dad hangs up the phone and turns to me. His face is tense, hiding the rage I can feel behind it. His voice is almost a whisper when he says, “That was Dr. Pullman.”
I stare at the floor.
“This is the sixth time he’s called. He says he left five voice mails.”
All I can hear is the ticktock of the battery-powered clock on the wall, its face a smiling cat. How can anything—even something that’s not alive—be smiling right now?
“He says you hit another student with a drumstick,” my dad says.
And even though I know it’s the wrong thing to say, my stupid mouth opens nonetheless and says, “It was a marimba mallet.”
“I don’t care what it was!” he suddenly shouts. I jump at the sound of his voice.
“He told me my drumming sounds like—”
“Dr. Pullman says you were almost suspended! You’re lucky you’re still in school! We’re lucky that kid’s family didn’t sue!”
I want to say something. Defend myself. Tell him how nasty Danny Lenix was that morning. How nasty he is every day. How half the school secretly wants to hit him with something. But nothing comes out, because even if I had a headphone jack, it would burst into flames the second my dad plugged in. Part of me even wonders if Dr. Pullman and my dad are right. Maybe it is a weapon, and maybe I am lucky to still be in school.
My dad’s face unclenches. His voice is hoarse when he says, “Go to your room.”
He doesn’t have to tell me twice. I start climbing the stairs out of the basement, and am near the top when he says, “This conversation isn’t over.”
No, it definitely isn’t. I don’t think it will ever be over.
My true punishment doesn’t arrive until my mom gets home from the store.
She’s the only one who enters my room the rest of the night. She says my dad is “too angry to look at me right now.” She sits on my bed and makes me tell her about hitting Danny with the mallet, about the lawn mower, about drum lessons and wanting my own set.