by Mike Grosso
“What were you thinking, Sam?” she says. “What would we do with a drum set?”
We wouldn’t do anything with it, but I can’t tell her that without getting in even more trouble.
“How would we pay for it?” she says. I want to show her the money sitting in my top drawer from all that extra lawn mowing, but that’s the one bean I haven’t spilled. And telling her won’t help when she never hears what I’m trying to say anyway.
“Where would we put it?” she continues. “How would we control the noise? It would drive your father crazy.”
“I would only play it during the day,” I say. “When you’re both at work. And I could keep it in my room. I’ve looked online and researched the dimensions and measured out a space where it would fit. It could totally work!”
My mom sighs and holds her fingers to her temples. “It’s not that simple, Sam.”
“I’d only play when Dad was at work! I swear!”
“Your father won’t be at work anymore, sweetheart.”
A broken cymbal crashes inside my heart. I’d suspected that was the reason he was home early today. Now it’s official.
“He lost his job,” I say. “Again.”
“Don’t say it like that,” she says. “He didn’t get himself fired. It wasn’t a good fit from the moment he started there.”
I say, “I’m sorry,” like there’s actually something I can do about it.
“It’s easy to be sorry after the fact. I get that music is important to you, but you shouldn’t be taking things that aren’t yours. You shouldn’t be erasing voice mails to keep yourself out of trouble. And your father shouldn’t have to find out about these things the same day he loses his job.”
I want to tell her I’m not the one who decided to call today, but I don’t even know if that matters. She’s right. I’m the one who lied. “I don’t know why I did any of that stuff.”
“You did it because you wanted something you can’t have. That’s not the way to get things in this world.”
I look at her hands. Her wedding ring has been missing for so long the indentation on her ring finger is gone. My mom understands how it feels to want something she can’t have. “I know,” I say.
My mom stands up and straightens her clothes. Her makeup is a mess, especially the eyeliner running down her face. “Don’t plan on leaving the house for anywhere but school. You’re grounded until further notice.”
She leaves my room, sighing as the door shuts behind her. I crawl to the end of my bed and hide my head under my pillow.
A few minutes later, I hear a soft knocking at my door. I don’t answer. I don’t feel like being lectured or yelled at again. There’s another knock, followed by a slip of paper sliding underneath my door. I go to check what it is, and it’s a sheet of printer paper trifolded up like a letter. It says SO SO SO SORRY in big red letters next to an arrow pleading for me to open it.
I unfold the paper to what I instantly recognize as a stick-figure drawing of me inside. I’m wearing my baseball cap with dark lines of hair flowing out the sides, sitting behind a shiny red set of drums with sticks in my hands and a huge smile on my face. There are musical notes all over the page, flying across the picture like lightning bolts of sound.
Beneath the picture are the words Love, Brian. The O in love is the shape of a heart. Funny. I thought only girls did that.
I clench the picture to my heart and sob. For such a brat, my little brother can be really wonderful sometimes.
“You didn’t practice,” Pete says.
It’s true. I didn’t practice. Not since getting busted two days ago, at least. Not even on my cheap encyclopedia drum set. I don’t even know why I came to my lesson this week. If my parents find out I’ve left the house, I’ll really be in for it. I’m under strict orders until further notice to go directly home after school and clean the house until my parents get home. I probably wouldn’t have come if my dad hadn’t gone out to run errands.
And I suppose I might have felt guilty about ditching.
“Don’t just sit there,” Pete says. “I want to hear you say it.”
“Say what?” I say.
“That you didn’t practice.”
“I didn’t practice.”
“The recital is on Saturday.”
“Yeah, it is.”
“That’s only five days away. Every minute counts.”
“If you say so.”
Pete narrows his eyes at me. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“No way. Don’t pull this on me. Not after I made a fool of myself getting you into the Kirkwood performance.”
“Maybe I don’t want to be in the Kirkwood performance.”
Pete throws his drumsticks to the floor. They clatter and roll all over the place, and the sound is so sharp I almost fall off my chair. I expect him to start yelling, but instead he speaks in the softest voice I’ve ever heard. “We’re wasting our time, then.”
“Okay,” I say.
Pete stands up, his face red and tense. “So that’s it? Your drive is gone? I put myself on the line, giving you lessons in secret, and now you’re just giving up?”
No, that’s not it. Or maybe it is. How would I know without that headphone jack to help me talk like a normal person? But I don’t have a headphone jack, and I’m not a normal person. I can’t say anything right, so all I say is “I don’t know.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s my answer.”
Pete kicks over his floor tom. His stick bag flies off the side and spills onto the floor. The throne almost keels over. The whole thing startles me. This isn’t Pete being angry. This is Pete in a full-blown meltdown.
“How can you pull this crap now?” he says. “You could be my star student within a couple of years.”
“Maybe I’m not cut out to be your star student,” I say.
“That’s a lie and you know it! You’re not like the others! You’re not some rich kid who demanded drum lessons just to make Mommy and Daddy angry! You’re the real deal! You paid for the lessons yourself, for God’s sake! You know how many other students I have that pay for their own lessons?” He makes a big circle with his thumb and index finger and says, “Zero! You’re the only one!”
“Well, I can’t pay for them anymore! I promised you I’d tell my parents about everything, and I didn’t! Now I’ve gone and broken the lawn mower and gotten busted for everything! I’m grounded, and I’m supposed to be at home dusting the house to earn back the money it’ll cost to pay for the lawn mower I broke!”
Pete looks shocked. “Is that really what this is about?”
I shrug. What else am I supposed to say?
He sits back down on his drum throne. “Do you really think you’re never going to play drums again because you broke a lawn mower?”
“It’s not just that,” I say. “I lied about a lot of stuff.”
“You’re twelve years old. Learn from your mistakes and be more responsible next time.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“It’s not?”
I turn away from him. I can’t look at him, because as much trouble as I’m in at home, it does seem like a small thing when he says it that way.
“It’s none of my business,” Pete says, “but that’s a silly reason to give up music.”
“I don’t have a choice,” I say. “I can’t even earn money to pay you, and I’m grounded until the end of time. All for that stupid lawn mower, and for hitting Danny with a marimba mallet and lying about it.”
Pete laughs. “I’ve had students do a lot worse.”
That gets me wondering, especially about Johnny Parker, who I’m betting didn’t get in any trouble with his parents for what he said to Ms. Stanky’s students.
“What would you tell my parents if you were in my shoes?”
“I don’t know,” Pete says. “Maybe there’s nothing to say right now that can make things right with them. But it makes me s
ad to see someone so young, with the heart of a lion, just up and quit like this.”
Pete walks over to the student set where I’m sitting. He holds the ride cymbal, wincing as he runs his finger over the numerous dents that have destroyed its sound over time. “You know, I was planning to—” he starts, then stops.
“You were planning to what?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Just forget it. I’m done with you.”
I hide my face in my hands. “I’m sorry.”
He waves me away defensively. “Whatever. It’s your choice.”
It is my choice. And because I can think of nothing but the look my dad will give me if he gets home before I do, I stand up and walk out of Pete’s basement. For the last time. I don’t say goodbye, and neither does he.
The next day at lunch, Kristen finally starts talking to me again. I have no idea what to say to her. She doesn’t seem so mad anymore, especially not after I tell her what happened.
“So there’s no way you’ll be at my party?” she says.
“No way,” I say. “Even with the recital off, my dad will never let me.”
“It’ll be lame without you there.”
“You don’t get it, Kristen. My dad is seriously mad. More than ever.”
I’m staring at my bologna sandwich, but I’m not the slightest bit hungry. I pick at the sides and drop peeled pieces of lunchmeat on my tray.
“You really deleted all those voice mails?”
“I thought Dr. Pullman would eventually give up.”
Kristen grabs my hand and squeezes. “You can’t be grounded forever.”
I squeeze back. “I know, but it feels like I will be right now.”
Another group of girls from a table at the other end of the lunchroom call out Kristen’s name. She looks in their direction, and then back at me. We both know those girls will be at Kristen’s party, and they don’t much care whether or not I’m there as well.
“Seriously,” Kristen whispers, “it’s going to suck if you’re not there.” Then she looks back at the table of girls who are still calling her name and shouts, “I’m sitting with Sam today!”
I manage a halfhearted smile. We eat the rest of our lunch in silence. It’s my fault. I’m not really a social butterfly lately.
After school on Wednesday, the doorbell rings. I don’t answer the door. Instead I peek out of my bedroom, around the curve of the staircase leading to the front door, and see Kristen on my porch, talking to my mom. I don’t hear anything they say, and that’s probably for the best. I’ve already told Kristen there’s nothing she can do to get me out of trouble.
Kristen hands my mother an envelope and leaves. An invitation to her pool party, probably. I watch my mom as she runs her hands along the edges, maybe thinking about what she should do. A part of me hopes she feels terrible. Another part feels terrible for wanting that.
I guess I don’t really know what I want right now.
Later on, I hear my parents arguing. Their voices get louder and louder until I finally hear my dad shout, “I don’t care how many other girls will be at her pool party! Sam’s not going!”
Well, then. I suppose that’s that.
I get another visitor later in the day, closer to dinnertime. My dad answers the door this time.
It’s Scott. Meek little Scott, who I’ve never seen outside of school until now. I want to run downstairs and thank him for the brand-new sticks, but the timing couldn’t be worse.
My dad gives him the ugliest look I’ve ever seen, and I want to crawl out of my skin when I think about how horrible it is for Scott to meet my dad like this.
Scott takes out his wallet and pulls out a few bills.
“What’s this?” my dad asks.
“My allowance,” he says. “I was hoping it would help pay for the cost of the lawn mower.” The money isn’t even close to enough, but he’s offering anyway.
“We’re not a charity,” my dad says, and slams the door in his face.
I run back into my room, dig my face into my pillow, and pray that no one else tries to help me. There’s nothing anyone can do.
I rise from my bed and look at my desk set. I haven’t touched it since I got busted. That was only four days ago, and there’s already a thin layer of dust on Calvin’s face. The Tribunes are already starting to show discoloration.
I grab my Calvin and Hobbes snare drum first. It wrinkles when I pick it up and stuff it into the tiny bookcase where it totally doesn’t fit. Then I take each of my encyclopedia toms and stack them in the corner. I don’t feel like asking my mom where they should go at the moment. I’m too upset to lift the heavy dictionary bass drum, so I shove it across the room with my foot until it’s beside the encyclopedias. Last, I take the Tribunes and smash them up as small as I can and take them downstairs to the recycling bin.
I don’t know why, but tossing away the newspapers, the cheapest piece of all, hurts the most. But it has to be done. I can’t bear to stare at my rotting desk set anymore.
I pull my lawn mowing money out of the top drawer of my dresser and count it. It’s not enough for a drum set, but it’s more than I thought.
I wish I could at least spend it on something useful. I could replace the lawn mower, but I only have enough for the cheap push-reel kind, and I doubt that would make my parents happy at this point—not after my dad’s reaction to Scott offering up his allowance.
I put the money back in my dresser and wish for a way to fix everything.
I haven’t spoken to my dad in days. I spend most of the afternoons after school and the nights in my room. Sometimes I come down for dinner, a silent fifteen minutes of nobody talking except my mom. Every so often, Brian will make a face at me, and the two of us will laugh. It makes both of my parents angry.
My mom visits me in my room every once in a while. She asks me how I’m feeling and what I’m thinking of doing that night. I tell her “I’m fine” or “I don’t know” every time.
“You shouldn’t lie in bed all day,” she says. “Walk around a little, or you’ll waste away.”
I wish she understood what part of me was wasting away.
“I don’t want you to become lazy,” she says.
“I’m not becoming lazy,” I say.
She gives me a sad look. “No, I suppose you’re not.”
My mom and dad fight a lot. My dad brings up the missing wedding ring a few times because apparently that’s fair game now. They say my name a lot. I lie in bed, and my hands tap out rhythms on my thighs as my parents shout on the floor below. Even with my desk set disassembled, I can’t help practicing—it helps me stay calm.
It’s the same exact routine until late afternoon on Thursday. My dad bursts into my room and says, “We need a few extra things for dinner tonight. You’re coming to the store with me.”
“Do I have to?” I say.
“Yes. Your mother won’t be back for a while, and you’re not sneaking out while I’m gone.”
Where exactly would I want to go? I think.
I get up from my bed and follow my dad outside to the car, my mouth shut the entire time. He drives several blocks to the store and pulls into the parking lot as I desperately wish for this trip to be over.
We’re getting out of the car when I spot a small yellow car with numbers written on the rear side window in black Sharpie.
My heart skips.
“Dad?” I say, my voice shaking. “Can I please wait in the car?”
“No,” he says. “You’re coming with me, and I don’t want to hear about it.”
We walk inside the store, and I see Pete at the checkout counter with the oddest possible assortment of groceries—steaks, a bag of bananas and avocados, boxes of Special K and Cocoa Puffs, and Liquid Plumr.
I look away a moment too late. Our eyes meet the second my dad turns around to tell me to stop dragging my feet, and then he’s looking at Pete too.
My feet are suddenly stapled to the floor.
“Is that who I think it is?” my dad whispers. I try to nod, but my neck is frozen.
Pete grabs his bags and receipt and walks toward us. “I’m betting you’re Mr. Morris?”
My dad frowns and says, “And you must be the drum teacher making money off my daughter.”
Pete’s eyebrows curl, but he manages a smile. “I think we need to clear the air.”
“I should say so,” my dad says.
The three of us exit the store. Pete puts his grocery bags in his car before walking over to us. He looks surprisingly calm. My dad does not. The parking lot is eerily silent.
“I understand that Sam has gotten herself into a lot of trouble,” Pete says.
“Yes,” my dad says. “For stealing and lying. I take these things very seriously.”
“I couldn’t agree more. I also agree with you for grounding her until further notice.”
My dad laughs. “But what?”
Pete stops and raises his eyebrows. “I’m sorry?”
“But what? There’s always a but, so get it out of the way so I can say no and be on my way. I have a family dinner to prepare, but I suppose you wouldn’t understand that.”
Pete’s face tightens, but he takes a breath and settles. “It’s just a suggestion, Mr. Morris, and I mean it with all due respect. Keep your punishments all the same, but allow Sam to continue with music.”
“What does ‘continue with music’ mean, exactly?”
“Let her perform in the recital this Saturday. If she does well, and I expect she will, a lot of doors will open for her. If that ends up being the case, I would ask you to allow her to continue private lessons.”
My dad scratches his chin. “There’s only one problem.”
Pete’s eyebrows rise again. “And that is?”
“This whole thing—the lessons, the recital, whatever—it all started because Sam lied.”
“I understand.”