“Wha?” Drew shoved him. “Don’t make me Kobe Bryant your sorry—”
I marched through the crowd and separated the two hot-faced, teeth-baring teens. “Someone want to tell me what’s going on here?”
“Drew and Jamal is fightin’ over who’s the best baller.” A young girl with skinny beaded braids wasted no time in tattling.
I crossed my arms. “Is that right, guys?”
Not a single response.
Trey tipped his head at me and returned to the office.
I bolstered my shoulders with borrowed confidence and faced the pair of them. “You’re both very talented, but you know the real way to win a basketball game?”
Jamal bounced the ball between his legs and dodged my eye contact. Drew smirked at a cluster of boys at his side, already dismissing what I had to say.
“Teamwork,” I said anyway. “If you two work together, you might actually learn something from each other.”
Jamal and Drew exchanged an abhorring glance, the possibility out of the question.
“She’s right.” A. J. strode out of the utility closet with a basketball in hand. “Maybe we can play a little two-on-two—you guys versus Miss E and me.”
No he didn’t. My dazed look had to have blended right in with the cluster of blank faces staring back at A. J.
It took less than five seconds for a stream of questions to gush out, one after the other.
“Hold up? Miss E can ball?”
“You just messin’ wit’ us right, Mr. A. J.?”
“Miss E, you been holdin’ out on us?”
Their expectant eyes cornered me. I would’ve sworn the basketball net reached its stringy arms out and tangled my stomach inside it. Playing for fun was one thing. Being on display in front of all these kids—who lived, breathed, and dreamed basketball—was another thing altogether.
A. J. strolled into the middle of the huddle, his eyes not releasing mine. “You don’t want to mess with Miss E. She can throw it down on the court. Don’t let her hustle you. Actually . . .” He rubbed his jaw line, an idea visibly forming. “You wanna know what she’s really good at?”
Every muscle in my body tensed at the possibility of what could leave A. J.’s mouth.
He crouched to the kids’ level and stoked their curiosity like a dad about to tell a ghost story at a campfire. “Miss E can play the guitar.”
He might as well have hurled the ball into my gut. No breath.
His disclosure unleashed another shockwave throughout my now-attentive audience.
“Wow, the guitar?”
“Miss E, you gotta play for us.”
“Please!”
“I always wanted to learn how to play the guitar.”
“Oh, Miss E, you gotta play. Please, please!”
One adorable face to the next zeroed in on my mediocrity as a musician.
I’m gonna kill A. J. “Trust me, guys, you don’t wanna hear—”
The stare from someone in the back of the group cut off my refusal. With a mischievous smile rivaling A. J.’s, Dee mouthed the words he’d obviously been waiting for the chance to make me eat. “I am courageous.”
Perfect. Now I really had no choice. I lifted my palms in surrender. “Fine. Okay, okay,” I shouted over the bellow of petitioning voices. “In a couple of weeks, all right? After the PSATs. Promise.”
Appeased, the boisterous mob disbanded into pairs of friends, each chatting about their own hidden talents. At least the topic had sidetracked them from A. J.’s two-on-two suggestion.
I dropped onto the stone bench beside him. “I’d wipe that smirk off your face if I were you. Two weeks is a long time away. I can still get out of it.”
He shot a dramatized look of surprise at Dee and flung his hand over his chest as if I’d blasted an arrow through it.
He was lucky I didn’t have a real one. “Uh-huh. I might be locked up by then once they find out I killed you.”
A. J.’s dimples barely contained his smile. “Oh, c’mon. Be a good sport. For the kids.”
“Right,” I said. “For the kids. You’re completely innocent in this whole little scheme.”
He held up his fingers. “Scouts honor.” Grin toppling over, he leaned his burly arm against my shoulder. “Seriously, Em, when was the last time you actually played your guitar?”
“I . . . I . . .”
He crossed his ankles in front of him. “That’s what I thought.”
I sat against the cement wall, arms laced.
A. J. twisted toward me. “Playing used to make you happy. You shouldn’t let that die just because . . .”
The look of warning in my eyes must’ve dissuaded him from finishing. He stood up and pulled his cell from his pocket instead. “You know what you need?”
“Oh, no. Here we go.”
He ignored my response. “You need to let your hair down. Have a little fun,” he added with a wink.
A twangy pitch of banjos and fiddles took over the basketball court. Dee’s head sprang up from his lap, his face mirroring the same look of horror overtaking my own.
A. J. pocketed his phone and extended his hand toward me. “Come on. There’s nothing like a little country music to help you loosen up.”
I uncrossed my arms. “You do not like country music.”
“Everybody loves it.” He lugged me up from the bench. “Me and . . .” He stole a peek at his phone. “. . . Blake Shelton, here, are just trying to help you get in touch with your country side.”
With both my hands in his, A. J. swung my arms back and forth until my whole body swayed against my resistance. “There you go. Let it out.”
He belted the chorus after one time through, taking extra measure to yell the words “hillbilly” and “yee-haw” at a decibel even more obnoxious than the music itself.
Dee came to my rescue and wrestled A. J. to the ground for his phone. “Bro, you’re killin’ me. If you’re gonna show her how to dance, you at least gotta have real music.”
“All right, Deejay Dee.” A. J. egged him on. “Why don’t you show us how it’s done?”
Dee scrolled through to find a suitable station. After stealing a minute to feel the music, he moved in sync with the bass like one of Usher’s backup dancers. “You gotta lower your hips, Miss E. Like this. Dip your shoulder into it. Yeah, but you gotta add swag to it.”
“Yeah, Em,” A. J. said with a grin I almost smacked off his face. “You gotta add swag.”
I glared at him over top of Dee’s head. “I hate you.”
A. J. laughed. “You love me.”
“No,” I said. “No, I’m fairly certain I hate you right now.”
“C’mon, Rosy. Who else is going to show you how to have fun?”
“Is that what you call it? Because I was thinking more along the lines of humiliation.” My lips scrunched together, refusing to give in to the pull luring them in the opposite direction.
One look at Dee’s face, and that was it. I lost it. We could definitely rule out my career in dancing. Comedy Central, on the other hand, could be a very plausible destination. At least my disgrace gave us some levity.
I shook my head at A. J. Here he was, once again teaching me how to live with my eyes and heart wide open.
Riley’s ringtone clipped into the music. For a moment, I hesitated to answer.
“Having a party?” Riley asked.
I glided over to a corner of the court, away from the noise. “Dee and A. J. were trying to teach me how to dance. You know what a disaster that can be.”
A. J. mimicked Dee’s moves, and my laughter spilled out again.
An edge pulsed in Riley’s delayed response. “You’re dancing,” he said slowly, “with A. J.?”
“It’s not like that. All three of us are just messing around on the basketball court. Friends having a good time. That’s all. You wanted me to enjoy my senior year while you’re away. I’m trying.” I clenched the fence and pressed my head to the back of my hand.
&nbs
p; Another wrenching pause.
“You’re right,” he said. “It’s good to hear you laugh.”
“Riley, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
“It’s fine. I won’t keep you. I just wanted to say I’m sorry for the way I ended our last call. I needed some time to think. As much as it kills me not to have been there to protect you, it hurts more to know you were afraid to tell me what happened.”
Guilt stabbed. “I shouldn’t have kept it from you. This whole being apart thing . . .”
“I know,” he said softly. “Listen, I’ve been wanting to tell you . . . there’s a chance I might be able to come home early. It’s—”
“You ready?” someone asked Riley.
“Just a sec,” he answered her. “Em, I’m sorry, I have to—”
“You have to go.”
He sighed. “I have to test out some new songs with Jess before we pitch them to the rest of the team.”
The way we’d talked about doing before he left? He hadn’t played for me since he first got there. But I understood. Music was easier to share with someone in person. Same as every part of a relationship.
“It won’t always be like this, Emma.”
But what would be left by then?
A girl’s nasally voice haggled in the background again. I said goodbye before he heard the quiver in mine.
Maybe it was time we stopped making each other promises we weren’t sure we could keep. I launched off the rickety fence. With my gaze dragging along the ground, I almost bumped smack into A. J.
“Trouble in paradise?”
The fence rattled behind me. “No.”
“Good.” He stretched his long arm around my shoulders. “Because we wouldn’t want any distractions hindering the little performance you’ve got coming up.”
I popped him in the stomach. “Thanks for the reminder.”
“You’ve conquered worse. It’s just a guitar.”
Wrong. It was another fire I wasn’t ready to face.
chapter twenty-one
Friction
My bedroom door closed behind me. I stopped two steps inside. Outlined in a thin layer of dust, my guitar stared at me from the opposite corner of the room.
Putting it off for two weeks hadn’t helped one bit. Missing calls with Riley, worrying about Dee’s safety, and trying to figure out how to keep the center open weren’t helping matters.
I turned, frozen with my hand on the light switch and A. J.’s voice in my mind. “It’s just a guitar.” I shook my arms out at my sides and convinced my Converse sneakers to do an about-face to end the unwarranted standoff.
It took a few minutes for the guitar to lose its awkwardness and feel at home again. My transitions weren’t the smoothest. I’d probably never touch people the way gifted musicians could. But in that secluded moment, it didn’t matter. All apprehension dissolved. Nothing could squelch the joy of remembering music was a gift meant to give away.
If Riley could be brave enough to offer that gift to the world, then I could be brave enough to offer it to kids who’d given me more than they’d ever realize.
A. J.’d nailed it. Again. Playing was exactly what I needed.
“I thought I heard you in here.” Jaycee flitted through the door and slumped onto her bed across from mine. “I’ve missed hearing you play. It’s soothing.”
I set the guitar aside. “Uh-oh. Wedding plans got you stressed out?”
“Girl, please.” She crossed her legs, kicking the apparent insult into oblivion. But when she looked at me again, the original strain in her expression fractured the confidence in her eyes.
“It’s my mom. She keeps getting sick. Each time, it’s harder for her to recover. I’m kinda starting to freak out about it.”
One word overpowered every single word she spoke. The one word in the English vocabulary I loathed more than any other. Cancer.
“How did you do it?” The beginning of tears coated her voice. “How did you keep yourself together when your dad went through this?”
“Jae, we don’t know if it’s that serious.”
“But what if it is?”
I ran my fingers down the neck of the guitar in search of the right thing to say. “It’s not always something you understand while going through it, but I think we’re given a special grace in the times we need it the most.”
More than a platitude, it was a statement of conviction I’d gained through experience. Even now, I depended on the indefinable strength that had girded my family during that season.
Jaycee stared at the floor. Unspoken “what ifs” entwined with the carpet threads. “I’m glad you’re here, Em.”
If I’d gone to Nashville, I wouldn’t have been. A sense of gratefulness joined the warmth of the afternoon sunshine painting our bedroom in golden streaks.
“Will you keep playing,” she asked, “for a little while longer?”
I set the pick on my mattress and let the strum of my fingertips release comfort into the unseen places only music could touch. With a companion this time, I returned to a world spun by the guitar’s soothing melody.
What I would’ve done to hang on to that same sweet peace the rest of the day.
My nerves competed with the car’s throttle the entire ride into Portland. When Dad played for me, he could’ve made a hundred blunders, and it wouldn’t have mattered. I was too fascinated at the way his fingers mastered the strings and too untrained to notice any minor dissonance. The kids wouldn’t mind if I accidentally mixed up a couple of chords, right?
One foot into the office, and the weight of my guitar dragged every ounce of self-assurance straight to the basement. I closed my eyes and slowed my breathing to match the rhythm of the clock on the wall.
My lids flashed right back open. When was it ever quiet enough to hear the clock ticking?
I plodded onto the deserted basketball court. Where was everyone?
The distant hum of traffic replaced the court’s usual commotion. Knowing A. J., he probably planned on giving me time to warm up.
On the stone bench, I stretched my neck from side to side and tested out a few chords. The beginning of a song Dad had played for me when I was about the age of the kids here unlocked the same peace I’d found in my bedroom earlier.
My cell vibrated in my pocket.
“Thought I’d lost her. . . .” A. J. said from the doorway.
Jumping at his voice, I caught the guitar before it slid all the way off my lap. My phone kept buzzing, but I didn’t answer.
He crossed the short distance between us. “That girl I saw on campus a year ago—off by herself in a moment no one could steal from her.”
I shook my head at him. “It’s like you know what I need before I do.”
He sat beside me and stared at the top of the basketball court. “Things are easier to see from the outside.”
Always were.
“Thanks for your friendship, A. J.” I laughed. “Your stubborn, witty friendship. I’m starting to wonder what I’d do without it.”
He turned slowly. “I told you I’d always take care of you.” His eyes locked onto mine and ushered a volume of thoughts through the silence. Memories from the night we danced in Portland last Christmas overtook the court.
Before I found my voice, a stampede of kids rushed from inside and surrounded us. Trey must’ve had them all holed up in the classroom.
Bombarded, A. J. hopped to his feet and laughed. “All right, guys, it’s the moment you’ve been waiting for. Everyone take a seat.”
The kids congregated on the ground in uneven rows. A spotlight of eyes from faces beaming with anticipation fell on me.
No matter how many times I rubbed my palms over my jeans, the guitar kept slipping free. My dry mouth made it impossible to speak—forget singing.
Of all moments, A. J. disappeared.
The screen door shut behind him and sent an echo tunneling into the empty space beside me on the bench. One forced swallow followed anot
her until the door hinges squeaked again.
A. J. dropped back into his spot. He flipped a small plastic trashcan upside down between his legs, tapped the makeshift drum, and winked. “Ready?”
He always knew how to put me at ease. By the second time through the chorus, the joy of watching the kids’ faces light up trumped my nerves. I never should’ve doubted the way music could cross any barrier.
My cell buzzed again in the middle of the song, but I kept playing.
On the last row, Dee shifted his focus back and forth between something in his lap and me.
My heart swelled with the memory of Dad’s voice. “Life’s a lot like being an artist. It’s not as much about mastering technique or theory as it is risking the cost of opening your heart to the song you’re meant to share.”
I peeked toward the heavens and smiled. Still teaching me how to open my heart, aren’t you?
One of our preteen girls sat on her knees and reached for my guitar the second we finished. “Can I try?”
Petitions rose as the seated audience turned into a jumping mob.
“Relax, guys.” A. J. towered above us. “I brought an extra guitar so you can take turns.”
He thought to bring a spare?
A. J. raised his brows at my expression. “Always a look of surprise.”
He had me. All I could do was laugh.
Once the chord plucking started, I escaped to the office. I’d take Balance Sheets and Profit Loss statements over guitar spotlights any day.
It was six o’clock before the outside serenading transitioned back to the center’s normal buzz. A whirlwind of data entry and emails had carried me through the rest of my shift.
I condensed the remaining stack of bills on my desk into a thin pile and crossed the room to a metal filing cabinet. I did a double take out the back screen door.
On A. J.’s shoulders, Andre gripped a basketball between two pudgy hands. A swarm of animated kids below him chanted and cheered. But even with his arms stretched as far as they would go, he couldn’t clear the rim.
With the extra lift of rising on his tiptoes, A. J. closed the gap separating Andre from the glory of his first ever slam-dunk. He took off jogging with Andre on his shoulders like a champion who’d just scored the winning point in a tournament game.
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