“Dude, I’m sorry.” Dax gripped my shoulder from behind. “That hurts.”
“Thanks for not saying ‘I told you so.’” Because he had. More than a few times.
“Hey, I don’t kick a friend when he’s down. I’ll let Coach know you might be a bit late to practice.”
I nodded, but my eyes were glued to the road kill under Lacey’s car.
Lacey stuck one foot out, slowly exiting her car, backing up to stare down at the pancaked guitar case behind her tire.
“I’m so sorry, Grady. Maybe it isn’t as bad as it looks,” she said, her gaze darting up to me and away. “I’ll totally pay to have it repaired.”
“Repaired?” I knew I was a bit hysterical when I had to smother the laugh that wanted to burst out of my chest. Walking past her, I leaned down and pulled the case out from under her car. Squatting next to it, I sucked in a breath and unzipped the case, folding the leather fabric of the soft case back to reveal the crushed, splintered mess. Ironically, not the first time someone had crushed my dreams for my future. “There is no repairing this.”
My fingers pushed through the broken fragments of lacquered wood while my brain ran through how I could solve this. The simple fact was, I needed my guitar.
“You can’t just…um, glue it back together?” Lacey asked, her voice hesitant and quiet.
I threw a glance up at her, checking to see if she was being sarcastic about it, but no. She simply didn’t have a clue. She stood stiffly, her arms wrapped across her stomach while her teeth bit at her bottom lip.
“No. Like a lot of things in life, this isn’t fixable.” Shit. I huffed out a breath, zipped the case closed, and picked it up, cringing when the pieces of guitar fell to the bottom of the bag.
“I swear I didn’t see it! Who could? A black guitar case on black pavement! Why would you set it down and walk away?” Her face was stiff and her voice shaking and emotional. Obviously, she was upset. “I feel horrible about this, but this isn’t all my fault, Grady Burnett.”
It was true, I had set my guitar down on the pavement. Although, an observant driver might have seen it. Either way, I was still out a guitar. No way did I have the money to replace it.
“You’re right.” I wasn’t in the mood to deal with Lacey’s feelings of guilt and anger. “So, never mind. I shouldn’t have left my guitar lying in the parking lot. Forget about it.”
“I can’t forget about it. It was partly my fault too. I have to fix this somehow.” Her troubled gray gaze held mine. “I’ll replace it. Where did you get it?”
“From my dad. And it’s a Fender. It’s irreplaceable.”
“Oh, wow. Let me at least give you some money then.” Her face was sad but determined. “I’ve got four hundred dollars in my checking account.”
Bernie leaned over and whispered something in Lacey’s ear. Her eyes went big.
“Fifteen hundred dollars!” Lacey squeaked. “I can’t—I don’t—oh, my.”
“It’s a Fender Telecaster,” I said.
“Was a Fender Telecaster,” Bernie said, looking at me with sympathy.
But Lacey was right. It was partly my fault. Mostly my fault. I’d love to turn her offer of money down, but the sad fact was I needed a new guitar. Four-hundred dollars would at least buy me a guitar. Not a great guitar, but good enough to gig.
“I’m sorry. I don’t have fifteen hundred dollars.” Lacey grimaced and sucked in a breath. “But I insist you take the four-hundred. I’ll feel horrible if you don’t.”
“Fine. I’ll take the money and then you’re out.” I winced. It was hard not to remember the day my dad had given it to me.
Lacey bit her lip, staring up at me, her big eyes swimming in tears. “I’m so sorry, Grady. Even though I hate you with every fiber of my being—I never would have wanted to crush your dad’s guitar.”
“It’s done. It’s over,” I said, clenching my jaw tight. Because it did hurt. But I also couldn’t take girl tears.
“No! I owe you. Do you need help with a paper? Oh—I don’t know—how about a math tutor?”
“No, Lacey. Seriously, you—” I stopped, because there was one thing. “Okay, if it will help you ease the guilt, there is one thing… I could use your help with my part of our advice column.”
“Sure. I can absolutely help with that.” She sighed, nodding like she’d had five cups of coffee. “Do you want to meet after school to work on it?”
“No. When I said ‘help,’ I meant you help me by doing it for me.”
“By myself?” she asked slowly as if I must have misstated myself. Not so much.
“Exactly,” I said, pointing at her. Lacey’s face shifted into the disapproving frown I was used to getting from her. Of course the idea of doing someone’s work went against her prim and proper, rule-following heart. She wasn’t nick-named Little Miss Perfect for nothing. “That’s exactly what I mean.”
“You mean just this first column?” Lacey raised her eyebrows. “Right?”
“No. I mean the whole semester.” Okay, yeah, I was pushing it, but what the heck. I didn’t have the time or the desire to deal with writing an advice column.
“For the whole semester?” She narrowed her eyes on me.
“My dad gave me that guitar on his deathbed.”
Lacey’s eyes teared up again and she sucked in a sharp breath.
“You know what he told me?” I asked, fascinated by the shimmer of her mist gray eyes.
“What?” she whispered.
“He said, ‘Play me some music, Grady. I’ll listen from heaven. Every note.’”
“Okay.” Lacey blinked furiously, but even so a tear trickled down her cheek. “I’ll do it.”
“Great.” I had a twinge of remorse about taking advantage of Lacey’s feeling of guilt, but like a lot of stuff in my life, I shoved it down deep, hoping to ignore it. “Make sure you make me sound smart. Not mushy or sensitive. As Mr. Jackalope, I think I should be, you know, like a guy.”
“Like a guy?” She squinted one eye like she was trying to puzzle that out.
“Yeah, practical. None of that sensitive touchy-feely stuff.” Her face started looking like she was going to blow a gasket, so I looked down at my pancaked guitar and blew out a slow breath. “I guess I’ll glue a few of the scraps together. Maybe I can make a guitar pick or something so I’ll at least have the memories.”
“I’m sorry, Grady. I’ve got the advice column. You don’t have to worry about it.”
“Awesome,” I said, giving her a nod. “Gotta go.”
5
Wax On, Wax Off
Grady
I stayed after practice to give one of our new freshman players some tips, so I was a little later getting home. Let me just say up front, dinner at my house was my least favorite part of the day.
“Sorry I’m late, I—”
“It’s okay, Grady. We just—” Mom stopped mid-sentence when Barry placed his hand over hers.
“We eat at seven, Grady. It’s a small thing to ask, but it’s important. The rest of us find a way to make it work.”
“Yes, sir.” I took my seat at the table without glancing at my step-brothers and began filling my plate from the dishes in the center of the table. Pork chops, green beans, and baked potatoes. By that I mean they’d left me one pork chop, one baked potato, and a whole lot of green beans.
“How did your math exam go, Miles?” Barry asked. Chad, Miles, and I all attended the same school. Chad and I were seniors and Miles was a junior. I counted myself lucky that I didn’t have any classes with Chad. Which was not to say I didn’t have to deal with him at school.
“Good,” Miles said around his mouthful of food. “I mean, I passed.”
“Passed? You’re a Pennington. We don’t simply pass; we excel.”
“Sure. I studied really hard though,” Miles said. (Translation: He played video games in his room for hours.)
“How did you do on your English paper, Grady?” Mom asked.
; “Got a B.”
“A little more effort and you could have had an A.” Barry’s gaze measured me and found me lacking. “Chad, how’s lacrosse going? Is Grady taking you under his wing?”
“I think I’d have a shot at a starter position only I think Coach doesn’t like me. Grady hasn’t really helped. I wouldn’t be surprised if he spread some bad rumor about me so no one on the team likes me.”
(Translation: I didn’t say a thing about him. His work ethic said it all, and our teammates reacted accordingly. Along with the fact that he skipped practice more often than he showed up. If Barry wasn’t a big donor to the Booster Club, Chad would have been thrown off the team long ago.)
Barry’s gaze snapped over to me. “Really, Grady? Are you really so jealous of your brother that you have to sabotage him?”
“What?” I laughed. It would have been hilarious if he weren’t actually serious. “Jealous? And you never adopted me which means they aren’t my brothers.”
“Everything’s always about you, isn’t it?” Barry frowned down the table at me. “Maybe if you weren’t so selfish, you’d find time to help your brothers.”
“I guess now would be a bad time to mention I heard Grady got another Saturday detention.” Chad’s face said “suck it.” By that I mean, he mouthed “suck it” when Barry wasn’t looking.
“No, Chad.” I gave him a nod. “I think it’s the perfect addition to this convo. Thanks for thinking of me.”
“I warned you.” Barry pointed at me. To be fair, he had. “As punishment, you’re to mow the lawn and wash the cars.”
“Yours and mom’s?” I asked because I hated having to wash my step-brothers’ cars. They found a way to rub my face in it for a week. Oh, yeah. This was far from the first time I’d received this punishment. Chad and Miles had the shiniest cars in the student parking lot thanks to my hard work. If the whole “wax on, wax off” deal actually worked, I’d have beaten the Cobra Kais and won the karate tournament long ago.
“All the cars.” He pointed his fork at me. “Maybe you should remember who pays for the roof over your head and the food on your plate.”
I remembered. It was impossible to forget when he reminded me so often. I remembered that Barry and his sons had moved in with us. I remembered I had to vacate my bedroom for Chad and got relegated down to the unfinished basement. I remembered when I could walk away from the dinner table full, rather than make do with what was left over after my step-brothers worked their way through the dishes like locusts through a field.
Miles and Chad smirked at me. Just like that, my appetite was gone. I was done.
“Excuse me,” I said, rising from the table with my plate.
“I didn’t excuse you from anything, Grady!”
And I didn’t care. I kept on walking into the kitchen to rinse my plate.
“Grady—” Mom had followed me, ever the peacemaker. Except, it seemed to only go in one direction.
“Ma—”
“Please, Grady. Just do as he asked. For me. You know I can’t stand the fighting.”
“Why is it always me? Why don’t you ask him to be the one to suck it up sometimes? Or Chad? Or—”
“Because…” She didn’t say anything else. Her gaze held mine before it fell away to dart around the room.
It was like the floor dropped out from under me. I’d never felt so alone. I slid my plate into the dishwasher and grabbed a dish towel for my hands. I didn’t need to dry them. I needed to stop them from smashing something.
“Right.” I took a careful breath. Calm down, dude. This was nothing new. Barry showed me his cards on the day he married my mom. He was very clear that what he felt for my mother would never extend to me. I was purely an obligation. Gotta respect his honesty and move on.
I reached into my back pocket, pulling out my check.
“Here.” I handed it out to mom. “I forgot to give this to Barry. It’s this month’s car payment.”
Barry owned a successful high-end car dealership. He’d bought each of his “sons” our first car.
“Why do you insist on doing this? You know it’s an insult to him?”
“An insult?” I turned, staring out the window at the cars on the driveway. Chad’s newest model year BMW. Miles’ one-year old Acura. And then there was my ten-year-old Taurus. “I get it. A man has his pride. So, I hope you understand why I need to pay for my car.”
And if you don’t, then… I’m not sure you’re my mom any more. A few years ago, I’d have begged for any scrap of love from my future step-dad. Now? No. I refused to grovel for crumbs.
“I’m going out,” I said. I had a guitar to buy before my gig this weekend.
“Grady! You know how Barry feels about your late nights.”
“My late nights?” I whipped my gaze over to her. “Do you even know what I do at night?”
“Barry’s seen your car at the Rock Depot.” Worry and doubt swept over her face. “And your eyes are bloodshot…a lot.”
“Wow.” The Rock Depot was known for being on the cutting edge of the music scene. Yet, Barry always acted like it was a raunchy dive bar. And the band I gigged with played at the Depot, often the last band of the night. So yeah, my car was there and my bloodshot eyes were on account of not enough sleep. “You know me, mom. At least you used to. But I guess now whatever Barry says is the undeniable truth. So, what, that makes me a selfish, ungrateful pothead?”
“Don’t be like that, Grady. I’m trying to make this work. Is that such a terrible thing?”
“No. I guess not.” I got it. Everyone needed to be loved. Believe me, I knew the feeling. But that didn’t fill up the empty feeling clawing at my chest. I felt like an outcast in my own family. Cut adrift and sailing into uncharted waters alone.
6
Crossed With the Wrong Girl
Lacey
“I still can’t believe what I did to Grady’s guitar.” It had been twenty-four hours since “the guitar incident” and I felt horrible about it. My guilt hadn’t eased one bit. I was tearing up just thinking about it again.
“It wasn’t exactly your fault,” Bernie said.
“Maybe I would have seen it if I hadn’t been messing with the radio.” That thought had been nagging at me all night.
“Okay, so, half your fault,” Bernie agreed, making me feel worse.
“His dead father’s guitar! I can’t even imagine if I’d lost my dad and—I’ve got to fix this.” How did one go about making amends for destroying the last thing your dad gave you before he passed away? It was impossible. Taking on Grady’s column seemed barely enough.
“You said you’d write his column for him. What else is there?”
“I’m going to make it really good. I’ll make Mr. Jackalope sound sensitive, thoughtful, caring and insightful.”
“This is Grady we’re talking about, isn’t it?” Bernie gave me the side-eye.
“Right. So not too sensitive.”
“Not sure he’s deep or insightful either, but I don’t know him well.”
“Well, I’ll make it amazing. It’s the least I can do.”
I threw everything I had into the column all week. I spent twice as much time on Mr. Jackalope’s question and response for our first advice column than I spent on my own for Ms. Jackalope. I wanted Grady’s answer to shine and impress. By the time the first issue of this year’s Jackson Journal hit the hallways, I felt like I’d accomplished my goal.
Dear Mr. Jackalope,
Why are boys so mean? Not all of them, but there’s this guy I like—and sometimes he says things that make me want to cry.
~In Love with a Mean Boy
Dear In Love with a Mean Boy,
First, I’m sorry this is happening to you. Thank you for acknowledging that not all boys are mean. There are three reasons a boy is mean:
He’s actually mean. In this case, you deserve better.
He’s trying to act cool. But you and I know being mean isn’t cool. You deserve better.
He likes you. See, sometimes we boys can be dumb when it comes to our feelings. We’re not always good with words. When we open our mouths to say something nice—a whole bunch of dumb words tumble out instead. If we could take the dumb words back, we would. If this is the case, and you have a little patience, then you and your dream guy might have a future together.
Hoppy to give advice,
Mr. Jackalope
Throughout the day, I heard kids talking about the column and Grady’s advice. The few times I saw him in the hallways, kids gave him compliments and high fives. Okay, it was mostly girls oohing and ahhing, but still.
In fact, I was at my locker at the end of the day when another fan approached Grady.
“OMG, Grady! What a great column!” The perky blond girl blinked up at him. “It’s nice to hear a guy that gets it.”
“Uh…thanks?” He looked at me with raised eyebrows.
I nodded and sent him a bright smile.
“Excuse me,” he said to the girl, abruptly moving in my direction. He grabbed my arm as he walked by, leading me away from my locker. “A minute please, Trueheart. What exactly did Mr. Jackalope say? That’s at least the hundredth girl to comment on my column.”
“Oh, wow! That’s great!”
“Not necessarily,” he growled.
“No, it is. I owe you big. So I wrote a nice—but not too nice, response from you. It’s great because kids are talking about it. Which means they’re reading it. If we make the advice column “the” column to read—we’ll get an ‘A’ in journalism. It’s perfect.”
“Perfect? That’s a thing with you, huh?” He made it sound like a bad thing.
“I try.”
“What kind of advice did I give?”
“Dating…sort of.”
“Dating advice?” He frowned.
“Hey, you got compliments, right?”
“True. A lot.” He nodded and then his mouth slid into a grin. “Okay, carry on.”
The Good Girl & the Bad Boy: A Sweet YA Romance (Jackson High Series Book 2) Page 3