Serenading Heartbreak

by Ella Fields

  I didn’t realize he even knew I’d been standing there. “Are you seriously going to keep calling me that?” I wasn’t sure why I acted as if it annoyed me. Maybe to end the fluttering that was tickling my stomach.

  He didn’t answer.

  “Did you come up with that?”

  “I did,” he said.

  I shook my head with an incredulous laugh. “But you only just started playing, what, not even a month ago?”

  “Your point?” He looked up then, golden brown lashes fanning high.

  “My point is my parents tried to get me to play a musical instrument before I could even walk, and I’ve never been able to play a damn thing. I can’t even sing, for Christ’s sake.” My arms flapped out, hands gesturing wildly at him. “And here you are. Just waltzed on into town, picked up a guitar for the first time, and became some kind of instant genius.”

  “I’m not a genius.” He wrote something else down. “I really want to learn, so I am. Besides,” he said, “I don’t just practice here. I’ve been spending some of lunch in the music room at school.”

  I had no response; my mouth opened and closed, trying and failing to find a rebuttal. “Hendrix won’t like you becoming better than him.” I had no idea why I said that. Yes, my brother could get competitive, but I didn’t know if he would about this.

  He had the audacity to smirk. At least, I think that minor twitching of his perfect lips was considered a smirk. An Everett smirk. “We’re starting a band. He didn’t tell you?”

  Shocked, I almost laughed, almost told him this band of theirs wouldn’t last, just like all the bands Hendrix had formed before.

  But the tiny lilt of excitement in Everett’s voice, that cut on his lip… I returned to my homework and left him to his songwriting.

  The front door opened and closed some minutes later, and the clack of Mom’s heels carried down the hall. I shut the worn copy of Wuthering Heights and scowled when she entered the kitchen. “Mom, I told you I’ve been fine.”

  “There’s a boy on our couch that tells me otherwise. And anyway.” She waved her hand, grabbing a bottled water. “My last kid was a no-show.”

  Mom was a self-employed music teacher. She taught piano, guitar, clarinet, flute, violin, and even singing in a small building she leased above the town’s greatest coffee shop. Her words when she’d snagged it a few years ago. She used to work from home, but it soon became too much to manage from here. She’d said our garage was too small and unorganized to maintain a professional atmosphere.

  “Ugh.” I dropped my head to the table, pretending to bang it on the wood. “He’s just waiting for Hendrix.” Lifting my head, I peered over at her when she didn’t respond.

  Mom took a sip of water, then tucked some of her blond hair behind her ear. “He plays well.”

  “He’s supposedly a beginner.” I used air quotes.

  Mom’s lips puckered in that way they did when she was curious. “This is the same boy who’s been coming over these past few weeks?”

  “Yeah, Everett.”

  Mom vacated the room, and I cringed as I listened to her introduce herself to Everett, her voice chipper and soft. I didn’t hear a word spoken about his split lip, but a little while later, as I was heading up the hall to take a shower and get my things ready for school the next day, I heard them laughing.

  My limbs loosened when she began to sing alongside his strumming. Melancholy, velveteen, and smile-inducing. Unique but beautiful, Mom had a voice that could sing me to sleep long after I’d needed her help to.

  And when I shut off the shower, I heard something I’d never be able to wash from my ears, or heart, for as long as I lived.

  I heard a sound that scraped over your skin like hot gravel, leaving goose bumps instead of burnt flesh in its wake. A sound that was both rich and caustic, wrenched from the depths of someplace deep and carried on waves of turbulent, crackling nerves.

  I heard Everett sing.

  For months, even if Hendrix was at soccer or out with one of his latest girlfriends, Everett came over after school.

  Mom nurtured him, unspoken words drifting in the air between them, and my dad watched him, hesitant to take on the responsibility of some riffraff boy with too many issues.

  And me, well, I had a new companion most days of the week. Even though we rarely talked, and when we did, it was stilted. I did my homework and he did his, often finishing in record time so he could disappear into the living room with Hendrix’s guitar.

  “They were fighting, screaming, at like two in the morning. I heard it, so the whole neighborhood probably did.” Mom sounded freaked out. “Couldn’t you?”

  “Couples fight all the time, babe.” Dad grazed a pan with the dish towel before hooking it above the island in our kitchen with the other hanging pots and pans. “It’s none of our business.”

  “It is.”

  “He’s here enough,” Dad hissed in a hushed voice, tossing the dish towel onto the island. “Don’t you think it’s getting to be a little much? We can’t afford a third kid, Brenna.”

  Mom sighed. “I’m not saying we need to adopt him. I’m just saying I see it. I feel it, and I know something’s wrong. Very wrong.”

  Mom’s words sent a spark of fear zooming straight for my chest. For weeks, ever since Everett had shown up at school with a violent bruise on his cheekbone, worry had nibbled at my stomach. The fact she was seeing and feeling it too, no matter how much Everett might want us to ignore it, made me feel less crazy for worrying about my brother’s best friend.

  “I agree,” I croaked, finally finding my voice.

  Both turned, mirroring expressions of shock on their faces as though they’d forgotten someone was still seated at the dining table after dinner.

  “What?” Dad’s thick brows met.

  “His parents, or I don’t know.” I pushed up from the table. “Someone is hurting him.” Someone or something was the reason he was growing into a cold young man with an extra-large chip on his shoulder.

  “Christ.” Dad pinched the bridge of his nose. “Have any of you spoken to him about it? Hendrix?”

  “I have,” Hendrix said, entering the kitchen, and I almost jumped. “But he’s always got excuses or changes the subject.” He dumped a bowl with cereal dried to its edges into the sink.

  Mom scowled, grabbing it and the scrubbing brush.

  Dad spoke above the sound of the water. “You think his parents are beating him?”

  Hendrix tipped a shoulder, then crossed his arms over his chest. A sign he was worried, but not wanting to give too much away. “Something’s definitely not right. I’m never invited over there, and when I tried to get in the week before last, he told me to fuck off and said he’d see me later.”

  “Hendrix,” Mom gasped.

  Hendrix winced. “What? It’s what he said.”

  “Christ,” Dad muttered again, hands on his hips as he stared at the ground. He was a tall man, broad and built from working construction all day long. His beard, tinted with silver, almost touched his chest. Mom hadn’t liked it at first, but now she smirked this weird way whenever she touched it. “Okay,” he said, hands rising into the air as he left the kitchen. “I’ll come home early tomorrow to try to catch him before he leaves and see if he’ll talk.”

  Mom, smiling down at the sink, yelled, “Love you, baby!”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he echoed back, making her laugh.

  She shut the water off, and I went to leave after Hendrix. I was supposed to be online already to chat with Adela.

  “Stevie, babe?” Mom called before I got two feet into the hall.

  I paused, turning. “Yeah?”

  “Do you see much of Everett?” She was leaning against the counter, flicking through a cookbook, but I knew she wasn’t looking for something or reading anything.

  “No,” I lied. “Mainly just on the bus. He mostly hangs with Hendrix when he’s here or plays guitar for a few minutes until he gets here.”

  Twist
ing her lips, she looked up, eyeing me for a stretched moment. “Okay. Bring out your dirty laundry before bed. I’m starting a load in the morning.”

  I nodded, walking away as the taste of my lie soured my mouth. I didn’t know why I didn’t tell her Everett came over some afternoons after school when Hendrix was out. But it kept me awake until midnight when I finally realized why.

  I liked it. Even if we hardly said ten words to one another most afternoons. I liked that one hour and twenty minutes of just us.

  “Go fish.”

  I slid a card from the deck, inwardly cursing at the three. I needed another four.

  “And don’t do that.”

  Brows pinching, I asked, “Do what?”

  Everett studied his cards. “Don’t go sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong, Clover.”

  Heat engulfed my cheeks, the kind I was unable to stop or hide, so I ducked my head.

  True to his word, Dad had come home early two nights ago and cornered Everett on his way out. I didn’t hear what was said on our porch, but from the lines etching Dad’s pursed lips, I knew he didn’t get any answers. Everett had apparently acted confused, then went home as soon as he could.

  “It wasn’t…” I was about to say it wasn’t my idea, but that would’ve been a lie. It’d been a group idea, and one I hadn’t protested. “Sorry.” After a few minutes, I set the cards down, not in the mood to play anymore. I wasn’t used to this kind of silence from him, and I didn’t like it.

  “Clover,” he said when I stood and went to the kitchen.

  Opening the fridge, I grabbed a soda and shut the door with my hip. “Yeah?”

  More strange silence and then he sighed. “Nothing.”

  The front door opened and closed, and Dale’s and Graham’s laughter reached my ears before they rounded the corner and dumped themselves into seats at the dining table.

  “A little early for poker, no?” Dale started collecting the cards, then tried to shuffle them. They all fell and scattered to the scuffed wooden table.

  “We weren’t playing poker,” I said, popping the tab on my can and taking a sip.

  “Oh hey.” Graham spun his drumsticks between his fingers. “What’s up, little sis?”

  “I’m not your little anything, ham.”

  “Ohhh.” Laughing, Dale slugged Graham in the arm, causing his drumsticks to clatter to the table and floor.

  Graham just grinned, then waggled his glasses.

  Glancing at Everett before leaving, I found his eyes stuck on Graham and that familiar rigidness returning to his jaw.

  I didn’t hang around. Hendrix would be home soon, and I wanted to watch some TV before the house filled with noise.

  Settling into the soft brown leather, I flicked through the channels, unable to decide on anything before Hendrix opened and closed the front door.

  “Ahoy, David Beckham has arrived,” Dale jeered.

  Hendrix drifted past the living room. “Shut up, loser.”

  I knew Dale would’ve taken that personally, being that he wasn’t interested in any extracurricular activities that didn’t involve skateboarding, and he wasn’t even in the band. Hendrix had tried to include him last time, but it didn’t work out. Dale was worse than me at anything that created sound, and that was saying something.

  He’d dubbed himself their band manager, to which they’d all laughed at but had still agreed. Hendrix said it was better to let him think he was helping.

  They remained in the kitchen for a while, trying to revamp some lyrics Hendrix had written a year ago. I kept the TV volume low, awaiting that rare sound. The sound of Everett’s laughter.

  “No, no, no,” Graham practically yelled over the noise of their bickering. “First things first, we need to nail our sound.”

  “Our sound?” Hendrix asked.

  “Yeah, our sound.”

  Everett seemed baffled. “We’re in a fucking band. Bands are full of sounds, you idiot.”

  “No, you aren’t listening,” Graham explained. “We need the sound. You know, hard rock, reggae, country, blues, alternative rock, pop-rock, hard-core, screamo…”

  “You lost me at algae,” Hendrix muttered.

  “It’s reggae.” Graham groaned. “Amateurs. Fucking amateurs, man.”

  “Let’s worry about our sound later and actually make sure we can string something together long enough to call ourselves a fucking band.”

  He had nothing to worry about. Everett had the kind of scratchy, melodic, soul-infused voice that could fit with the Spice Girls and Slipknot combined.

  But if they had a sound, I’d call it blues rock with an edge. Everett’s voice held too much grief, too much honesty, too much of everything to venture into boy band territory.

  “Okay, well what about a name?” Hendrix said. “I can’t even with The Studs, Graham. Fuck that.”

  “Orange Apples,” Graham said.

  “What?” three voices said at once.

  “Orange Apples.”

  I bit my lips, but when the laughter threatened to burst free, I stuffed a cushion over my face.

  Hendrix cursed. “Nice. Real fucking sophisticated.”

  I could almost see Graham shrugging his shoulders up to his ears as he said, “That’s the thing. It can’t be too sophisticated, or no one will take us seriously.”

  Hendrix sounded exasperated. “I’m going to need you to repeat what you just said so you can hear how stupid it sounded.”

  “No, wait. He’s right,” Everett spoke up, surprising me. I would’ve thought he’d be the least enthusiastic to name the band Orange Apples.

  “Thank you,” Graham practically shouted.

  Everett wasn’t done. “But I still don’t think Orange Apples is the, um, right fit.”

  “No one will show up to our gigs,” Hendrix said. “We’ll sound like a bunch of twats.” Hendrix’s previous failed attempts at forming a band had never even made it this far, so I could see why he was hesitant to seemingly poke fun at something that meant a lot to him.

  “Uh, excuse me?” Graham said. “The Arctic Monkeys, Queen, The Doors, Pink Floyd—”

  Hendrix cut him off. “Okay, shut up.”

  “Point made.” Graham made a hissing sound, and I could imagine him licking his finger and sticking it in the air.

  “Yeah but Queen is sophisticated as fuck,” Dale piped up. “Just saying.”

  Groans sounded, then Everett snapped, “Jesus. Fine. Orange Apples will do.”

  “Will do?” Graham scoffed. “It’s fucking brilliant. I can just see it now… sold-out stadiums, the glowing orange apple on billboards around the globe, stickers to slap on chick’s ass—ouch.”

  “Stevie’s home, dickhead.” That from Hendrix.

  “Like she hasn’t heard the word ass before,” Graham grumbled.

  “Christ.” From Everett, who I bet was probably rubbing his temples.

  “Screw it,” Dale said, followed by a thump that sounded as though he’d slapped the dining table. “Let’s vote. All in favor of Orange Apples, raise your hand.”

  “That’s bullshit. There’s no other option,” Hendrix protested.

  Tossing the pillow aside, I rose from the couch and crept down the hall to the kitchen.

  Graham laughed. “Not my fault you don’t show enough initiative. Snooze and lose, bro.”

  Everett tilted his head, watching me as I leaned into the corner of the counter.

  Three out of four hands shot into the air, and slowly, I raised mine too.

  Hendrix sputtered, fingers aimed at me and Dale. “Those two aren’t even in the band!”

  Graham stabbed a drumstick his way. “You never stated the rules before voting. Again, show some initiative earlier instead of whining like a baby after.”

  “Oh, I’m the baby? Orange fucking Apples? Really?” Hendrix turned to Everett. “Rett, are you hearing this crap?”

  “Yeah.” Everett dragged his eyes off me and cleared his throat. “And I don’t care. Le
t’s just play already and quit dicking around.”

  Grumbling sounded but it was no match for the cheering from Dale and Graham as they raced around the room and stormed past me to the garage.

  Everett was the last to leave, and I watched as he scrubbed his hands over his face. He looked tired, the kind of tired that weighed down the spirit as well as the shoulders.

  It was on the tip of my tongue to ask if he was okay, but when he looked at me, defeat warring with the fake smile he maneuvered into place, I knew there was little use.

  He stood, grabbing the tiny notebook he carried with him in the back pocket of his jeans.

  “Can I get a T-shirt?” I asked before he entered the garage. “You know, with the orange apple on it?”

  A slight shake of his shoulders was the only sign he’d even acknowledged my question, and then the door closed behind him.

  I clicked my pen and smirked at the way it made Everett’s jaw shift. “You hardly ever do homework here anymore.” If he sat with me at the dining table, it was to write in that journal of his. “What’s got you behaving?”

  “Finals,” he grunted out, then cursed and put a line through the last sentence he’d written in his book.

  I turned my attention back to my own work, noting the countries that bordered Australia on the notepad beside me.

  “Why is it you’re always behaving?”

  “Huh?” I shoved my pen between my teeth to tighten my ponytail.

  Everett followed the movement. I spat the pen out, and his lips curled. “You’re never out.”

  I felt my brows lower. “Am too. Adela and I went to the movies just two nights ago.”

  His eyes turned down to his notebook. “Not talking about the movies. I’m talking about parties. I see girls your age at them all the time.”

  “Oh.” I wasn’t sure what to do with my hands or eyes.

  “Not interested?” he prodded.

  “I am,” I said too quick. “I mean, I’m curious, I guess. But I don’t know… I wouldn’t be allowed to yet. And I’m not like Hendrix. I don’t have the guts to sneak out.”