I finally peek through the window. The haunting, eddying tune halts so suddenly my body feels as though it’s been spit out of a vortex. I stare at the girl—who’s really only a child—and she stares back. Her mouth rounds, and then she tilts her head down, and her face vanishes behind the bill of a pink baseball cap.
Lynn leaps off the piano bench and marches toward the window, livid. I jump backward, half expecting her to fling the window open and throttle me. Instead, she pulls the heavy drapes closed.
I dash back to the front porch. All I did was look, so why do I feel like I’ve just murdered someone? My fingers scrabble over my history notebook just as Lynn bursts through the front door.
“What were you thinking?” she hisses.
“I’m … I’m sorry.”
Loose sheets of paper flutter like feathers on the gray floorboards. I bend over to retrieve them and try to line them up, crumpling the sides. They don’t line up. I sandwich them into my history book and stuff everything in my bag.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“Leaving.” I crouch, and after several attempts, manage to get my U-lock open. My fingers tremble as I toss my bag into the basket.
“I’m sorry I yelled, Angie.” Her voice has lost some of its sternness.
Without turning, I jerk my head in a nod.
“She’s just shy,” Lynn adds.
“I understand,” I say, even though I don’t. I don’t understand much of anything right now. I don’t understand why I’m fleeing, or why Lynn hissed at me, or why I feel so wicked.
How could someone with such an extraordinary voice be shy?
“She has an incredible voice, doesn’t she?” Lynn calls out as I begin pedaling away.
Something edges her voice. Sadness? Why would she feel sad about her student being gifted? Does she think I’m jealous?
I turn a corner and almost ram into a big black car. The car honks, brakes screeching. I swerve to miss it and end up on the wrong side of the road. I pedal quickly back to the right side, wheels grazing the raised curb, then I brake. My pulse is all over the place. Pressing one hand against my heart, I wait for it to even out.
Once the punching in my rib cage lessens, I look over my shoulder, itching to go back, but I don’t want to seem like some psycho stalker, so I make my way back home.
11
Long, Boring Conversations
Soft rain pelts the windows of the classroom while the steel-gray light of the rain clouds turns the manicured quad silver. The weather matches my mood to perfection. Ever since Monday, I’ve been feeling down, and nothing and no one has been able to bring me back up. I should’ve just phoned Lynn and nipped whatever happened back at her house in the bud, but pride kept my lips sealed shut.
Rae’s out sick, so at lunchtime I grab a turkey wrap, walk past the wall of yellow lockers, and push through the school doors. It’s probably not the best day to eat outside, but I crave fresh air and space to think. I round the brick walls toward the track where students are running in spite of the ceaseless drizzle.
I unroll my denim jacket from my bag and poke my arms inside the sleeves, then untangle my pink earbuds and press PLAY on my father’s last album. The Derelicts made one more album after he died, but it wasn’t successful. Not that their other albums were all that successful. They never went platinum or anything, even though I think they deserved more attention than they got.
The air’s warm and sticky, alive with a million mosquitoes. I climb up the bleachers to the highest row and watch the bodies looping around the field, kicking up globs of red dirt. It’s strangely calming, almost hypnotic. The rain pricks my bare thighs like falling needles. I stuff my hands inside my pockets and close my eyes.
The strum of my father’s guitar rumbles through me, smoothing out my anxiety. Earthen tones detonate behind my closed lids—amber, khaki, garnet. Like a balm, his playing soothes me.
If only he were still alive.
If only the roads hadn’t been icy.
If only the fourteen-wheeler hadn’t skidded and rammed into him.
I sigh just as something grazes my elbow. I imagine it’s an insect and swipe it off.
It’s not an insect, though; it’s a hand.
I push my stringy hair off my forehead and pivot toward the body attached to it.
Ten’s mouth moves, but I can’t hear what he’s saying.
I pluck one earbud out. “What?”
“Do you have a bicycle license?”
My head jerks back a little.
“You’re a menace on that thing.”
“Um, okay.” Criticism. Just what I need. “If you’re done doling out gratuitous advice, I’d like to get back to my music.”
He rests his forearms on his thighs, laces his fingers together, and lets them hang between his knees. I pop the earbud back in, hoping he gets the message I want him to leave, but he doesn’t move. Well, actually, he does move. He extends his arm, seizes one of my earbuds, and sticks it into his ear. He wraps his palms around the edge of the metal bench and stretches his long legs out.
His head bobs.
“I thought you hated music,” I say.
“Garage bands are okay.”
“The Derelicts aren’t a garage band.”
His gym shirt with the school crest—a stylized tree of knowledge—sticks to his chest. “The Derelicts, huh? Your father’s band?”
“Yeah. He was their guitar player.”
“Do you play the guitar?” he asks.
“No.”
“Do you play an instrument?”
“Who’s the nosy one now?”
“I never called you nosy.” He takes the earbud out and hands it back to me. “I said you asked a lot of questions.”
“Same difference.”
“Why are you sitting up here by yourself?”
“Because…” I loop the pink plastic cord around my index finger. “Why do you even care?”
His golden eyes darken. “You’ve been sitting with your back to me in class all week.”
I didn’t think he’d noticed.
He sticks his hand out.
I frown at it.
“I’m Tennessee Dylan, but I go by Ten. What’s your name?”
I look down at his suspended hand, then look around in case this is a prank one of his track buddies is filming. No one’s holding up any phones. No one’s even around. How long have I been out here?
I check my watch. When I see the time, I spring up. Ten winces, mistaking my rush to head back inside for a dismissal. He stands, rubs his palms against his gym shorts, then starts down the bleachers.
“Hey, new kid,” I call out.
He turns around.
“My name’s Angela Conrad, but everyone calls me Angie.”
His lips twitch.
I catch up to him. “I plan on being a legendary musician. What about you, Ten? What do you dream of being when you grow up?” I’m standing on the step above him, yet he’s still taller than I am.
His smile turns brash. “What do you think I dream of being when I grow up?”
I tilt my head to the side. “I’m thinking it’s a toss-up between talk show host and astronaut. Am I close?”
He laughs, a deep laugh that slaloms past the raindrops and sneaks into my chest.