“Storm’s grandmother got you a laptop?” I ask as I process all this.
“Yup.” He draws in a breath. “The woman is a sweetheart with a heart of gold. I didn’t want to accept it because I know money’s tight and she couldn’t afford it, but she made me. She said I wasn’t allowed to come over and practice until I took it. When I protested again, she swatted me out the front door with her broom. Then she locked it.” He laughs to himself. “I still mow her lawn every Sunday as a thank you.”
My heart warms because it seems there’s some good in Phoenix after all.
Although it’s sad that Storm’s grandmother appears to be the only adult in his life who seems to care enough to help him.
I wonder what the deal is with his parents.
I can feel his brooding stare boring holes into me right before he grits out, “Any other questions, Groupie?”
Since he’s offering.
“Actually, yes.” I shift in my seat to look at him. “How did you know where I live?”
Because I never told him.
Ignoring my question, he pulls to a stop in front of Storm’s house. “I didn’t mean to blow you off yesterday. Storm and I had a meeting with the manager of Voodoo. After some convincing, he scheduled us to play there a month from today. They can only squeeze us on stage for three songs, but it’s something.”
It’s everything.
Excitement races through me as I get out of the car. “Holy shit. That’s awesome.”
Granted, Voodoo is a hole-in-the-wall bar-slash-venue, but amazing undiscovered artists play there a lot.
A few have even gone from undiscovered to discovered shortly after their gigs there.
Since I just turned eighteen last month, I’ve only been to Voodoo once, but I plan on going back soon.
The genuine smile on Phoenix’s face tells me he’s equally excited about his upcoming show.
“Do you mind if I come?” I ask as he opens the garage door.
Ever since his little comment about knowing I stalk him; I’ve made a conscious effort to pretend like he doesn’t exist when we’re at school.
I hate that he thinks I’m some pathetic—well, groupie—who watches his every move.
Although, there is some truth to it, I suppose.
“The more tickets we sell, the better, so yeah. Come if you want.”
While he doesn’t sound elated about me being there, he doesn’t sound irritated about it either.
I’ll take it as a win.
He walks over to the futon and sits. “Let’s get this shit over with.”
I take a seat next to him. “First, we need to talk about your options.”
I truly feel like Phoenix would benefit from telling our teachers about his dyslexia.
His brow lifts. “What options?”
“Option one is—you talk to Mrs. Herman and tell her the truth. She’s very understanding, and she wants to see you succeed, so I’m positive she’d help you.” I hold his gaze. “You have a learning disability, Phoenix. It’s not your fault, and it’s nothing to be ashamed of. The school can help. Granted, it would mean you’d have to stay back another year, but once the school knows, you can take special classes and have an IEP—”
“Staying back another year isn’t a fucking option for me, Lennon.” His nostrils flare with frustration, but there’s also a hint of fear in his tone. “I need out of here now.”
He says it like he’s not only determined, but desperate to leave.
“Okay. That leaves us with option two.”
“Which is?”
“We try like hell to get you to pass the final.”
He hangs his head. “I appreciate it, but I can pass the final on my own—”
“Flirting with some girl so she gives you all the answers isn’t passing the final on your own. It’s cheating.” I reach for my folder. “Anyway, I did some research. And while I don’t think it’s going to magically fix your dyslexia, I got you something that might help make things a little easier.”
He looks taken aback. “You got me something?”
After taking the essay out of the folder, I pull the ruler from my purse. “This is a reading ruler.” I place it over the paper. “You said the letters become jumbled, which makes sense because dyslexia can give you visual difficulties while reading. Basically, this thing is a colored transparent ruler that individually highlights the sentence you want to read. I’m hoping it can help you focus better on one word and one sentence at a time.”
This way, it won’t be so overwhelming.
“But if it doesn’t, that’s okay. There’s different stuff we can try. This one just happens to be the simplest.”
I have no idea what to make of the look on his face. “Fine.”
Not wanting him to feel like I’m breathing down his neck, I get off the futon. “I’ll be over there if you need me.”
I wander over to the instruments. Even though they’re secondhand, they still cost money.
So does Phoenix’s car and phone.
I wonder what he does to earn it.
I turn around and look at him. He still appears to be struggling, but not as much. The ruler is halfway down the first page already…which is further than he got the other day.
A half hour later, he’s made it to the end of the second page.
“This isn’t working. It’s taking me so long that by the time I figure out what a sentence says, I’m forgetting everything else I read.”
I knew the ruler wouldn’t be a miracle worker, but I was hoping he would find it beneficial.
Sad thing is, I know if I went over there and read it to him, he’d be able to answer most of the questions correctly.
I can tell he’s frustrated, though, so I decide to change tactics.
“Put the essay down.” I walk back over to him. “We’re gonna focus on something else for a bit.”
I reach for my laptop and plop down next to him. “Part of your extracurricular project is writing your own essay. Let’s work on that.”
Sinking against the futon, he makes a gruff sound in his throat. “I think I’m tapped out.”
I can tell. Perhaps a brief change of subject is in order.
“What do you do for money?”
“Is that your way of saying you want me to pay you?”
“No. I’m just curious how you afford instruments and stuff.”
“I landscape over the summer. I also do some construction at my dad’s job sometimes.”
So, his dad is in the picture.
“Are you guys close?” I shift to face him. “What about your mom?”
Visibly annoyed with my line of questioning, he grunts. “Let’s start that essay.”
I boot up my laptop and open a new Word doc. “The topic is—what drives the human spirit. I figure it might be easier if you talk and I transcribe.”
This way, he can completely focus on what he wants to say without having to worry about typing it.
He exhales slowly. “I don’t think I can answer that because it’s different for everyone,” he starts as my fingers tap the keys.
“It depends on their intellect, emotions, fears, the shit they’ve been through…what they truly want and need. I only know what drives mine.” His eyes squeeze shut. “For me…it’s music. Creating.”