Better Than This Page 7
“Shut up,” I grumbled.
“I didn’t say anything.” His hands shot into the air as if in surrender and his giant smile broke free. “Nope. Nothing at all.”
8
“Gah!” I winced and pulled my hand away from the guitar. I shook it as if the movement might somehow stop the pinching and throbbing of my partially missing ring finger. “Why’s it hurting so bad?”
“Lemme see,” Tad said, holding his hand out.
“It’s fine,” I said. Placing my hand in his, I turned when June walked in the room.
I had just spent two hours going through heirloom jewelry, boxes of old clothes, shoes, and hats. And I realized one thing. Old people had a lot of crap.
After June called it quits, I decided to stay and practice with Tad as my cheerleader. No point in going home. Mom was on one of her particularly bad benders. I let myself in the house after school to discover her robed form laying on the couch in the living room, moaning and yelling at things only she could see.
“It doesn’t look fine. There’s something seeping into the bandage,” Tad said.
I yanked my hand away. “I said it’s fine.”
“I bet if Laird said something was wrong with it, you’d listen. He says one thing about you learning to play again and you’re up and at it again.” Tad batted his eyelashes and clasped his hands. “Oh, Laird.”
I punched him with my good hand.
“Ouch!”
“You asked for it.”
Ever since we went to The Clover on Thursday night, Tad had been poking fun at my encounter with Laird. But Tad was wrong about my sudden wave of determination. If my sudden resolve were due to anyone, it would be Tad. But there was no way I would inflate his ego any further. He may have only been twelve, but his head was big enough.
As much as I hated to admit it, though, Laird’s words, the warmth of his hand on my arm, his very essence etched themselves into my mind. There was something about him. Something unforgettable. And no matter how much I tried, I couldn’t get him out of my head. Worse yet, I wasn’t sure I wanted him out.
“Aren’t you going to call him?” Tad asked.
“I don’t know.”
He lay down on the floor. “I know you want to. If Lauren told me to call her, I’d be on the phone in a heartbeat.”
“Yeah, because you’re love-sick. I’m not. And besides, what could he really want from me? I mean, why would he want to hang out with me, anyway? Why the interest now?” I lay down next to Tad. Both of us stared up at the ceiling and for a moment, I wondered if this is what having a brother would be like. Would this have been Michael and I?
I swallowed the thought down and turned my attention back to Tad when he spoke.
“Why wouldn’t he want to hang out with you? You’re awesome, and chances are he’s tried to talk to you in the past but was shut down by your—” Tad made quotes with his fingers. “‘I’m unapproachable’ mask.”
“My what?”
“You definitely have one. There’s just this look about you that says back off!”
From behind us, June cleared her throat and gave Tad a meaningful look as she sat in the chair across from us. She picked up a book and opened it.
“Whatever,” I muttered.
Tad shook his head, then leaned it on his hand and turned toward me. “Seriously. I don’t get you. I mean, this whole…” He waved his hand at me. “This whole unworthy act. Like you’re not worth anyone’s time.”
“I’m not acting.”
“Which makes it even worse. You truly think you have so little to offer.”
I shrugged and said nothing, but behind my sober expression, too many memories to count were hidden, confirming my self-doubt. All I had to do was let them in and pick one. Eenie meenie miney mo.
I glanced to June who appeared to be immersed in her book and not listening. She knew plenty about my past, and I briefly wondered if she had ever shared any of it with Tad.
I squeezed my eyes tight, wishing things were as simple as Tad made them seem, but the past held me captive, the memories fresh as though they happened yesterday.
It was warm. The muggy air held the tang of freshly mowed grass, and the day had just begun to turn into dusk. I stood in the front yard with the phone clutched in my hand.
When would Dad get here?
My mother knelt in the dirt. Mud soiled her cotton nightgown. Her eyes were wide in her pale face as she clawed at the earth like an animal, flinging bits of grass and dirt as she dug. “He’s in here,” she cried. “I just need to find him, and everything will be okay. If I can just find him…”
On warm, spring days, the people of our neighborhood took long walks after supper. That night was no different. At first, people strolled along the sidewalk, shooting furtive glances in our direction, but moved on. As the minutes ticked by, a crowd soon formed. They stared, an array of shocked and concerned expressions moving over their faces amidst murmurs of what had happened.
When Dad pulled into the driveway and got out of the car, all it took was one look at his tight expression, the pulsating anger in his eyes, and the crowd scattered. He walked over to me and sneered. “You let her get like this? Let her come out here and make a fool of us? You’re so irresponsible.” He shook his head and ran his hands roughly through his hair then dropped them to his sides. He clenched his fists, then murmured, “I never should’ve taken you to that blasted amusement park. I should’ve stayed home. If I hadn’t gone with you…”
The words stung, clinging to my heart like old wounds. I shrunk back into the shadows of the house, between the azalea bushes and the mounds of lilies, watching as he scooped her up and carried her inside. I sat in the growing dark for hours, until my legs ached and curled up underneath me and the air grew cool. He didn’t come out to check on me. It was June who found me. She noticed me sitting there and brought me inside then fed me cookies and milk. For days, I thought about those cutting words. I would never forget them, but I didn’t need to. My father went on to repeat them often over the next couple of years.
I shook my head and blinked away the memory.
“Maybe I will call Laird” I said, changing the subject.
“What’s the worst that can happen? Maybe he’ll have some tips for your playing or something. I mean, I can only help you out so much. It’s exhausting.”
I laughed and punched him in the arm. “I’m wasting time. I should get back to practicing.” I sat up and grabbed my guitar from the floor behind me. Placing my finger on the strings, I began to play.
“Ugh. Not the warm-up again,” Tad said.
I glanced up from the strings and narrowed my eyes at him. “They help stretch my fingers, and I think they’re helping a lot with getting used to using my pinky more. So deal with it. I’ll play something else when I’m done.”
I moved my fingers across the strings in the routine I had often played as a warm-up technique, even before the finger loss. Now, though, I found it a huge help to readjusting my playing. The movement of my fingers had been engraved into my mind for so long my biggest hurdle wasn’t only the physical part of playing without my ring finger. Instead, getting rid of old habits proved to be the most difficult. Muscle memory was a real thing, and at the moment, it wasn’t working in my favor, so I had to retrain myself.
I repeated the routine as I plucked the strings, wincing at the sharp stinging sensation in my wound. One, two, three, four. The fret I played on coincided with the finger I used. Zero being an open note (playing the string without fingering the fretboard), One my index finger, Two my middle finger, and Four my pinky. Three would have been my ring finger, but since I had to play without it, I substituted my pinky for most of those notes. The difficult part was remembering I had to use my pinky on the third fret, or the count of three. Only occasionally, when I played freestyle, did I sub with my middle finger.
Zero, two, three, four. Groaning, I gritted my teeth and played through the pain. My whole hand was sore, an
d any time I used the fingers surrounding my absent ring finger, a burning sensation rippled through all of them. One, zero, three—I almost stumbled, forgetting I had to substitute fingers, but recovered—four. One, two, zero, four.
After thirty minutes of the stretching exercises, I moved into an awesome piece by Hendrix, then painfully eased into one of my favorites by The Beatles. I mangled the song badly. By the time I hit the second lick, sweat beaded my brow and I had to clench my teeth against the throbbing in my hand.
“Is it hurting?” June asked. Tad’s big brown eyes pierced through me, waiting for my answer.
I shook my hand, as if all it needed was to loosen up, but the searing pain forced me to bite back a whimper. “No, it’s okay.” My voice trembled slightly, but to cast off their concern, I turned my focus back to the guitar.
No pain, no gain.
I started a song I knew would distract Tad so he wouldn’t inspect my hand. The music blasted from the strings as I played. I stumbled over a couple of the notes, twisting a riff in the middle, but utilized the mistake to improvise my own lick. I would not let my handicap beat me.
The playing may have been technically flawed, but even to my own ears, it sounded amazing. I had a way of turning the mistakes into something everyone would think was an intentional improvisation—it was the best I played since my injury.
When I finished, Tad jumped to his feet and hooted while he threw his arms in the air. “Amazing!”
I sucked in a sharp breath at the stabbing pain in my hand. Despite his cheering and June’s applause, I only managed a tiny smile.
My hand shouldn’t be feeling worse.
Several minutes passed before I tried to play again. And when I did, the pain at my every finger movement increased, and with it, an overwhelming dread tempered my thoughts. The muscles in my neck tensed and the pounding in my temples increased. After two weeks, and the first couple times I played, my finger had begun to feel better. Why did it hurt now?
There could only be one answer. Something wasn’t right.
* * *
I rolled over in bed, noting the dampness of my sheets as they clung to my forehead and cheeks. The tang of sweat mixed with fabric softener filled my nose. Must have been nightmares again. They hadn’t been a nightly recurrence, but since the accident, I’d had them a couple times.
I began to sit up, but I brought a hand up to my head that pounded like a drum and winced.
Why did I feel so lousy?
The sun slanted through the windows of my room, meaning it must’ve been past eight o’clock. I had no reason to still be tired, but maybe my fatigue was a remnant of the nightmares. To my recollection, I didn’t wake in the night, which I had done on every other time I dreamt of the accident. Still, I hadn’t felt well yesterday either. Maybe I was coming down with the flu.
All morning, I had been restless. Tad had some obligation with his mother. He didn’t say what, and I got the impression he didn’t want to, which was fine. I practiced some in the morning, playing my favorite oldies. Part of me was dying to jump back into relearning classical, but I wanted at least a good foothold on everything else first, since classical was the most challenging. I loved all music and genres anyways, so I didn’t mind.
The session went fairly well for the first couple hours, but the pain in my hand had me packing it in early. By evening, too nauseated by the aching to eat anything, I flopped on my bed. I tried to muster the energy to get a shower when I glanced down at my injured hand. A yellowish substance soaked through the white bandages covering the wound. Grimacing, I went to the bathroom, took a shower, and then covered the soiled bandages with a thin layer from the clean roll the hospital gave me. Not the best solution, but since the night of the confrontation with my father, and my tearing away the bandage, I hadn’t had the guts to face the monstrosity of my wrecked hand.
Mustering every ounce of energy, I forced myself to throw my legs over the bed and get up, despite my hammering head. Today was Sunday, which meant no school. No people. No band members bugging me about a comeback performance and no Mr. Neely making me feel as though I would never recover. Just the prospects had me brightening.
Then I remembered.
I groaned and covered my face with my hands. Why did I have to call Laird last night?
“Oh, I know! Because that little weasel Tad has infiltrated my brain,” I muttered to myself.
Yesterday, the conversation we had ate away at me. Slowly, like a rotting corpse. Me being the corpse, and Tad’s insistence I call being the flesh-eating beast. Since when was I chicken?
I gave myself a pep talk, strapped on my most steely exterior and made the call. But when his deep voice rumbled through the phone, I lost my train of thought. I immediately started in on my recent troubles with playing, and before I knew it, I agreed to meet him Sunday at ten a.m. in The Clover to practice. I swear the guy was truth serum.
I chose a black sweater and dark jeans. After I dressed, I put on a bit of makeup and quickly ran a brush through my hair, leaving it a messy mane down my back. Topping off my ensemble, I pushed my feet into my black, calf-length boots. On my way out of the room, I grabbed my guitar and slung it over my shoulder.
I was halfway down the stairs when I heard the arguing. Their voices ground into my already aching head. If it weren’t for my plans I would’ve ran back up to my bedroom and played my guitar or cranked up my MP3 player to drown them out. I only had an hour, though, before I was supposed to meet Laird, and I didn’t want to be late.
I sucked in a breath as I grew closer to the sound. They were in the living room, which was just crap-tastic, since it meant no chance of sneaking past them. When I came to the final step, I paused and peeked around the corner into the room.
If I could wait for the right moment…
“I’m going, Kent,” my mother said. “And you’re not going to stop me.”
My father ripped the keys from my mother’s hand. She lunged toward him—a flash of wild, blond hair and bony arms. Panting, she clawed at the keys he held above his head. “You’re not going anywhere. You’ve been drinking.”
“I didn’t have a drink!”
“I can smell it all over you. If you didn’t have one recently, you had enough last night to get you through the week. You’re not driving like this.” The lines of his face tightened, while the muscle in his jaw ticked with the passing seconds.
She gave up on reclaiming the keys and began beating his chest with her fists. “I hate you. I hate you!” she wailed. “Why won’t you let me?” The frantic beat of her fists abated until she stilled in his arms and sobbed while he wrapped his arms around her.
The harsh contours of my father’s face smoothed. He bent down and pressed his lips to the top of her head. “I will take you. Not right now though.”
“When? You’re going to see her, aren’t you?” She spoke in between sobs, her voice muffled by my father’s shirt.
Unable to listen to anymore, I stepped down from the stairs and walked past them. I didn’t glance up, nor did they call out to me. I drove in silence on the way to The Clover, stopping to grab breakfast, in part because I was running early, and also in an effort to shake off the image of my parents’ feud or whatever it was I witnessed. I popped a couple pain killers for my head and aching hand, and by the time I arrived, thoughts of my parents were gone and replaced by nerves.
I stared at the squat brick building. Why was I here?
If I said I came for Liard’s help with the guitar, I’d be lying. I heard he played well, but I had no idea, really. The fact that I couldn’t manage to erase the warmth of his touch and the way he made me feel from my head was probably closer to the truth. In those moments when he spoke to me, I felt something. So, maybe I just needed to feel.
I closed my eyes and recalled his words. Your fingers and hands move like liquid over the strings, like they were made for making music.
Exhaling, I opened my eyes and murmured, “Now or never.”
“Um, thanks.” I watched him leave, longing for the exit.
The thought of being alone in a room with Laird did weird things to my insides. My stomach flopped and I felt like I might be sick.
Laughing at myself, I pressed a hand against my stomach and shook my head. “Like you’ve never talked to a boy before,” I murmured.
“Hey, and Sam…”
The sound of Carl’s voice lit my cheeks on fire. I lifted my head to see him standing in the doorway.
He came back. Had he heard me? Please tell me he hadn’t heard me.
“I didn’t get to tell you the other night, but it’s good to see you here.” He moved to the edge of the stage and grabbed a thick stack of papers he must’ve forgotten. “I’m glad to see you haven’t given up, and it’s nice to get you away from your crew.”
I smiled, unsure of what to say, but before I had the chance to reply, he gave me a final wink and left.
Turning, I moved toward the open door of the back room. Soft music trickled toward me as I entered. Inside, Laird sat on a beat-up leather sofa, a golden Fender Strat the source of the sound. He cradled the instrument in his arms, his eyes closed, playing something I didn’t recognize.