by Tia Souders
“You can go over to June’s now. You already missed half of school today anyway. But this was your last day off. No more excuses. No more lying around like the dead.”
A tight smile crossed my lips. “Thanks.”
“And, Sam? Go take a shower. You look like crap and smell like it too.”
* * *
I did a number on her yard. A nicer person would probably feel shame for their actions, but I had bigger problems. Had I not injured my hand, a punishment like this would have made me furious. I should be preparing for auditions, not working for an old lady—debt or not. But Juilliard wasn’t a factor now.
I stepped up to the door and knocked. My gaze swept the yard, the broken clay pots, and the huge divots in the earth. No point in dwelling on it, I told myself.
When June opened the door, I jumped back in shock. I wasn’t sure what I expected, but the old woman before me certainly wasn’t it. I mean, I’m sure I looked bad. Instead of showering as my father suggested, I had simply redone my hair into a tidier ponytail. But June…
Her once smooth, apricot skin had turned an ashen gray, set with deep wrinkles. Thick brown hair had thinned into a halo of white fluff, and a plump physique had led way to an overly thin, almost frail woman. It was as if June had aged thirty years instead of ten.
My voice stuck in my throat. The day she gave me my guitar flashed through my head. She held it out with a red bow tied around the headstock for good measure. I had never played before, but it was love at first sight. Never before had I seen anything so beautiful, and I fell in love. My life would be forever changed. At the time, I took it without question. Now, I wondered why I hadn’t asked where it came from. Had she bought it? Was it given to her? With my current knowledge of music, I knew how much that particular vintage was worth. And it was worth a pretty penny.
I stared at her until her sharp hazel eyes brought me back to earth. “I uh… came to make up for the damage… from last night.”
“Hi, Sam.” June’s voice shook as though speaking were a monumental effort. “Come in.”
I stepped inside. A strange familiarity and pang of loss I couldn’t explain washed over me. It had been a long time since I had been there. The furnishings in June’s living room and foyer remained exactly as I remembered them. Apparently, June had been the only thing time had taken its toll on. Antique side tables flanked a blue floral sofa with two cream wingback chairs perched in front. Through the entryway, the same smooth, white cabinets stared back at me among speckled yellow counter tops. If I entered further, I was willing to bet I’d find an accommodating square oak table with a scar in the middle from the time my carving knife slipped while making jack-o-lanterns.
A banging noise came from the back of the hallway, followed by a young man’s voice, mumbling something I couldn’t quite hear.
June grimaced and yelled, “Watch the mouth, young man.”
I narrowed my eyes in the direction of the sound, and within seconds a scrawny boy appeared. Skinny legs clad in jeans led up to gangly arms and a scrawny chest. You name it, and everything on the boy was skinny and slightly awkward. He stared at me from behind thick black frames, which accentuated his equally dark hair, reminding me of the guy from Where’s Waldo.
“You’re Sam, right?”
I shrugged and pointed at him, realizing too late I used my bad hand. “And you are?”
“Cool. Is that the hand?”
I jumped back at his words. My gaze flashed to my hand. The one I just held out for all to see. Heat rose to my face. “How did you—”
“All the kids at school are talking about it. The girl who lost her finger.” He pushed the frames back up on his face with his finger, the particular finger I was missing. “You’re kind of a legend now.”
I turned, looking for June, but she must’ve left. When I faced the boy again, he stood directly in front of me. He reached his hand out. “I’m Tad. Tad Mitchell.”
The same last name as June’s. “And you’re June’s…”
“Grandson.” He smiled.
I fought a flicker of irritation. “How do you know so much, June’s grandson?”
“I go to the junior high. I’m only twelve, but I have my connections.” This time, his smile almost ate up his entire face. “Don’t worry. I’m cool with the no finger thing. I actually think it’s pretty awesome. I mean, you’re like, hardcore now. Everyone already knew you were master of the guitar. But now…” He shook his head and, by the look on his face, enjoyed his own banter far more than any twelve-year-old should. “The next time you play, and you show them you’ve still got it, nobody will ever be able to say you’re not the best.”
Nothing he said about the finger hurt, until he started talking about my playing. Thinking about what I lost killed me.
My insides swelled up, and for a moment, I wondered whether it was possible for a person to actually burst open from such grief. “You’re seriously weird, you know that?”
“Oh, sorry.” He chuckled to himself. “I’ve seen you play at The Clover a couple times. Plus, I saw you this year at the school talent show. And this past summer’s Watermelon Festival.” He counted the places on his fingers as he spoke. “The Celtic Festival. The Greek Festival in Richmond. But even if I hadn’t seen you play at all those things, the whole school knows about you. Anyone who’s ever heard you play talks about it. They can’t help it. You’re amazing. Not to mention your massive YouTube following.”
Was this kid for real? “What are you? My groupie or something?”
“Sam, why don’t you come in the kitchen and I’ll get that cleaned up.” June nodded toward the dirty bandages on my hand. I had completely forgotten about them, and despite how much I didn’t want them messed with, I sighed in relief at being saved from further conversation with the mini-Waldo.
“It’s okay. They’re fine,” I said.
“Nonsense. The wounds probably haven’t completely healed yet. And from the looks of it, they opened back up a bit. You don’t want infection to set in.” She turned and disappeared into the kitchen.
I hesitated for a moment. On one hand, I certainly didn’t want to change the bandage myself, and I would never ask my father to do it. He might decide he didn’t do a good enough job and finish it off. Lord knows my mother was too drunk to be any help. The school nurse would’ve been my first choice, but since I hadn’t gone to school today, June looked like my only option. The last thing I wanted though was what’s-his-name gawking at my sawed-off finger.
I glanced over at him.
“You really should listen to her,” he said.
Groaning, I walked into the kitchen. “This really is punishment,” I muttered.
Sure enough, the jagged scar in the oak table greeted me. I sat while June unwrapped my hand, tutting at whatever it was she saw. I wouldn’t know because I kept my head turned the entire time, unable or unwilling to watch. As she cleaned the area lightly with rubbing alcohol, I winced at the occasional sting. I had to give Tad credit though. He pulled up a chair next to me, never looking in the direction of my hand, of which I was strangely grateful.
“So how do you know so much about the guitar?” I asked. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw June glance up at her grandson.
“I play, of course. I mean, I’m no Samantha Becker, but I’m not bad.”
I groaned. “Would you stop already?”
“What?” His hazel eyes widened.
“With that.” I pointed at him. “The hero worship stuff or whatever it is. I’m not playing anymore. I’m done.”
He tilted his head to the side as if he hadn’t understood my meaning. “Huh? What do you mean, done?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” I nodded toward the spot where June wrapped fresh gauze around my finger. “It’s kind of hard to play with a missing ring finger.”
He frowned and shook his head. “Wow. I never thought… I mean, you always seemed to love it so much. When you played…”
A stabbing pain shot th
rough my chest. I rubbed it with my good hand. “I do love it. Or at least I did.”
“And you’re going to let something like this stop you? A finger?”
I laughed. “You act like it’s nothing. But I just can’t see a way around it.”
“Jerry Garcia. James Doohan. Tony Iomi.”
I knew what he was doing, listing famous guitarists. All of which had missing digits.
“Django Reinhardt,” he shot at me.
I squeezed my eyes shut. Django Reinhardt hit home. He was one of my favorites. After an accident where his caravan erupted in fire, his right leg was paralyzed, and two of his fingers on his fretting hand were left badly burned. He went on to earn fame as a performer after relearning the guitar and developing a new playing style to work around his bad fingers. He was a jazz legend.
Tad continued chattering. “Even Jesse James was rumored to have lost a finger. And he played. The Wild West without guitars would’ve been pretty lame.”
“How could I have forgotten?” I whispered, my mind still on Reinhardt.
June raised an eyebrow at Tad. He returned her gaze, his features incredulous. “What? He did.”
“All done here,” June said in her raspy voice.
“Uh, thanks,” I said.
“Listen, Sam, I’ll cut to the chase. I’m getting old. My joints hurt. I get tired in the afternoons. As of late, the mornings and evenings leave me exhausted. I know this is probably the last place you want to be after school lets out. It’s obvious how you feel about me from your actions last night. But I need some help around here. And I figure you owe me now for not calling the police. So, how ‘bout it?”
I wanted to tell her the way I felt about her really had no bearing on how I acted. But before I could say anything, a surge of something bitter rose in my chest, and I remembered her rejection all those years ago. Maybe I used what happened between us as an excuse to destroy her things. Maybe she was right. Besides, right or wrong, what choice did I have?
I shrugged. “Okay.”
A smile snaked across her face. “Good. We’ll mainly be going through my storage, getting rid of stuff, giving things away, and organizing them. That sort of thing. It’s the kind of stuff I have trouble sitting long for. I was thinking maybe three days a week for two hours. Then a little time on the weekends.”
“It’s going to be so cool having you over here all the time.” Tad grinned.
I certainly understood why June couldn’t rely on him to do anything. He never shut up long enough. “Whatever you want me to do,” I said.
Later that night, I sat in the old wooden chair in my room amongst the shadows—my guitar chair. It was a break from curling up in my bed as I had done for the past week. I stared at the blackened floor underneath. The place where my guitar lay in its case.
I stood up, moved to the bed, and knelt down next to it. I reached into the darkness, pulled out the worn case, and clicked it open. The face of my guitar stared back at me in the shadows. A tingling sensation rose from my feet through my chest. The names of the musicians Tad mentioned ran through my head. And for the first time all week, I looked at the guitar without regret. I looked at it with hope.
5
I hopped out of my rusted-out Chevy truck with my guitar case slung over my back. The air was brisk. A flash of my black hair in the side mirror caught my eye. I stopped and studied my reflection. My father had been right. I looked like death. My black hair hung limply around my shoulders, and dark circles shadowed my blue, bloodshot eyes. My skin was so pale it may as well have been translucent.
I scowled. No point in dwelling on my appearance in the school parking lot.
I turned away from my truck. Only a few cars littered the spaces. It was early yet. Classes wouldn’t begin for close to an hour, but Thursday was one of my practice mornings with Mr. Neely, and today would be no ordinary practice. It marked the first one since my injury.
I hurried up the walkway toward the school, glancing around as I did. After Tad’s claims, I was more paranoid than ever. Were people watching me? Whispering about me on their way to class? What were they saying? Luckily, the lack of students so early made it easy to dodge questions and ignore stares.
I quickly made my way to room 202 where Mr. Neely always started his day. As I approached the door, I stopped and hesitated. The scent of strong coffee and chalk mingled outside the room.
I took a deep breath, relaxed my clenched fists, and entered. Mr. Neely stood in front of his desk. His graying, blond hair ringed his head like a horseshoe. The pale blue dress shirt he wore had already come untucked. He hunched over a stack of papers on his desk. Sheet music, no doubt. My steps were hesitant. The farther I got, the more I wanted to turn around and run back out, but the solid weight of the guitar strapped to my back stopped my retreat. I owed it to myself to at least try.
I cleared my throat before I could chicken out, and Mr. Neely’s head shot up from his paperwork. It took him a moment to register my face before his easy smile appeared. He came around the desk and stood in front of me. “Well, if it ain’t Miss Becker.” He beamed. “It’s nice to see you back.”
Though I probably should have been relieved by his greeting, something in his eyes bothered me. He glanced down at my hand, not even bothering to hide his assessment. “So it’s true then. It was the ring finger on your left.”
My stomach sunk. I couldn’t take the way his eyes softened toward me or the way he smiled his tiny smile, where only the corners of his mouth lifted—the smile that didn’t reach his eyes. I came here for a reason. This teacher, this mentor, once believed in me. It was time to find out just how much.
“I want to play.” Refusing to move my gaze from his face, I studied him as I spoke. “I want you to teach me, to help me find a way to relearn to play and make up for my disability.” I bit my lip, wishing to bite back the word disability, as if keeping it locked inside my head made my reality any different.
For a moment, he said nothing. After a minute, he ran a hand through his hair and exhaled his pent up breath. “When I heard… I wondered what your reaction would be. How you would take it. I guess I thought… Well, I don’t know what I thought.”
He rubbed the back of his neck as he looked away from me. “I’ve never taught anyone in your situation before, Sam. I don’t know what to tell you or what to do. I’ve been doing this for thirty years and playing the guitar practically my whole life. Yet in this situation, I feel useless.”
Not what I wanted to hear. “Surely you have some idea of where to start or what to do.”
He brought his hand to his mouth, as if in thought. “Okay, you’re right.” He shook his head and smiled. “Let’s see what you can do.”
I wanted to sigh in relief but couldn’t. My already weakened confidence had been further shaken. Had it been too much to hope for a more positive reaction? What did I expect, exactly?
We took our usual positions. I sat in the old oak chair and removed my guitar from its case, while Mr. Neely settled in across from me. “Okay, let’s start with something simple.”
I picked the guitar up, my grip awkward, still unused to the missing finger. “Please, no ‘Yankee Doddle Dandy’,” I said with a bark of laughter.
“It’s not a bad place to start,” he said, straight-faced.
My smile faded. “You’re kidding me, right?”
“How about ‘Amazing Grace’?”
I hated the ache in my throat but despised the moisture in my eyes even more. “No. I’m not playing those. I’m a skilled guitar player, and I have auditions in less than six months. I’m good. I’m not some elementary school kid just starting out.”
Mr. Neely shook his head. “I know. But you’re trying to come back from a serious injury. That’s quite an adjustment. I’m not sure starting with complex pieces would be a smart move. In many ways, you are just starting out.”
“So what? I’m supposed to just quit? Reverse my playing ten years?”
His lips flatt
ened into a straight line as he shoved his hands in his pockets, saying nothing.
I swallowed. “Do you think I’ll never play again?”
He held his hands up, his posture defensive. “No. No, I’m not saying you won’t play again. But I think you may need to rethink the auditions. I don’t want you getting your hopes up. What you’re asking… it’s a lot…”
I swallowed my pride, and with every ounce of dignity I could muster, I stood back up, fighting the urge to shove my guitar in its case and leave. “I can do this, but it would be easier if I had your help. Do you want in or not?”
He looked up at me. His eyes searched my face, and just when I wanted to tell him to forget it, he said, “Since classical guitar requires a lot of chords, this is not going to be easy. You’ll need to overcompensate with the middle finger and pinky. The pinky will have to be really strong in order to get fluid movement across the bar. Your long fingers will help some.”
A slow smile spread across my face, but even still, my muscles strained with the effort. “Now we’re talkin’.”
Mr. Neely got up and went to his desk where he grabbed a newspaper. When he crumpled a section of it into a ball and threw it next to me, I raised one brow and glanced at him.
He nodded toward the paper. “Smooth it out with your left hand. Then crumple it back up.”
By the time the morning bell rang for homeroom, and the sound of students filing into classes echoed through the halls, my fingers ached. The strengthening portion of our practice was difficult, but the playing portion was harrowing. I grabbed my guitar and headed for the door. Before I stepped into the hall, Mr. Neely called after me. “Sam, I’ve always been amazed by your playing and talent. You were one of my best players.”
I glanced down at my hand. His use of past tense didn’t escape my attention. I nodded before stepping into the crowd of students, his words sticking with me the rest of the day.
* * *
“You know, we could work this to our advantage,” Derek said, leaning toward me.
