by Rayne Lacko
Dust crept up around his legs and gravel scattered across the highway. Carter stopped harping on her long enough to realize the station wagon had pulled away. He watched its taillights disappear down the highway.
“Now’s when you decide to get picky? Perfect timing.” Carter tightened his grip on his guitar and started walking backward, watching for another vehicle he might flag down. “Where was that high-and-mighty attitude when you chose a fine specimen of man like Willard?”
“I’m not going to discuss my love life with a little kid, Crater.” Piper stomped along the shoulder like she was giving it what-for.
Carter knew she was used to dishing up the sarcasm, not eating it. But he wasn’t finished with her. “Yeah? Well, we’re going to talk about it because who you decide to love, or stop loving, affects everybody close to you.” He wanted Piper to be happy and any fool could see Willard was no good. But he wasn’t talking about Willard; he was talking about his mother and he darn well knew it.
“Oh, I got that. Clear as a bell, little boy.” Piper stuck out her arm, her thumb raised toward traffic. “Thanks to you, I’m trying not to love him. And look how that turned out for everybody.” She was yelling now. It was crazy, but Carter preferred it. He liked her fire. It showed her strength, the kind of determination it must have taken to establish her business and make a success of herself. Besides, he was through with taking care of everyone else’s feelings. He could barely handle his own.
A large van approached with a familiar pattern of lights across the windshield’s brow. Where’d he seen that before? It wasn’t the one that stole Willard’s motorcycle. Those guys were long gone. He could hear the van’s rattle and sputter from half a mile up. It wasn’t running well, like it’d been on the road a long while and was hurting for a rest. He knew the sound too well. His mother’s vintage Chevy pickup had let her down plenty.
The van moved a little slower, then fell behind as several cars passed it. Carter watched the other vehicles, searching for a potential ride. That van wasn’t going to make it another mile. Finally, it rolled out of traffic and onto the shoulder, only a stone’s throw from Piper. Carter stopped in his tracks. He was sure mad, but not enough to let some random van pull up next to her two ticks before midnight.
The van’s side-panel door swung open. Carter moved between it and Piper, calling to mind Mitch’s instructions: eyes, groin, neck, and knees. From the corner of his eye, he spied Piper forming a fist in each hand. Two guys hopped out into the shadows. The driver’s door opened, and out came a long, lean man in black jeans and a ripped black tee. He circled round the van with fluid, rhythmic movements.
Carter would’ve recognized him anywhere. It was Garrett from Poly Virus.
“Is that you, man?” Garrett flicked the switch on a flashlight, illuminating Carter and Piper.
“Does a one-legged duck swim in circles?” Grinning with relief, Carter reckoned the old Southern saying was as good as ID.
“What y’all doing out here?” Austin mocked his accent, offering his hand. Carter shook it, trying to keep up with the drummer’s gang-style handshake.
“We were on our way to LA. We stopped to check out Joshua Tree National Park and some punk fool jacked our ride,” Carter said.
“Dude, I thought you were just a kid or something,” Garrett replied, shining the flashlight between Carter and Piper.
“He’s fifteen,” Piper said, still mad as a wet hen. “A freakishly overgrown child.”
“And you’re out here by yourself?” Garrett raised a questioning eyebrow at Piper. She mumbled something about delivering him to his daddy because she was done with babysitting.
“I’m the one doing the babysitting,” he said, loud and clear. He’d had enough of her acting bigger than her britches. Carter walked over to the van, determined to hold his own. “Sounds like the van’s giving you trouble.” He gestured to Garrett to bring the light over to the hood. “I might be able to help.”
“Hey, if you got the skills, who am I to argue? My phone’s map says there isn’t a garage for miles.” Garrett used a glove to pop the hot lid and shone the light on the engine. “At about six, maybe seven hundred RPM, it makes a knocking noise,” he told him, “like a bolt rattling around inside an aluminum case.”
“Sounds like the heat shield for the catalytic converter,” Carter said, checking the oil level. “What’s the engine, a 5.3 liter?”
“Yeah, and it’s mad nervous about getting to Indio,” Garrett said, looking up and down the stretch of highway for a car repair shop that didn’t exist. “There’re tools in the back. Fix the van and you can be our guest at Coachella. What do you say, Oklahoma?”
Carter cracked a grin. He’d change the oil, plugs, and air filter with his bare hands for a chance to go to the historic Coachella Valley Music and Arts Festival, a two-day concert featuring rock, hip hop, indie, and electronic dance music. “You have room for two?”
Chapter Fourty
THE BOYS IN THE BAND DIDN’T KNOW WHAT to make of Piper. She’d topped her black tank and skirt with some kind of mesh minidress to go to The Crusty Maiden. The outfit looked cool on stage, but Carter hadn’t noticed Piper wasn’t half-bad to look at either. He was glad to help the band if it meant he and Piper could catch a ride, but he needed to look out for her, too. He introduced her as owner and head chef of The Desert Willow in Tucson, and a fine singer to boot.
“You’re the man, bro,” Austin said, elbowing him in the ribs.
“C’mon, y’all, she’s like my sister.” Carter cast an apologetic glance at Piper. She surprised him with half a smile. They were kin of sorts, thanks to Mitch, Ledbetter, and the music they shared.
Carter had become a string on his own guitar, an equal contributor, as necessary as the other five. The strings were family, just like they all were—Sandra, Eddie, Ledbetter, Mitch, Piper, and Carter.
With Garrett holding the flashlight and Dex the bassist handing tools as needed, Carter soon had the van purring again. “Oklahoma, y’all saved our skins,” the boys said, their attempts at sounding Southern going over-twang. Even Piper found it in her stony heart to punch him good-naturedly on his arm. “Nice work, Carter,” she said. “Don’t know what I’d do without you.”
They all piled in and headed west. Poly Virus’s manager had set the band up with a condo in Palm Desert, no more than an hour’s drive away. Piper piped up, telling the guys all about Carter covering “Shotgun Candle” and writing his own song. Carter was busy on Piper’s phone.
He texted Kaia from a cramped corner in the back of the van, wedged between the drum kit and some mic stands.
Guess where I am?
There was no answer, so he opened his email and checked for new messages. He found a mess of notifications about his name being tagged in posted images on Kaia’s social media timelines. He clicked through, landing on page after page featuring images of the letters he’d written her, uploads of the videos he’d sent, the line drawings he’d sketched, even his recipe, posted for anyone in the world to see. The one person he chose to spill his dern heart to was making a spectacle of him. Carter wished he could take it all back. The van lurched down the highway, and Carter’s stomach see-sawed between embarrassment and anger. Why did she share my personal stuff, he wondered. I trusted her.
The truth was that keeping his promise to send her something every day had made him feel less alone, which was good because it seemed a lot of the people who mattered most were against him.
Carter couldn’t tear his eyes away from the comments. A few kids had made some rude cracks about how he’d skipped school so many times they wouldn’t have realized he was out of town. But to his surprise, Kaia didn’t let anyone back home speak a bad word against him. She commented back with some good old-fashioned sass: Is your butt jealous of the amount of crap that comes out of your mouth? Carter had a laugh. It looked like she was getting more comfortable with living south of Jersey. Kaia had shared his dumb-fool letters as evidence to everyone
back home that he wasn’t the tough kid they thought he was. She was shining a light on his accomplishments, which came as a surprise because she’d pushed everyone away from the very day she arrived at Bob Bogle High School. Maybe that was her way of protecting herself as the new girl at school: shoot ’em down before they shoot you.
Piper’s phone vibrated with an incoming text. Carter glanced at the screen.
Is that you, C?
Carter texted her back quickly.
Yup. And I’m in California with Poly Virus. Headed to Coachella
Kaia said she wished she’d run away with him. When he got home, she wanted him to promise he’d teach her how to make deep-fried yucca blossoms with hot sauce. Carter was more than obliged. He was glad she wanted to get back in the kitchen and he was even happier she wanted to cook with him. He scrolled back to the top to her latest post, the picture of his song, “Love Doesn’t Walk Away,” that he’d emailed her earlier that evening at The Crusty Maiden. Seeing it reminded him that Kaia hadn’t walked away from him. Carter had been a friend to her, and she was proving to be a friend to him.
For a moment, the phone went still. There were no incoming texts, and Carter wondered if he should play it cool and not show how eager he was to hang with her. He put the phone down and pretended to be interested in the various amps lining the back of the van. A minute passed, and Piper’s phone vibrated with another message. Kaia had sent an image of her just-completed independent research project, titled “American Southwestern Cuisine of Historic Route 66.”
Carter about lost his stomach again. Checking the calendar on Piper’s phone, he realized the independent research projects were due on April 30th, the day after next. He had to get a month’s worth of schoolwork done in just over 24 hours.
He’d wanted to write about the various types of yucca he’d encountered. But after the motorcycle was stolen, the Joshua trees had creeped him out with their outstretched hands frozen in place, part zombie, part robber holding them at gunpoint. He had nothing to show for the last several weeks and the independent research project counted for everything. Without it, he’d fail ninth grade.
Carter brushed back his hair, clutching it in his fist. He imagined the fit his mom would pitch when she found out. He had no idea what his dad might say if or when he ever made it to the man’s front door. “Hi, Dad. I’m repeating freshman year. Bet your new kids are smarter than me.” He pictured Kaia, Caleb, and Landon starting sophomore year without him in the fall. He didn’t like that image at all.
All he’d done was make one mistake after another. He’d known he had to write an IRP. Why hadn’t he made his school-work a priority instead of running around the desert in Las Cruces, mixing mesquite flour at Piper’s, or practicing guitar all hours? A minute passed, and then another and another. I’m worn slap out, he thought.
Carter couldn’t help but shake his head. At the pancake house, he told Kaia he wanted to sell the guitar and be done with his past. That was ancient history now. He wanted to see his father again, know the man. Far as he could reckon, his mother had done them wrong. But she only wanted to protect him, and even though he was miles away, in truth he wanted to protect her too.
He rode in silence in the darkness of Poly Virus’s van. Piper and the guys were singing along with the radio, laughing among themselves. Carter was glad she hadn’t pulled her hard-as-rock act with them. She’d softened like desert air in the tight space, warm and substantial, the way he’d come to know her.
He looked over Kaia’s timeline again at all the secrets he’d shared with her, the struggles he’d had with his earliest attempts to pluck the strings on his father’s Martin. He’d come farther than he’d reckoned. On those pages, he’d recorded his journey, from the few songs he knew as a kid to a competent axman who knew the power of his own blues.
None of it would exist if she didn’t care about his journey. He texted her:
Can’t wait to read your IRP. I’ll send you mine. Soon. I hope
Chapter Fourty-One
WHEN THE BAND SETTLED INTO THE CONDO, Carter told Piper and the guys about the independent research project. Dex made a pot of coffee and ordered pizza. Garrett offered his tablet. He had a few moviemaking apps loaded and they were fairly straightforward.
The guys hit the sheets for the night. Their set was the next day and they wanted to rest up. They had no intentions of sleeping the rest of the weekend, so every wink counted.
Nighttime in Indio was warm as a summer night in Tulsa. Piper curled up on a chaise longue outside on the patio, a light blanket around her shoulders. “Get your homework done, baby bro,” she said with a sly grin.
Carter sat at the patio table, his face illuminated by the tablet’s glow. He created a folder with images of his letters, drawings, and videos pulled from Kaia’s social media pages. As he clicked on each post, he scrolled further down the comments from his classmates. Turns out, he was building a grassroots fan base back home. Caleb and Landon had his back, chiming in with Kaia’s support.
He worked through the night on a multimedia presentation, comprising every minute of his road trip, including highlights from his letters, images he found online of the places he’d been, a detailed map of his trip, clips of him playing music, the image Piper took of “Love Doesn’t Walk Away,” even his recipe for Carter Danforth’s deep-fried mesquite yucca flowers with hot sauce. He threw in some facts about yucca genera of the American Southwest. His teachers would eat that up. The presentation just needed a title.
Carter saved his work and got up from the table. He crossed the parking lot of the condo complex and wandered out into the desert. Kicking at the raw, dry ground, so different from back home, he thought about how he’d run away from Albuquerque airport to get to his father. That wasn’t what his trip was about anymore. His letters to Kaia had showed him what it meant and what he’d always remember. He saw how the kindness of strangers was founded on his own kindness toward others. It was like performing a song. The Creativity, Victory, Heart, and Discipline he gave of himself came back round a hundredfold.
When he made his way back to the patio table and sat down, Carter inserted a title sequence at the opening of his presentation. He called it How I Learned to Play Guitar.
Chapter Fourty-Two
BRIGHT RAYS OF EARLY MORNING LIGHT woke him. Carter had sprawled out on a cushioned chaise longue on the patio and caught a few winks after saving the last draft of his presentation. It was good, decent enough, he supposed. All Carter needed was a C to pass.
Piper and the guys were still sleeping. The condo complex was silent, washed in golden light breaking through purple clouds. He had no clue what time it was in Indio or Tulsa, but he figured the best thing he could do was check in with his mother, let her know he was safe. At least he had his schoolwork done.
Carter found Piper’s cell on a nightstand and took it for a walk around the complex. Keeping on the move fired up his courage. He took a deep breath, and before she had a chance to freak out again, he told his mom exactly where he was. He told her about his performance at The Crusty Maiden, about his duet with Piper, and about the bar fight with Darren and Willard. He told her about riding the motorcycle, how it got stolen, and even about the hitchhiking and Poly Virus. He was so hot on confession, he forgot to mention his independent research project.
Carter’s mother listened. Her only responses were “Uh-huh” and “I see.”
She didn’t yell at him or freak out.
Carter pushed his hair back and squeezed his eyes shut. “You remember asking how I got Dad’s guitar back from Tommy?”
“Of course, Cotton. It must have cost a fortune.”
“You might say that.” He sniffed. Dropping to a whisper, he finally confessed. “I used all the money you hid in your pickup to buy it, Mama. Just before the storms hit. I hated knowing the Martin was there, proof that Dad had once been in Tulsa too, and teaching me to play it. I wanted to destroy it and I didn’t think you’d let me if I asked. I�
�m sorry I stole the money. I’m even sorrier for not telling you sooner.” He waited for her to give him what he had coming. He expected she’d ground him for a full year. Maybe longer.
But she was quiet, just hearing him out.
At last, she said, “I don’t want you to worry about the money.”
Carter promised he’d pay her back every penny.
“No, sweet pea. It was all for you anyway. I was saving that money to buy the Martin back. I offered Tommy seven hundred fifty for it but he wanted another couple hundred.”
Carter remembered her saying she was saving her money for something important. “You were the buyer Tommy had lined up?”
“Cotton, I always knew selling that guitar was a mistake. Once it was gone, your grades dropped, you started cutting classes, and even when I tried to keep you busy working on my old truck or in my workshop, you’d plumb lost your spark. I started putting away money to buy it back. After you disappeared, I got a call from Tommy saying he was having it signed and unless I made a more substantial offer, he’d find another buyer. I thought I’d never be able to get it back for you.”
Her love, more than enough for two parents, filled the empty space where his prickly and troublesome secrets had taken up too much room. He should have trusted her. His mother made mistakes, just like he had, but she always stood by him.
“Son, I know I told you why I left Eddie, but I didn’t tell you why I fell in love with him. I should have because you’ve got all the best parts of your father.” Carter could hear her smile through her words. “He’s a hard worker, and he picks up on the goodness in others. He’s got compassion and he understands what makes people tick. That’s why folks are drawn to him and his music. I’m afraid Tulsa was too small for a man looking to share his music with the world. Cotton, I’m the one who’s sorry.”
He held the phone, stunned. His mother wasn’t mad at him; she was apologizing.
“I thought we’d be just fine on our own,” Sandra continued, “and all this time I believed I was right. Now I see how much you need your father. Music is in your blood, too. You’re his son.”
