“Definitely.” I craned my neck to see if Abby and Hunter were still engrossed in their private conversation, and caught them just in time to see him squeeze her shoulder and stand up to go back to his guitar.
“Looks like they’re getting started again,” I said to Paolo. “You guys are really good, by the way.”
He looked genuinely pleased at my compliment. “Thank you. We have a lot of fun. Wait till you hear us when Shay’s back. The piano really kicks it up a notch.”
“I hope I get to hear it one day,” I said, a string of sadness stitching its way into my voice.
“What does that mean?”
“I’m not really here,” I admitted, putting air quotes on my words.
“Say no more. I understand. Parent trouble?”
“You have no idea.” Paolo raised his fist, and I brought mine to meet it. We shared a knowing smile between us as Abby approached. “Did you get everything you needed?” I asked her, trying desperately to hold in the wink that wanted to bust out.
She blushed. “I did, thanks.” She waved at Paolo and kept on trucking to the car.
I shrugged at him and followed. “See you . . . sometime . . .” I trailed off. He waved back and went into the garage.
Moments later, Abby joined me at the car with pink cheeks and a silly grin on her face. She was still smiling as we slid into the vinyl seats and she revved the engine.
“So what were you and Hunter talking about all secret-like over there?” I poked Abby in the shoulder as she backed out of the Hansens’ driveway.
“He, uh, wanted to see the notes I’d taken about their songs.”
I tried not to laugh at her and her nonexistent notes. “And what did he think of those notes?”
“I sat on them and told him I had everything I needed up here.” She tapped on her forehead.
“Smooth.”
“Right? So we talked about doing a small piece on each band member, their background and inspiration, that kind of thing. Then a longer piece on how they met, how they work together, who does the arranging and all that. And obviously a lot of pictures and a bit on Sol Jam itself. Hunter was pretty psyched. He gave me his phone number so we can collaborate.” By the time she said “phone number,” her smile had increased threefold and was creeping dangerously close to her ears.
“Took him long enough,” I said. She just kept on smiling.
When she dropped me back off at the Schmidts’ house, it was right when I would normally be leaving from my “job.”
“Perfect timing.”
Abby gave me a sly look. “I had the best time tonight.” She looked me square in the eyes when she said best. A lightbulb went off as I realized she was poking fun at Ashlyn’s use of the worst valediction known to man.
“Oh, I heard what you did there. You are definitely the best,” and I returned the pointed gaze. We both cracked up and I sucked in a breath, feeling relaxed and something that felt suspiciously like happy. Abby and I high-fived, then I ducked in the house to double check on the animals and headed home.
When I stopped in the kitchen for a drink before going to bed, I jumped as I turned away from the sink to find Belén sitting silently at the kitchen table, staring so intensely at me that I thought I might combust. Her long fingers were wrapped around a mug of tea, and she spoke in a low, dangerous voice.
“Did you have a nice evening with the Schmidt girls?” She’d never once asked me about Kate and Maya in all the years I’d been sitting for them.
“It was fine.”
“Perhaps, since you had a fine evening, Tatum, you’d care to explain why you were at an address that is not the Schmidts’ house for quite a long time.”
I froze. “Excuse me? Are you having me followed now?” The frustration—and embarrassment at being caught—that exploded in my chest threatened to knock me down, or fly out of me in the form of molten lava or lightning. I did my best to lock my knees and purse my lips instead, so she wouldn’t know what was going on inside my head.
“There’s this wonderful invention called a Global Positioning System. The nice people who sold us your cell phone had the foresight to install one in every model for occasions such as lost phone, lost child, things like that.” Belén was being sarcastic, something she only did when she was really angry. Dad got quiet; Belén thought she was a comedian.
My arms and legs buzzed with adrenaline. “You GPSed me? Why would you do that?” I was almost crying. I knew without looking that my face was red, and I hoped that Blanche and Tilly couldn’t hear us arguing.
“I’ve been keeping track of you each time you leave the house. Someone needed to make sure you were following the rules.”
“Did that awful parenting blog you love recommend it?” I lashed out.
Belén pursed her lips tightly. A twitch at the corner of her right eye gave me my answer. Hurt bubbled up in my throat, that she would think so little of me, and was quickly replaced with shame because I’d proven her right.
“That is so wrong,” I whispered, mostly to myself.
Belén didn’t respond with words, but by picking up the phone and dialing slowly, each button sounding its low beep. She paused and then spoke in her professional, clipped voice. “She’s home. Yes. I did. Sure, here she is.” She handed the cordless to me and said, “It’s your father.” Of course it was.
I took the phone without looking at her, wiped my angry-tear eyes, and brought it to my ear. “Hi, Dad.”
He said nothing for a moment, and I knew I was in real trouble. “Tatum, did you lie about where you were tonight?” I’d already been caught, so trying to get out of it was pointless.
“Yes.”
“Where were you?” I could barely hear him, and I knew it wasn’t the long-distance connection, but his disappointment making his voice fade away.
“I went with my friend Abby Gold to see our classmate Hunter Hansen and his band practice.”
“I see.” Did he really? I doubted it. “So you felt that going to band practice was more important than proving yourself reliable and responsible?”
I sighed into the phone. “Dad, I’ve been cooped up in the house or sweating my behind off pulling plants for weeks now. I thought I deserved a little reprieve, and I knew there was no way anyone here”—I glared in Belén’s direction—“was going to give me permission, so I went. It was wrong. I know that. But I did it anyway.”
And I’m not sorry, I added silently. Well, I was sorry I had lied and let them down. But I wasn’t sorry that I’d had fun for the first time in ages, or that I was making a new friend to start to fill that Ashlyn-sized hole in my chest.
“I see,” Dad repeated. This was the moment of truth as far as I was concerned. Was he going to let Belén’s influence completely zombie-fy him, or would he come back from the brink of destruction?
“Tatum, I really want to trust you, and I know it’s unpleasant to have to refuse an offer from a friend, but tonight, you chose the unsafe option. What if something had happened to you? What if you’d gotten a flat tire or had an accident? No one knew where you were. You may think this isn’t a big deal, but I refuse to compromise when it comes to your safety.”
“I had my phone! I would have called if I needed help. Or Abby would have,” I protested.
Dad sighed into the receiver. “Your mother and I—”
I winced at his slip. “Stop right there, Dad. She is not, has never been, and never will be my mother.” I slammed the phone down on the table, hoping it disconnected.
“Tatum.” Belén remained calm and collected, hands clasped around her mug. “I think we should—” But I didn’t want to hear what she thought. Dad had made it perfectly clear that I was incapable of making the correct decision, and I didn’t need her to reiterate it for me.
“I think we’ve talked enough.” I stared at her, half-daring her to challenge me. I expected her to stand up to her full height and try to intimidate me, but she just sat there, knuckles growing paler the longer she g
ripped her mug. For a moment, it seemed her face had begun to droop, and I was sure her eye was twitching again. There was no way Belén could be bothered by what just went down. Right? I shook my head. Impossible.
Chapter 10
I couldn’t be in the same room with her, so I left. When I reached my room, I slammed the door so hard that the walls shook, and I heard a loud thud in the next room, like something had fallen and broken. It felt like I had done an awful lot of door-slamming this summer.
I knew my dad would call back and want to talk again. I told myself I wouldn’t take his call. Not until he came home, if I could last that long. Maybe this was a test to see which one of us would crack first.
I opened my laptop to check my email, hoping for a distraction, but the only message was from my dad, sent two minutes ago. Great. I looked at it cautiously, as if the words might physically hurt me.
Sweetheart,
I love you. No matter what, we’ll get through this.
Chin up,
Dad
Was it easier for him to be optimistic because he was so far away? Because there was no other way to wrap my head around his words. I kept making the wrong choices, and he and Belén kept adding them up. I squeezed my eyes shut, releasing a few tears and a low, guttural growl.
I flung myself onto my bed. The covers flew up around me and a pillow fell to the floor. The tears pooling in my eyes leaked down my cheeks, and ugly sobs sent shudders through my body, right down to my feet. I shoved my face into the remaining pillow so Blanche or Tilly didn’t hear me wailing. I cried until my pillow was damp with salty tears and the sheet stuck to my face. I cried until my lungs ached from the heaving and my body was sore from the stress. I remained splayed on the bed, submitting to the exhaustion.
My email dinged, and my eyes jolted open. I rolled over and checked my phone to see it was just past four a.m. I must have dozed off. I stood up, dizzy for a moment, and walked to my desk. My email inbox was open on the screen when I typed in my password, and there, to my surprise, was an email from SK.
Hi Tate,
Sorry for the delayed response to our last email. I’m actually in Ireland with my family right now and haven’t had technology for a while. It’s driving me to the brink, especially since my dad keeps teasing me about how “kids these days” can’t go anywhere without checking our phones every five seconds.
I snorted. I’d just confirmed that theory myself by responding to the notification so quickly.
So I know we’d talked about having some kind of media files on the site. I have videos from school concerts, but I don’t think they really represent who I am. I will have better stuff though, probably by the end of the summer, so stay tuned. I did, however, manage to steal my cousin’s laptop and record a couple of songs for you. I had to save them onto a flash drive and walk ten miles uphill in the snow to an internet cafe to send you this email. Okay, maybe not that far, but my grandparents are still living in the Stone Age. Anyway, let me know what you think. They’re some of my favorite pieces—I hope that’s obvious when you listen.
Out of curiosity, do you have a lot of clients? Is business going well? You don’t have to tell me. But I hope it is.
Le gach beannacht,
SK
P.S.—that means “with every blessing,” which is cheesy, but it’s how my grandmother signs letters. A little bit of Ireland for you.
For the first time since I got home, I smiled. How was it that a total stranger, someone I’d never met, who only knew me from the words and images I’d shared across the internet, cared enough to ask how something important to me was going? And how was it that the people who supposedly knew me—my best friend, my father, my stepmother, my stepsister—struggled to think one tiny, positive thought about me?
Dear SK,
Because what he’d written was dear to me.
Thank you for the music. I’m going to listen right now, as I’m getting ready for bed. Had a rough night, so I’m hoping hearing you play will pick me up a bit. I’m jealous that you’re off in a magical place and I’m stuck here at home, nowhere to go. I’d love to visit Ireland one day. Or anywhere, actually. My dad travels all over the world for work; maybe wanderlust is genetic. Send me a picture? Maybe we can put it on your site.
Since I don’t have a clever valediction in a foreign language to one-up you, I’m just going to say good night.
Tate
I sent it off and immediately downloaded SK’s cello files to my computer. Just as I was hovering over the file titled Bach Chaconne, ready to click and listen, my email dinged again.
Why did you have a rough night? Do I need to make a phone call and have someone’s kneecaps destroyed? Because I could do that, you know.
I laughed out loud. What would Belén do if a hit man showed up at the door with a lead pipe? Probably tell him that he’d brought an ineffective weapon.
Not to pry, but I’m an excellent listener, er, typist, and I have another fifteen minutes of time paid for. Feel free to vent, but only if you want to. No pressure.
Kwaheri,
SK
P.S.—that one’s Swahili. It means goodbye, not sure if it’s appropriate for a letter; I never did pay enough attention when my dad was trying to teach me.
His dad spoke Swahili? Interesting. Did he do the same kind of thing as my dad, or had he grown up speaking it? My dad knew enough Swahili to get by in the countries he frequented where it was spoken. In fact, he knew enough of most major world languages to get by, since it was pretty much required for work. It made me wish I was better with words. I took boring and useless Latin because Belén thought it would help me on my SATs.
I replied right away.
So are both of your parents immigrants? That’s cool. My stepmom immigrated, but she’s pretty much the opposite of cool.
I snuck out of the house when I wasn’t supposed to. Got caught. Got lectured at by said stepmom. Kinda deserved it, but still. Though the knight-in-shining-armor offer is tempting. Rain check?
No point in spilling my guts to a stranger. I didn’t think my fingers had the energy to type it all out anyway.
P.S. Where’s my picture?
I sent the email and changed into my pajamas. The worn flannel of the pants and the nubby cotton T-shirt provided another layer of comfort, like a fabric bandage for my smarting soul. I sat back down at the laptop to find the most beautiful photograph of rolling emerald hills, dotted with a weathered wooden fence and stones marking a footpath.
Sorry, I forgot! Better late than never, right? I actually took this yesterday, intending to send it to you for the site. Great minds think alike. It’s the field at the end of my grandparents’ road. Rural doesn’t begin to cover this place. I thought you’d appreciate the green.
Yes, my dad’s from Kenya originally. He came here for college and never left. I think meeting my mom probably had a lot to do with it, though. That’s a story for another day—my time is up, unfortunately.
I hope you get some sleep and that whatever you snuck out for was worth it. I’ve found it usually is.
SK
I looked at the photograph again; it made my heart hurt. I wished more than anything that I could teleport myself somewhere peaceful and quiet, where people smiled and laughed instead of keeping themselves buttoned so tight they choked themselves.
I fantasized about a family vacation, only with a warped version of the family I actually had. My dad was still my dad, because in all honesty, he was great the way he was. Blanche was there, in all her contradictory loveliness, only kicked up a notch. She wore feather boas and tiaras, the eccentric grandmother who pinched cute boys’ butts and spouted kooky advice to strangers. Tilly spoke on a regular basis with everyone, including me, and she and I together eerily looked like we were friends. And Belén smiled—a real smile that reached her eyes—gave hugs when someone cried, and laughed full and unabashed when something funny happened. She let go and didn’t bother to care who was looking when she did. The
five of us rode a red double-decker bus around a random European city, phones out snapping pictures, smacking each other on the shoulders to look at the sites we passed, and bickering warm-heartedly over where to go next.
I sighed loudly, knowing that’s all it was, a fantasy. But that didn’t stop me from wishing it could be true anyway. Intent on listening to some quiet music to relax me as I drifted off to sleep again, I put my laptop on the bed next to me, slid in between the cool sheets, and pressed play on “Chaconne” as my head hit the pillow.
The first strains of the cello were hesitant and timid, like it was afraid to show itself due to a small case of stage fright. I waited patiently for it to become louder, like a parent waits for a scared child to gain confidence, coaxing him out of his shell. As the volume picked up, so did the emotion, and suddenly I was awash in a sea of sounds. If those first few notes were trickles, there was now a raging ocean of crashing waves, washing over my head one after another. I’d been half expecting something that was just a deeper violin, but this cello had a mind of its own. The sound was rich and saturated with molasses and electricity. It was like a human voice, a melancholy song of longing, pleading with the listener to ease his frustration. People say there’s a fine line between pleasure and pain, and that was exactly the message this cello was sending out. Even though the sadness was undeniable, there was also an underlying sensuality, a slow-burning passion reaching out, begging for the listener to hear the want, the need.
As I lay there listening, I knew there was no hope of me relaxing. The tears that had magically disappeared at the words on the screen came back with a vengeance as the notes filled the air and invaded my head. Scalding my skin, they dripped down my cheeks silently. I cried for the girl whose voice remained unheard, who did her best to be good but didn’t always get it right. I cried for the girl constantly trying to forge a connection, to find someone who took her at face value and didn’t ask her to be something she wasn’t. I cried for the doors that had closed and cried for the ones that might never open. I cried out of want, out of thirst for something nameless, my heart beating itself into a frenzy, my body completely boneless beneath the sheets, now heated and damp.
It Started with Goodbye Page 12
