by Mary Strand
I gave her the sweetest smile I could muster. “Mom?”
“Yes, dear?” She barely glanced at me from the sink, where she was hand-washing the dinner plates and glasses even though the dishwasher was six inches from her.
I grabbed a dish towel from the drawer, knowing it’d be more helpful to her in the long run if I pointed out that we had a dishwasher that was perfectly capable of cleaning dishes.
In the short run, though, I wanted a guitar.
I picked up a glass from the drying rack, tried to ignore the fact that it was filled with soapsuds, and started wiping.
Mom glanced at me again, less distracted now. “Thank you for helping. But what did you want?”
A guitar or, better yet, an excellent excuse for why I couldn’t go to Kirk’s party on Friday. But Mom could help me with only one of those.
I sucked in a breath and let the words spill out of me in a torrent before I chickened out or Dad came back inside, whichever came first. “I really need a guitar. Mary’s old band is playing this Friday and they want me to play guitar, but I don’t have one.”
A groove creased Mom’s forehead. “I promised I’d get you a guitar, dear, but you don’t know how to play, do you? How could you play with a band this Friday? Can’t we wait until this weekend? Or look on eBay?”
I could’ve sworn Dad took away Mom’s eBay privileges a couple of years ago, after she went on that American Girl binge and blew a bundle on a bunch of dolls her daughters had outgrown a million years ago.
I gave her my best pleading look. Sincere, just a touch of desperation, and totally fake. Okay, not fake at all. Unless I came up with an amazing excuse for why I couldn’t play on Friday night, I was toast without a guitar.
“But I really need it now. And lessons, too.”
I decided not to mention how I also needed to skip school the next four days, which was my only hope of having enough time to learn a few chords and figure out how to fake the rest. They wouldn’t make me play a solo, would they? No way. Only the lead guitarist had to do solos, right? Please, God?
“I just don’t think—”
“Hey, I totally understand if you’re too busy. You could give me your credit card, and I’ll go by myself and buy it.” I’d get the most expensive guitar I could find, partly because that’s what Dad bought Mary and partly because it might make people not notice the fact that I didn’t have a clue how to play it.
“I’m not sure . . .”
Hearing the bang of the front door, I grabbed the dishrag out of Mom’s hand and tossed it in the sink. “Tell you what. Let’s both go. We always had the best shopping trips, didn’t we? And it’s been ages since we’ve had one. I’ll finish the dishes for you after we get home.”
Better yet, Dad would be so freaked at the dishes left unwashed in the sink, he’d do them before we got home.
But I realized I needed Mom. For one thing, Cat had taken the Jeep, and Dad said I couldn’t drive his or Mom’s cars after old Mr. Fogarty ratted me out about clipping his mailbox. Besides, if I went shopping alone with Mom’s credit card, Dad would call the credit-card company and cancel the card before I made it a block away. If dragging Mom along was the price I had to pay for a new guitar, so be it.
Maybe I could talk her into buying me some new clothes, too.
I had a new guitar. Nothing as fancy as I’d hoped, but it was a pretty shade of turquoise, which had to count for something. Mom also sprang for a really cute top and some red boots, so I was set. If Dad was all about Zen breathing and control, Mom was all about bright colors.
But I still didn’t have a clue how to play anything. I’d signed up for guitar lessons each of the next three days after school, even though the guy at the music store had warned me it’d take several months to learn how to play. He also suggested—like, five times—that I sign up for once-a-week lessons like everyone else.
I wasn’t like everyone else, though. For better or worse, I did everything on the fast track.
Mom and I got home to find the dishes undone—crap—and the Jeep at the curb. I didn’t feel like talking to Cat, so I trudged into the kitchen and got to work.
“You’re doing dishes? By hand? What did Mom pay you?”
Cat slouched against the counter, munching on a low-carb tortilla, and eying me as if she was trying to figure out my angle. She’d been doing that ever since I got home from Shangri-La, when all she’d had to do was ask me. About anything. Apparently, she’d rather come up with her own theories.
I scrubbed and rinsed plates, then set them on the drying rack. I couldn’t decide whether to let them air dry or wipe them with a towel, since Cat obviously didn’t plan to help.
When she didn’t leave, I shrugged. “I’m just helping out, not disappearing for hours at a time like some people I know.”
I said it loud enough for Dad to hear in the living room.
He snorted. Loudly.
“Whatever.” Cat glanced around the kitchen as if she wanted to know what Mom had bought me, but I left my loot in the trunk of Mom’s car until everyone went to bed. Dad would be apoplectic enough when he saw the guitar, but the new clothes would send him over the edge.
I couldn’t wait to see Dad’s face—and Cat’s, too—when they saw the matching friendship bracelets Mom had insisted on buying. Thinking about it, I laughed. Mom could be a little wacked when she skipped her meds, but I got a kick out of her. Sure, she’d always bought me anything I wanted except for an early trip home from Shangri-La, but it was sweet how she insisted on taking care of me even though I could take care of myself. And always did.
“What’s so funny?”
Watching me, Cat kept nibbling on her tortilla like a rabbit going after her first carrot in a month. I glanced up at the clock over the sink—just after eight—and almost asked why she hadn’t eaten before now. But I didn’t care.
“Nothing. Just thinking.” And, as much as possible, not about her.
“You’re not really gonna try to play guitar on Friday night, are you? I told you it took Mary—”
“I’m not Mary.”
“No. Unlike you, Mary actually knows how to play guitar. And piano. And knowing her, maybe even drums if she had to.”
I stared at her. “What’s really going on, Cat? You haven’t given a rat’s ass about me since I got home from reform school, and suddenly you’re feeling protective? Do you think they’re going to try to humiliate me the way they nailed you?”
When she finally spoke, her voice wobbled. “You don’t get it. You’re not the queen of the school anymore, and everyone you know has changed.”
“Not Kirk. And not me.”
“Yeah? Has Kirk ever gone out with the same girl more than a couple of weeks in a row? He’s been dating Amber for six months.”
I shrugged. “Desperate, obviously. Lack of decent prospects. Luckily for him, I’m back in town.”
“Funny he’s not falling all over himself to get you.”
It was a little weird, actually, but maybe Kirk still saw me the way I’d always seen him: as co-leader of the gang. I hadn’t told him I saw him in a new way now. As soon as I did, though, he’d want to go out with me.
At least, as soon as I learned how to play my cute new electric guitar. Like, by Friday.
“You don’t know Kirk as well as I do. We’ve been pals since forever. You guys never were.”
From the pinched look on her face, Cat and Kirk still weren’t. Even though she was dating a guy who played in Kirk’s band, it didn’t change the fundamentals.
“You might at least call Mary and ask for some pointers.”
Mary? She had to be kidding. “I’m taking lessons.”
“Lydia, she really knows her stuff.”
“Sure, if we’re talking math or science. About anything else? No, thanks.”
“She could even—”
I waved a hand, cutting her off. “I’m not asking Mary for advice about guitars. Not now, not ever. Unless hell froze over a
nd no one mentioned it to me.”
Cat swallowed the last bite of her tortilla. “If you play guitar Friday night and don’t get laughed out of Kirk’s house, I’ll be sure to mention it to you. Because if you can learn to play guitar in four days, it’ll definitely mean hell has frozen solid.”
With a toss of her head, she flounced out of the kitchen, leaving me to my dishes and soapsuds and pruny hands.
Not to mention a massive dread about Friday night.
Guitars are stupid, vile, disgusting things, and only a moron would want to play one.
Biting my lip so hard I figured blood would start spurting any moment, I bent my head over the instrument of torture and tried tuning it the way my teacher suggested, but nothing I did sounded like it made a bit of difference. I sucked, and my guitar sucked worse.
I couldn’t even finger a stupid chord without my fingertips screaming in pain, let alone strum something that didn’t make the rest of me scream. I’d also ripped off the tip of a fingernail, and the jagged edge to it was driving me crazy.
My teacher was a young woman—Jazz—and nice enough as far as that goes, but I’d been hoping for a guy. I knew how to tease and flirt with guys to get them to do what I wanted.
In this case, I needed someone to work a miracle and turn me into a decent guitar player by Friday night.
With another jarring twang, I gave up trying to tune the stupid guitar. Running a hand through my hair and catching my fingers on a snarl, I groaned.
“Couldn’t you just tune it?” Wasn’t that what I was paying her for? “Like I keep telling you, I have to play this gig on Friday, and I don’t need to know how to tune my guitar. I mean, once it’s tuned, it’s tuned, right? So shouldn’t we focus on chords and songs? There’s this Green Day song I wanted to learn.”
Jazz smirked and rolled her eyes.
I waited for her to say something, but she just nodded at my guitar as if she was waiting for me to tune it and didn’t plan to help me one bit. I mean, except for telling me when I was doing it wrong. Like, all the time.
I frowned at her. “What? You don’t like Green Day?”
“Sure. They’re okay.” Her lips twitched in this really unattractive way, reminding me of the smirks Liz gave me when I said pretty much anything. “But trust me. You’re not ready for Green Day.”
“Well, not today. Duh.” Even though I’d been hoping. “It’s only Tuesday, so we have plenty of time. They told you I booked lessons for tomorrow and Thursday, right?”
She sighed. “I hoped that was a typo on my schedule.”
“Hey, if you can’t teach me—” I gave her the kind of pointed look I got all the time from Dad, which probably wasn’t the smartest idea, but I was beyond frustrated. “Someone else here probably wouldn’t mind.”
“Oh, I can teach you, all right. But no matter who teaches you, you won’t be playing Green Day by Friday. We’re maybe talking ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,’ tops.”
Slapping her silly was probably out of the question. “I told you I’m willing to work. I’ll do whatever it takes to play decently on Friday, and it’s just rhythm guitar, not lead.”
“Thank God for small miracles.” Jazz took another deep breath, reminding me of Dad and all the Zen breathing he did when he was around me for more than ten minutes. “No offense, but you can’t learn guitar in a few days, at least not more than a few chords.”
Then why did Kirk act like it was so easy? “But the band already has someone who plays bass guitar.”
Jazz choked on something. “Bass isn’t easy, either. Not at all.”
“Hey, I’ve watched guys play bass. Four strings and they just seem to pluck at them? How much easier—”
Jazz held up a hand, cutting me off. “Do you want to learn guitar or not? You keep telling me about this gig on Friday.” She rolled her eyes, the jerk. “But all you’re doing is talking, when you’re supposed to be learning to tune a guitar. I swear we’re spending half of your lesson talking.”
“You say that like it’s my fault. I asked you to cut the boring stuff and just tune my guitar for me. Then we can get to the music already.”
“Mistake.” Shaking her head, she grabbed my guitar and tuned it in about thirty seconds. “But you’re paying for this. We’ll try doing it your way and see how that goes.”
“Thanks. So let’s get started, okay?”
Another eye roll. “Whatever you want, Princess.”
I knew I should’ve insisted on having a guy teach me. For starters, when a guy called me “Princess,” it meant something entirely different.
Chapter 7
[E]ven Lydia was too much fatigued to utter more than the occasional exclamation of “Lord, how tired I am!” accompanied by a violent yawn.
— Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice, Volume I, Chapter Eighteen
At lunch on Wednesday, I dragged my feet over to Cat’s new table, which was as far from my usual table as you could get without sitting outside. I glanced out the windows to the sunlit courtyard and wished I’d kept walking.
I cut straight over here from Political Science, with a slight detour to grab a Coke out of the vending machine, after taking one look at the lunch line and feeling the remains of breakfast gurgle in my stomach.
Right now, I couldn’t face anything: food, Kirk, or anyone else who might say anything. I figured I’d be safe with Cat. To the extent humanly possible, she didn’t speak to me.
I glanced at Jeremy and her, eating off each other’s trays. A few other strays sat at their table, a couple of art-freak girls and three guys who played in band or orchestra but didn’t do much else.
“Okay if I sit with you guys?”
The girl next to Cat, a tiny wisp of a thing who seemed too engrossed in her sketchpad to have noticed me, looked up and smiled brightly, then frowned when she saw it was me. She glanced at Cat, who seemed oblivious to everyone but Jeremy.
Or she was pretending to be, anyway.
I set my tray down but didn’t ask again and didn’t plan to. For this kind of treatment, I might as well sit by Amber or Chelsea. When Cat still didn’t look up, the art-freak girl finally nudged Cat. Hard.
Cat would’ve slugged me if I’d done it.
“Lydia?” Cat acted as if she hadn’t seen me standing here. Right. “What, uh, brings you here?”
I wasn’t actually sure. The fact that Kirk would probably bug me again about playing on Friday? Or maybe it was even simpler than that: I’d stayed up half the night practicing guitar in the basement, fueling myself on stale Doritos and a six-pack of Coke. I’d woken up feeling like hell. My eyes burned, my stomach felt like someone had whacked it with a machete, and it hadn’t even been worth it.
I finally understood what Jazz meant: all the lessons and practicing in the world wouldn’t teach me crap about guitar in time for Friday night.
Shrugging, I ignored everyone else at Cat’s table and sat down. “I just felt like it. Amber and Chelsea are both a pain in the ass.”
Especially when they were convinced I was trying to steal their boyfriends, even though it wasn’t true. I was trying to steal only one of their boyfriends. Chelsea could keep hers, although she probably had to use all ten of her fingernails on a daily basis to manage it.
“No kidding.”
The wispy-looking girl, who’d probably blow away and splatter against the wall if a strong breeze blew through the cafeteria, said it. Cat just looked at Jeremy, who hadn’t even glanced in my direction. As if I didn’t exist.
Weird.
I popped the top on my Coke as I glanced at everyone else’s lunch trays. Cat had a quesadilla, her usual default choice. Jeremy had barely touched his cheeseburger, but that was what happened when a guy got so stupid over a girl. The two art waifs grazed on salads. Ready to barf, I didn’t let myself look at the guys at the far end of the table.
I should’ve gone outside.
Why hadn’t I? Cat had made it crystal clear what she thought of me coming home: n
ot much. I didn’t know anyone else at this table, but that was why I had come over here. I didn’t want anyone to bug me about Friday night. I didn’t even want a guy like Drew drooling over me, which had to be the definition of a lousy mood.
Jeremy finally caught my eye for an instant before his gaze skittered away from me and back to Cat. “Kirk says you’re playing with us? On Friday night?”
“Are you asking Cat or me? I hear Cat already went that route, but it didn’t go so well.”
Jeremy glared at me, his right fist clenching under Cat’s hand. “She didn’t—”
Cat rubbed his hand. “She’s just trying to get a reaction, Jeremy. Forget it.”
Was that what I was trying to do? But why did a girl have to work so hard to get a reaction out of her own twin sister?
“Hey, Jeremy’s the one who mentioned playing with the band, not me.” I tapped a hand on my chest as my empty stomach finally rumbled. “I’m an innocent bystander.”
“Right.” Cat sounded snotty, so much like Amber or Chelsea, I wondered why she didn’t hang out with them. I mean, seriously. “You’re totally innocent.”
I stared at the rim of my Coke can, trying not to let her words dig a hole inside of me. I was invincible, wasn’t I? The leader of the gang? Even if my so-called gang was sitting on the other side of the cafeteria and didn’t seem to notice I was missing?
Grabbing my Coke, I lurched to my feet. “Well, it’s been real. Catch you later, Cat. At home? Sometime this year?”
She didn’t even look up when I headed outside, and neither did Jeremy or any of their geektoid friends. But I didn’t give a rat’s ass. I’d show them all on Friday night. Somehow, I’d figure out how to play my guitar, because I was going to be the star of Woodbury High School again.
Or at least, please God, not a freaking embarrassment.
“Lydia, it’s after midmight. Go to bed. You have school tomorrow.”
Not if I cut class, which was the only hope I had at this point of making Friday night work for me. Unless, of course, I could get one of the guys in Green Day to sit in for me.
