“Oh, I don’t think it will take that long.” The journalist took another drag. “What’s your main passion: playing, singing, or songwriting?”
I scratched a hand through my hair. “I don’t know,” I said again. “I don’t think I’m a great vocalist or anything, so—”
“Dude,” he cut me off. “You reminded me of Trent Reznor tonight. Especially Nine Inch Nails’ late-nineties stuff. Like, The Fragile-era Reznor.”
“No way.” I was glad it was dark so he couldn’t see my idiotic smile.
“Seriously. When you’re straight-up singing, you sound like him. Well—not quite as low.”
“And not quite as good.” We both laughed. “Thanks. But I’m a mediocre singer. And an okay guitarist.”
“And a really bad judge of yourself.” I could see the guy’s teeth as he grinned. “But that’s okay. I like that. We need that. People who don’t already think they’re too good to get any better.” He let out another puff of smoke. “So. Where do you see yourself in two more years?”
I’d been feeling so happy. So almost content. Now anxiety covered me like a swarm of mosquitoes.
Two years from now. Done with high school. Starting out on my adult life.
I couldn’t tell the truth. It was too raw and pathetic and predictable. I couldn’t say it out loud, not even to this guy.
I want to be a rock star. I want to be the best who’s ever been.
Nope. No way.
“I don’t know,” I said slowly. God, how many times had I said I don’t know? I don’t know. I don’t know anything. “I’d really—I want to keep going with this. See if it could be something real.”
He nodded. “I think, for you, it definitely could be.”
I started to say something dismissive, but he went on.
“You’re the type, you know?” he said, stepping a little closer. “You really want this. You give everything you’ve got to this. You’d give anything for this. Right?”
I smiled. “You sound like my guitar teacher.”
“I’m sure,” he said earnestly. “I’m sure he sees it, too. You’re primed for this. You’re meant for this.”
He dropped his cigarette. I watched the glowing orange butt hit the ground, touching the carpet of pine needles, before he crushed it with his boot.
“I mean, if this all went exactly the way you wanted it to”—the guy waved his hands, taking in the night, the Crow’s Nest, me. “If you could have everything you’ve been dreaming and daydreaming about, what would that be like?”
I laughed, rubbing my hair with one hand. “You want to hear my when-I-grow-up fantasies?”
“I’m serious,” he said. “What do you want? What do you really, really want? What would you give at least one kidney and one lung for?”
“A lung? I don’t know. I’d kind of like to keep both of them.” I looked around at the thick black trees. There was no one to hear. The words were building up inside of me, and as soon as I opened my mouth again, I heard them escape into the chilly air. “I guess . . . I want to be good at this. Really good. Not just decent for sixteen years old. Not good enough for the small-town metal scene. I want to be top tier. World-class.”
The journalist nodded, listening. This time he didn’t jump in. So I went on.
“I’d like to be faster, I guess. Better technique. I’d like to be a better songwriter, too. A better singer. All of that. I want it all.”
I laughed again. He didn’t.
“The stuff that comes with all of that would be nice, too,” I went on when he just stood there, listening. “I mean, the money. And the fame. And the travel, and the girls and whatever. But, really, it’s the music that I want the most. I want to be good. And I want to know that I’m good.” I took a breath. “That, and a decent guitar.”
Now the journalist grinned. Moonlight flickered on his glasses. “Know what?” he said. “I think that’s all going to happen for you.”
I gave that kind of snort people give when they’re trying not to sound too dickish.
“I’m serious,” he said. “You’re going to get everything you want. Everything. It’s going to be something to see.” He flicked his lighter, sparking another cigarette. He took a drag, nodding at me the whole time. “I’m telling you, dude. You’re going to do it. You’re going to fly out of this place like a bullet. Like a bomb going off. You’re going to be something.”
There was a crackling in the pit of my stomach where I could feel his words hitting my ambition like a match on kindling. All of a sudden I believed him. I actually, totally believed him. I was going to be something. For a second all the old rock-star fantasies came flaring up. Giant, screaming crowds, me looming onstage in the spotlights and smoke. A gorgeous guitar in my hands.
Then, somewhere in the woods, there was a snap. I gave a little jerk. At first I thought the journalist must have stepped on a twig, but he was moving past me now, back toward the Crow’s Nest, and the sound had come from somewhere deeper in the trees. I held still for a second. Listening. Watching. But I couldn’t see anything in the darkness except the swaying branches, and the journalist was calling to me over his shoulder.
“Hey,” he said, speaking loudly enough that his voice covered any other sounds from nearby. “I’ve got something for you. Come on.”
I hurried after him.
The parking lot was empty except for the dingy white Nissan and one beat-up gray sedan, its back coated with music bumper stickers. Even Ike and Janos were gone.
The journalist popped the sedan’s trunk. Inside, lying on a pile of dirty laundry and a bunch of battered CDs, was a silver hard case.
The journalist picked it up. I could tell from the way he lifted it that it was heavy. Solid. Valuable.
He slammed the trunk and set the hard case on the closed lid.
“Open it,” he told me.
I unlatched the case.
Inside, cushioned on a red-velvet lining, was the most beautiful guitar I’d ever seen.
An Ibanez JEM. Glossy black. Its solid silver pickguard inlaid with twisting vines and flowers.
I’d seen guitars like this—God, I’d studied guitars like this—on blogs and online shops and band sites. I didn’t know exactly what it was worth, but every glinting, gorgeous detail whispered money. Lots and lots of money. Maybe thousands. More than I’d ever had, and maybe would ever have, to spare.
“Nice,” I heard myself breathe.
“Yeah,” agreed the journalist. “Take it.”
The words didn’t even sound like words in my head. It was like at a birthday party, when your friends and family jump out and scream “Surprise!” and for a second you’re so startled and confused that you actually feel angry instead of happy, because being ambushed by something good doesn’t make any sense.
“What?” I said.
“Take it.” He shrugged, smiling. “It’s yours.”
“Dude. I can’t take it. This thing is worth—”
He was already shaking his head. “Who cares? I got it in trade from a rich-kid friend of my roommate who wanted my old XBox collection. Seriously. Plus, he sucks at guitar. Not that I should talk. I don’t even play.” He laughed. “See? This thing deserves to be played. By you.”
I stared down at the guitar.
I wanted it.
I wanted her.
More than I’d ever wanted any single object in the world.
In my head I skimmed through everything I owned. I had fourteen dollars in my wallet, all that was left from two recent lawn-mowing jobs. There was a little change in the Nissan’s armrest, probably another two bucks or so, although that wasn’t technically mine. I had nothing at home. My garage-sale speakers, maybe. The account number for a “college fund” that wouldn’t cover a single credit, if I ever ended up going. Mom and Dad sometimes kept a little cash at the back of the junk drawer for emergencies, but I knew I couldn’t take that, either. They’d been cutting corners everywhere. Cancelling subscriptions. Keeping the th
ermostat at eighty-two degrees all summer to save on air-conditioning. There was no help there.
It hit me like an actual, physical pain: I could not have this thing. Even now, when it was right in front of me.
“I can’t just take it,” I got the words out. “I have to pay you something for it.”
“Dude.” The journalist spread his hands. “You becoming a world-famous guitarist with this thing will pay me for it. You can thank me in your liner notes someday.” He snapped the case shut. I instantly wanted to shove it open again. To see her again. But then he turned and held the case out to me. “Here,” he said. “It’s yours.”
The silver box was just inches away. I knew I couldn’t take it. I couldn’t. But without even really trying, my hands opened and turned over, and I reached out and grasped the guitar case.
“Seriously . . .” I started, but I had no idea how to finish the sentence.
“Seriously.” He smiled at me, his round, babyish face catching the moonlight. “It’s meant for you.” He jingled the car keys in his hand. “I’ve got to hit the road. But we’ll be watching for you. In a couple years we’ll check in again. See how far you’ve come.”
I was still standing with my feet glued in place, like if I moved all this might collapse around me. “Maybe by then I can pay you back for this.”
The journalist opened the driver’s side door. “Don’t worry about it,” he called back to me. “I’m just glad it will have a good home.” He climbed into the car. “It’s been awesome, man. Awesome.”
When the car’s taillights came on, I finally jerked myself out of place. I stumbled out of the way as the journalist backed up, giving me one last big smile and wave from his window, then watched him peel out of the parking lot.
And I went home with the guitar.
Dad was still up. He used to go to bed early. Ten at the latest. Even earlier if he had a job to get to in the morning. But lately he’d been staying up past midnight. Sometimes I’d still hear the sound of the living room TV when I climbed into bed.
He glanced up from the saggy armchair when I walked in. Some late-night movie glowed on the TV screen. I was carrying my amp and two guitar cases, the Les Paul’s battered black one and the shiny silver. Flashes from the screen glinted on its edge.
“What’s that?” Dad said.
It figured that he would notice. Even the Ibanez’s case was too nice for me. It stuck out in our house like a giant jewel.
“A guitar,” I said back.
“I see that. Whose is it?”
“Mine.”
“How did you afford another guitar?”
“Somebody gave it to me.”
Dad’s eyelids tightened. “Who? That Jezz?”
Jezz’s family has money. Greenwood money, anyway. They have a bigger house. They take vacations by airplane instead of by minivan. Jezz has given me other stuff over the years. His clunky old laptop. Nikes that didn’t fit him quite right.
Dad has never liked those shoes.
“A journalist,” I said.
“Some journalist gave you a guitar.”
“He didn’t need it. He just ended up with it.” I held the handle of the silver case tighter. “He wanted somebody who actually plays to have it.”
Dad stared at the gleaming case for a second. Then he turned back to the TV screen. “I think you better find out if anyone has reported that guitar stolen,” he said slowly. “Seems like someone was trying to get rid of it.”
I grasped the handle so tight it hurt. I already couldn’t imagine losing that guitar. No way.
“That’s not it,” I told him.
Dad’s eyebrows rose and fell, like the tiniest shrug. He didn’t look at me. “Just sounds too good to be true.”
In that second what I really wanted to say was, What do you care? It doesn’t cost you anything either way. But I didn’t want to deal with the fallout. I just wanted to get down the hall to my room, shut the door, and play the new guitar.
So that’s what I did. I didn’t say anything else to Dad. I walked quietly away, holding the guitar tight.
Inside my own room, I sat down on the carpet beyond the end of my bed and unlatched the case. I’d almost expected it to disappear, like some magical dream, but the gorgeous Ibanez was still there. I lifted her into my lap.
The weight of her. The texture, the smell—it practically made me dizzy. I plugged into the amp, keeping the volume low as it could go, and played a couple of lines from an old Metallica song.
Each note sounded the way I’d only imagined notes sounding. The way they sounded when I heard them in my head. I played and played, until my fingertips burned and my eyes were starting to fog over, and I wanted never to stop.
And then the song came.
“Carrion.” It showed up in one piece. Melody, lyrics, drum line, all at once. It made my head ache, like my skull was too full, like the liquid around my brain was boiling. I scribbled the words and chords in an open notebook.
Then I picked up the guitar again. I played the song to myself.
My fingers felt faster than they had before. Stronger. More precise.
And that felt good. Really freaking good. It balanced out the boiling, out-of-control feeling in my head.
Okay, I thought. Okay.
Just to check, I picked up the acoustic guitar resting on its stand and played the new song again. The feeling didn’t change. It wasn’t just because of the Ibanez. I was playing more consciously, more perfectly, than I’d ever played.
Okay, I thought again.
So maybe this was normal.
Maybe this was how it worked for everybody. Maybe you practice and wish for something for years, and then, suddenly, all at once, it happens. Maybe it wasn’t as strange or huge or too good to be true as it felt.
That’s what I kept trying to tell myself.
That’s what I repeated when, in the days after that, the songs kept searing into my head and my fingers worked like perfect machines. It’s what I told myself a few weeks later, when I realized I could play faster than Flynn. It’s what I told myself when I jolted up at 2:00 a.m. to write three complete songs in a row.
I told myself that maybe, if I paid for these gifts by practicing like crazy, staying up half the night, working until my fingertips cracked, then it would all make sense. They wouldn’t really be gifts if I had earned them. They would be under my control. And I wouldn’t accept anything else until I felt like I had earned it, too. I wouldn’t take money from Ike Lawrence. I wouldn’t take too much praise for the songs. I wouldn’t notice the girls. Not really.
Not even Frankie Lynde.
I’d take it slow. I’d keep everything under control.
But I was just lying to myself.
I was given these things. The guitar. The skills. The songs. And everything that the music has brought me.
They were given to me.
So they can all be taken away.
Thea
On Monday they organize search parties.
Everyone from Greenwood High School signs up to help. Everyone but Anders.
No one expects him to join in. He’s been shut in his house for two days, not even coming to school.
This has let the gossip spread more quickly. The stories about Last Things breaking up are only drowned out by the stories about Frankie. At first the stories traveled in whispers, soft and sympathetic. Poor Anders. He must be brokenhearted, losing everything at once like that. He must feel so guilty, having that big fight with Frankie in front of everyone. Maybe she ran away to punish him. Maybe she hurt herself. By accident or not. But by the end of the school day, the whispers shifted. They grew louder. Larger. Maybe he knows something. Something no one else knows. Maybe he did something himself.
In the early evening on Monday, everyone collects at the Crow’s Nest. The parking lot is full—as full as it would be for a Last Things show, even though the coffeehouse is closed for the search, its doors shut and locked. Everyone is forming pairs o
r groups, getting ready to walk into the woods, holding hands, turning on their phones for extra light. Jezz and Patrick are there, along with Ellie and Lee and Mac. I see Ike, with a black flashlight the size of a baseball bat, and Janos, with a camping lantern. He nods at me.
I don’t have a phone. I don’t have a flashlight. I don’t have anything that would give the woods something to push against. They’ll already be watching me.
There are police in the parking lot, two men in uniform, standing next to their squad cars. They didn’t organize this. The official theory is still that Frankie ran away. She’s an adult, technically. She has money. Her own car. But they’re here anyway. In case.
Everyone lines up around the lot, along the edges of the road. This is the last place Frankie was seen. The last place they could trace her phone.
At someone’s signal, everyone walks into the woods. More than two hundred people. They make a wavy ribbon, all colors and textures, before they weave into the trees, moving deeper and deeper, until at last the woods swallow them up.
I wait until everyone else is gone and the police have turned away to watch the searchers disappear. Then I walk in the direction no one else is walking. Away from town. Away from the direction Frankie turned her car. I walk north.
Pines. Layers of them. Sunset is still an hour or more away, but the sky is already tinged rose orange. The light catches in the pines. They shake and flicker. It’s like walking through a forest of burning candles. The farther I go, the hotter they burn.
I climb over a creek bed narrower than a sidewalk. The underbrush is thick. Poison sumac, poison oak. I hold the cuffs of my sleeves tight. The woods will stop you any way they can.
Ahead of me is the fallen trunk of an oak tree. I remember it from Saturday night—its texture, its scent. It’s covered in moss and seashells of fungus, its surface spongy and wet. It crumbles where my heels sink in.
Just past the fallen tree, in the distance, is a little clearer spot in the trees. And in the clear spot, I see it. A shriveled apple tree.
“Apples,” Aunt Mae had muttered, still deep asleep, when I brought her coffee to the living room that morning. “And he’s so hungry . . .”
Last Things Page 15
