Freshman Year Page 5

  I’m thinking, Oh, Hot Dog on a Stick Chick, you had me at ‘Hola,’ so thank God my mom’s there to intervene.

  Mom puts the case on the counter and opens it up. “We don’t know exactly what it needs.”

  The Hot Dog on a Stick Chick raises her eyebrows like she’s shocked. It must be because the guitar is so old or dirty or cheap or needs lots of work. After all, it has been hiding in the overheated garage for a long time.

  “Is it still playable?” my mom shouts over the banging of drums and screeching of electric guitars. “Can you fix it tonight?”

  The Hot Dog on a Stick Chick glances over at me, and I give a little wave to her then roll my eyes to convey that I don’t normally do geeky things like go to music shops with my mom. I also congratulate myself for knowing her fingertip calluses are from playing guitar. Then I wonder how she manages to work two jobs and go to school.

  “Well, it usually can’t be done that quickly, but I’ll give you the Gila High special and get her cleaned up for you tonight,” she says to me then closes the case and gently leans it against the wall behind the counter like she knows how much the guitar means to us. “I’ll have her ready for you by nine o’clock. That cool?”

  She’s talking to me again, but I’ve stopped breathing, so I nod my head instead of speaking.

  My mom is satisfied with the transaction and is already halfway to the door. I’m about to follow her, but then the Hot Dog on a Stick Chick says, “Adiós, Amara,” and winks at me…again. And because there aren’t any lemons around, I am thoroughly convinced that this time she did it on purpose.

  Dinner with my mom is a blur. I think there are black olives and mushrooms on the pizza, but it might as well be anchovies and onions because I am way too distracted to notice. I manage to appear like I’m listening to my mom’s stories about her high school days, way back when Madonna was much closer to being like a virgin than now, but the only reason I know when to nod and laugh is because I’ve heard them all a million times before.

  After dinner I tell my mom to go to the car, and I’ll just run in to get the guitar. She gives me a wad of cash and I bolt across the street while she climbs in our junky blue Volvo station wagon.

  The store is much quieter and looks bigger without all the customers crowded in trying out the goods. I arrive at the counter, but no one’s around, not even the Hot Dog on a Stick Chick. I wait patiently and try to appear cool by tapping my fingers to the music playing in the background. It’s a guitar instrumental of “Something” by the Beatles, which is the song my mom always asked my dad to play. Then a woman’s voice starts singing along, and that’s when I realize the guitar isn’t coming from the speakers mounted around the store, and neither is the voice.

  The live music is coming from behind a wall of Jimi Hendrix posters, so I peek around the corner and can’t believe what I see: the Hot Dog on a Stick Chick playing my dad’s guitar. Her eyes are closed, and as she releases the sweet lyrics they feel like soft whispers floating by my ear, sending goose bumps down my arms.

  Realizing that she might think I’m weird for spying on her, I turn around quietly to pretend I was never there. She must have sensed me watching her because she opens her eyes and stops singing, but keeps on playing my guitar.

  “Do you always go around sneaking up on people, Amara?” she asks with a huge smile on her face, which tells me that she must not think I’m too weird.

  I cross my arms over my chest, smile back, and then shrug because, once again, I can’t breathe or speak. It’s the way she says Amara, like she knows how it makes me feel. I had decided during dinner that I would go ahead and tell her my real name, but after hearing my pretend name again, I change my mind. Amara is close enough.

  “I hope you don’t mind. I was just trying her out,” she says. “Man, she’s a beauty. It’s a Martin D-35, right?”

  I have no idea who Martin is or what she’s talking about, so I shrug and smile again.

  She picks up on my confusion and tries to help me. “What I mean is, it’s a really, really rare guitar. Where’d you guys get it?”

  “Some guitar shop guy gave it to my mom in exchange for painting his wall,” I say, and now the Hot Dog on a Stick Chick is confused.

  Thankfully, she changes the topic to something we can both understand. “So did you enjoy the free concert, you little spy?”

  “Oh. Yeah, it was…” I struggle to find the perfect adjective to describe the music she made but only come up with “nice.” Then I watch her wind up some cords. She has nice tennis-player arms; they are strong, but not too muscular. Then out of nowhere, I say, “How do you do that?”

  “Wind up cords?” she asks and laughs in her smooth sort of way.

  What I am thinking is, How do you make the music float across the room and land in my ear like a kiss? But what I say is, “No, how do you move your fingers that quickly when you play? I’m never going to be able to do that.”

  “Just takes a little practice,” she says, looking too closely at me, like Garrett and Stef did in the hall at Gila. “You don’t play, huh?”

  That was a question and I know I need to say something, but all I can think about is the dream I had about her last night. She was behind the counter at Hot Dog and was teasing me with a french fry, pulling it away from my mouth when it was so close I could feel the steam warm my lips. “It’s not mine. It’s my dad’s,” I finally say.

  She snaps the case shut. “He must really love her. She’s in great shape.”

  “It is? He’s dead,” I say without meaning to.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” Then she changes the subject. “So, what are you two going to do with her? You know she deserves better than the highest bidder on eBay, right?”

  “Actually, I’m taking a guitar class at Gila. It’s for beginners.” I grab a lock of hair to twirl but force myself to let it go.

  “Really,” she says, as if she’s doubtful for some reason, so I explain.

  “Yeah, I don’t know why I chose guitar. I mean, I’ll probably suck at it. I’ll never be as good as you. It was a stupid choice. I should have taken typing or something.” I pinch my freckled arm with one hand and begin to twirl my hair with the other.

  She smiles and walks to the front of the store with my guitar. I follow her.

  “Actually,” she says, “Mr. Chase is a pretty good teacher, Amara. You’ll be fine. Besides, you can do anything you put your mind to.” She opens the front door for me. “It just takes a little time. Everything will fall into place when it needs to. Trust me.”

  I do. I trust her completely.

  As she hands me the guitar, our hands touch. I feel my body flush and my head spin but still manage to remember I haven’t paid her. “Wait, how much do I owe you?”

  “It’s on the house. Besides, I should be paying you for letting me hold something that rare in my arms.” She embraces me in her gaze.

  I respond with my cheesiest smile and wish I could stay in the store forever, but with my mom waiting across the street, maybe even watching us, I have to stay focused. I start to get the cash from my back pocket, but she grabs my hand to stop me. I try not to faint from the serious lack of oxygen to my brain.

  “Keep your money, Amara. Don’t you remember what I told you last time?”

  I haven’t forgotten any part of our previous meeting but want her to say it again.

  “When someone gives you more than you expect, just say thank you and walk away.” Then she puts the pick she’s been using in my palm. It’s warm from being in her pocket. “You’ll need this for class tomorrow,” she whispers.

  I swallow loudly and whisper back, “Thanks.” I don’t know why we’re whispering, but it feels like the right thing to do.

  “Now you’re learning,” she says and looks into me again. I wonder what she sees that’s worth looking at. “Buenas noches, Amara.”

  “Okay, yeah. I mean, you, too. And thanks.” I turn to leave the store, forcing myself to keep walking across the s
treet instead of turning around to look at her. Though I’m pretty sure I look totally drunk as I cross the road, I manage to make it to our car on my wobbly legs. I get in, shut the door, and buckle my seat belt.

  “Any change?” Mom asks and slowly accelerates down the street.

  “Nope,” I say, “no change.”

  Chapter Five

  “What’s with that thing?” Kate asks, as she sprays another layer of perfume across her pushed-up boobs.

  I’m on her basement couch waiting (again) for her to finish getting ready for school. “It’s called a guitar.”

  “Are you trying to become a band geek or something?”

  “They don’t play acoustic guitar in band. Duh.”

  She laughs. “Okay, well, you’re an even bigger geek for knowing that.”

  “Are you ready yet?”

  “Just one more,” Kate says and showers her hair with another dose of hairspray. “Okay. Now we can go.”

  Our walk to school begins, and as we trudge down her street and then cut through the grocery store parking lot, Kate starts her morning rant. “I can’t believe my mom shrunk my favorite pair of jeans and Jenn better replace my eye shadow because if she doesn’t…”

  And that’s about when I tune out and instead think my own, nonshareable thoughts. I have the Hot Dog on a Stick Chick’s pick in my pocket, and each time I reach in and touch it, I replay how she opened my palm and placed it gently in my hand. And how sexy she looked when she played my dad’s guitar and how after I got home last night I actually hugged my guitar in hopes that her talent or perhaps her fresh, just-out-of-the-shower scent might rub off on me.

  “And you know what else?” Kate asks.

  I can tell from her intonation that I need to participate in the conversation again. “No. What?”

  “I was talking to Jenn last night, this was before the eye-shadow incident, and you know how she’s on the girls’ varsity basketball team at Gila?”

  I switch my guitar to the other shoulder and grimace at the sweat mark the strap has left on my shirt. “Yeah. What about it?” I say, wondering if I sound too defensive or guilty. I have successfully avoided telling Kate about how Garrett and Stef had bugged me about trying out, so I can’t believe she’s bringing up the subject at all. Then I wonder if Kate’s doing her BFF mind reading thing. Maybe she already knows everything.

  “Well, Jenn started in on me again about trying out for the team.”

  “Really?” I use the corner of my shirt sleeve to wipe the sweat dripping down my temple. It must be about ninety-five degrees and our conversation isn’t helping me stay cool. “What did you say?”

  “I told her no way in hell, of course, but Jenn was pretty insistent we do it. And she said there aren’t really that many of the”—Kate lowers her voice—“lesbians on the team. I think she said there are only two main couples and maybe one other.” We enter the noisy hallway of Gila, but the cool air doesn’t help my sweaty condition. “And, I don’t know. Jenn made it sound like it could be sort of fun.”

  “Fun? Humph,” I grunt. But what I’m actually thinking is that Kate’s attempting to trick me into confessing I’ve been thinking about trying out, too. “What about our promise? What about not knowing at all how to play?”

  “Well,” she says, as we approach our lockers, “I made a list of pros and it’s pretty long.”

  “Ah, the pro-con list lives on. And I thought I was the only geek left.”

  “Whatever. Just listen to me and be serious for once.”

  I’ve never been more serious about any conversation we’ve had, but she can’t know that.

  “First of all, we get to go on road trips and get out of school early sometimes.”

  “I guess that wouldn’t suck,” I say.

  Our lockers are side by side, thanks to some tactical moves given to us from our insider Jenn, and we spin in our combinations.

  “Plus,” she says, “we’d get to be on a team that didn’t require polyester blazers and electing officers.”

  “Well, that would address rule number twelve, avoiding groups that have a high geek and polyester ratio.”

  “Exactly.” Then she looks down at her shoes. “And there’s one more thing.”

  “We’d get in shape?” I say, as I struggle with opening my locker.

  “Actually, it’s better than that.”

  I’ve seen this look in her eyes before and know what she’ll say next is related to a guy.

  “I found out that Derrick plays basketball, too, so I’m thinking if he sees me as more than just a genius in chemistry class then maybe…”

  “At last. The truth.” My locker finally opens, and I hang my backpack on the hook because I don’t think I’ll need it for guitar class, and I have enough to carry. “How do you know he’s even into you, anyway?”

  “Oh my God, did I not tell you how I totally caught him looking at my boobs? That’s a good sign, right?”

  “Why don’t you just join the cheerleading squad? Then you can flash him your underwear without appearing to be a slut.”

  “Not funny,” she says, as she looks in her mirror to fix her hair. “Besides, if I do it, you’re doing it, so get over it.”

  I slam my locker shut. “No way, and you can’t make me.”

  “Yes way, and I will make you. I always do.”

  She has a good point.

  “Besides, what are you so afraid of anyway, Abbey? It’s not like you’re one of them, so who cares. Right?”

  And I have nothing to say to that.

  *

  Room P3 is in the deepest depths of the performance hall, and apparently, I’m really early for guitar class because, as I walk in, the room echoes with silence. Even though this isn’t an honors class, I follow Rule #2 and sit in the seat farthest away from the front. With nothing better to do, I take out my guitar and strum the only note I can remember from my dad’s lessons—D, D, D, D, D—which doesn’t make for a pretty song. I try to remember the other notes my dad taught me but can’t, which really bums me out.

  Five minutes later, the final bell rings and I find myself surrounded by grungy boys with long hair, wearing black T-shirts printed with the names of bands I’ve never heard of: Keat’s Kills, Los Payasos de Mars, and The Spazmodic Fire Monkeys. I wait for a girl to walk through the doors to latch on to for solidarity and security, but it’s just one boy after another. Eventually I stop watching the door, look down at my Converse, and pout. Stupid guitar class. I should have taken Home Ec.

  Mr. Chase makes his entrance from behind the blue velvet curtain and rolls out a portable chalkboard. It’s filled with notes entitled “History of the Guitar.”

  “I see some of you are ready to get started on actually playing the guitar.” He looks over at me and smiles. I hadn’t yet noticed, but I’m the only one with a guitar out. All the boys laugh, and I slowly die in my chair. “But, before we get to that, just like I promised, we have to fulfill some requirements from The Man.”

  The class groans, and I panic. Everyone else has their binders and backpacks, but mine are in my locker. As much as I hate doing it, I have to ask someone if I can borrow some supplies.

  I scan the circle of slimy boys. I skip all the ones with multiple face piercings because they weird me out. That leaves five guys to choose from. One is wearing a wifebeater and has really hairy armpits. I fear his odor. The next three won’t make eye contact with me. Then my eyes fall upon an oasis in my Sahara Desert of grossness: Jake Simpson. I don’t know how I missed him coming in, but I am totally relieved to see his tall self.

  Jake sees me, too, holds up a notebook and a pen, and raises his eyebrows. I nod my head, put my hands together to thank him, and he passes them around the circle to me.

  Mr. Chase is all the way down to the third bullet on his list, so I start frantically taking notes as soon as the supplies arrive. I’m so completely engrossed in my note taking that I almost don’t register that someone else has entered the classroom.
>
  “Buenos días, Señor Chase,” I hear. “Sorry I’m late.”

  I stop writing, look up, and nearly upchuck my Cheerios.

  The Hot Dog on a Stick/Guitar Chick hands one of the coffees she’s carrying to Mr. Chase and sits down on the stage. And me? Now my mouth is a mailbox left open, agape and empty of expression. She looks my way, nods her head toward my guitar, and smiles. In return, I give her a poorly performed closed-mouth grin. My mom says it’s cute when I smile like that, which means I must look totally stupid.

  “Lady and gentlemen that are new to class, this is my student aide, Ms. Reyna Moreno.”

  “But you can call me Keeta,” she says to me, and to the rest of the class, I guess.

  I repeat both her names in my head over and over again. I don’t want to ever forget them, as if that’s possible.

  *

  Taking guitar is the best thing I’ve ever done, is what I’m thinking on Monday morning, as I walk to Spanish 2. Yes, after five days of being in the same room with Keeta, I’m in high school heaven. I wasn’t even fazed when I got another lunch detention from Mrs. Schwartz for supposedly talking during her badminton presentation. In fact, I’m as happy as can be when I sit down in my usual seat in Spanish, take out my book and binder, and wait for Stef and Garrett to arrive.

  Stef’s backpack lands in her seat with a loud thud and I’m jolted out of my Keeta daydream. “Well, if it isn’t Ms. Lying Her Ass Off,” Stef says. “Look at her, Garrett. What a mentirosa.”

  Garrett leans over my shoulder and slams my book shut. “Yeah, what a liar. You know, Abbey, you really had us fooled.”

  If this was junior high, I would have quickly called out for the teacher to intervene. But I’m a big high school freshman now and they both have slight smiles on their faces. I decide to wait before calling for backup. “What’s up, guys?”

  “Well, we had a little chat with one of the varsity players,” Garrett says, “one by the name of Jenn Townsend.”

  My stomach does a triple backflip and sticks the landing. Perfect ten.