Guitar Notes (16 page)

As Tripp puts away the guitar, Mr. Jacoby explains that he has lost privileges to use the practice room. Period.

Lyla blanches. “But it was my idea. I’m the one who should lose privileges.”

Tripp protests, but Ms. Kettering hustles him out the door.

Lyla has walked through the afternoon in shock, unable to concentrate on anything except the thought of Tripp not being allowed back into the practice room. The effort it has taken to get through each class, to pretend
that nothing is wrong, has made her feel sick to her stomach. As soon as her last class ends, she texts Annie to say that she doesn’t need a ride home today. It’s another lie, but she needs to find Tripp.

She hurries to her locker, and just as she is about to send him a text, Annie arrives.

“Hey, Lyla, I heard something interesting about Tripp Broody today.” Although Annie’s voice is light, Lyla can hear a current of hostility running through it.

“Really?” Heat rushes to Lyla’s face. She focuses on her backpack, pretending to struggle with the zipper.

Annie goes on. “It was my day to tutor and I was in the resource room, and Ms. Kettering found out that Tripp has been skipping tutoring sessions with Benjamin Fick.”

Lyla stuffs a notebook in her backpack and zips it up. “How did she find that out?” She tries to sound casual and starts walking.

Annie follows. “I’m not sure, but anyway, I was talking to Patricia Kent, and she said that Tripp was playing guitar in one of the practice rooms, which doesn’t make any sense because you’re in there. Did you see him? I mean, you were there today, right?”

Lyla’s heart pounds. “I don’t know anything about it.”

Annie stops and glares. “That was a test, Lyla. And you failed. You’ve been lying, and I’m so sick of it. You promised that you weren’t going to hang out with him, and so what do you do? You go behind my back.” She speeds ahead.

“I wasn’t trying to deliberately go behind your back, Annie. You don’t understand.” Lyla catches up.

“I do understand. I talked to Patricia Kent. She said you never even asked her to trade days. She said she heard you in the practice room with him.”

“Did you tell on us to Ms. Kettering?”

“I’m sure she figured it out on her own.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Annie stops and shrugs. “Well, that’s too bad.”

“Look, Annie. I’m sorry I lied. But I … I was … I’ve been feeling like …”

“Like you want to dump me—”

“Stop it, Annie.”

“No, you stop it, Lyla.”

“I don’t think there’s a law that says we have to do everything together all the time.”

“That’s what friends do, Lyla.”

“But you put this pressure on me, like I can’t ever disagree.”

“Just say it, Lyla. You hate me. You think you’re better than me.”

“Stop it! I don’t think I’m better than you. I don’t hate you! You’re the one who is always saying ‘I hate you’ to me. How do you think that makes me feel?”

Annie’s face hardens. “So what do you and Tripp do in the practice room?”

“We play the guitar.”

An ugly laugh flies out of Annie.

Lyla asks, “Why is that funny?”

“It’s so not you.” She walks on. “Have a great life, Lyla.”

Tripp says nothing to his mom when she picks him up. Now that he has been kicked out of the practice room, the stakes are higher. He has to get his guitar back. Ms. Kettering said she would contact his mom. Maybe she left a message on the home phone and his mom hasn’t had a chance to check the messages. Thankfully, he sees no sign of distress in her face. On the way to Crenshaw, she chatters away, reminding him of all the things he can do to make a good impression: eye contact, firm handshake, no mumbling, and definitely no sarcasm. “Act curious about something they mention,” she says, “and nod to show you’re interested even if you’re not.”

“Dishonesty above all,” Tripp can’t resist saying.

She throws him a look. “You know what I mean.”

They drive into the city and turn into a wealthy-looking neighborhood. At the end of the street, the school sits on top of a hill, like an old English mansion, ivy growing up the stone walls, a clock tower in the biggest building. Tripp is led into a room with two round-faced people for a “getting to know you” session while his mom has a conference with the financial aid advisor in another room.

When he comes out, the interviewers are smiling, Tripp is smiling, Tripp’s mother is smiling, the secretary who says good-bye to them on the way out is smiling.

“I avoided sarcasm, whipped out some impressive vocab, and managed a straight face even though they looked like Tweedledee and Tweedledum,” he says as they walk down the steps toward the parking lot. “So … now we get the guitar?”

His mom waits until they pass by two women talking next to a red convertible. Then her smile dissolves and her voice darkens. “I’ll tell you when we get in the car.”

His stomach drops. She gets in the car and slams the door, and he stands there wondering how long it would take him to walk home. She reaches over and opens the door. As he gets in, she explodes. “I can’t believe you’ve been lying to me.” She grips the steering wheel with her left hand, turns on the engine, and yanks the car into gear. When she turns to see if it’s safe to back out, her eyes take a swipe at him. “If Crenshaw lets you in, you’re going. That’s it. If you get good grades there, then you can have your guitar back for the summer.”

“What?”

She pulls out of the Crenshaw entrance, passing through the two black doors of the imposing wrought-iron gate. “There will be no discussion.”

His fury builds, but he says nothing. They ride in silence. She drops him off at home and tells him flatly that she is going to pick up some groceries.

The minute he is alone in the house, he lets out a primal scream. Shaking, he walks into his own room and calls Lyla.
Please answer
. She does, and her voice is like a lifeline he grabs to keep from drowning. Right away she can tell that something is wrong.

He crawls into bed and tells her what happened.

“Crenshaw!” she exclaims. “You can’t go to Crenshaw.”

“I know.”

“Did she find out about the practice room?”

“Yeah.”

“This is so bad. Annie did, too. We had a huge fight. I really hope—” Her voice changes, and he can tell her father must be there. “It’s page seventy-three. We’re supposed to find solutions to all the odd numbers.”

“I think my solution involves smashing something with a crowbar,” he says.

She laughs. “I don’t think that will work. See you tomorrow.”

Reluctantly, he says good-bye.

Lyla calls. Her voice is a whisper. “You know what I did to take my mind off everything?”

“Smashed something?”

She laughs. “No. I made us a website and posted our
MP3s on it and said we’re available for weddings!” She laughs again. “Check it out. I sent you the URL. And I have a plan. Tomorrow night, meet me at the corner of Sycamore and Twelfth.”

“Why?”

“Not telling. Let’s make it seven
P.M
. Don’t meander.”

“Am I going to like it?”

“Yes. I have to go.” She’s gone.

He gets his laptop, brings it back to his bed, and fires it up. He finds her e-mail with the URL and clicks on it:
www.thrumsociety.com
. The website pops up and immediately takes his breath away. Their songs are all there. The Thrum Society. Everything is somehow going to be okay.

Lyla reads the message and a wave of relief washes over her. She doesn’t have to be responsible for Annie. It’s better this way.

 OCTOBER 31. FRIDAY.

Tripp arrives at the corner of Sycamore and Twelfth on his bike and looks for Lyla. Kids in Halloween costumes run across the lawn of a small brick apartment building. Lyla is nowhere in sight. His phone rings.

“Where are you?” Lyla asks.

Her voice in his ear is the first real pleasure of the day. “On the corner of Sycamore and Twelfth. Where are you?”

“Elm and Twelfth. How did you get there?”

“Bike.”

“Okay. Walk your bike so you don’t get ahead of me. Stay on Sycamore and cross Twelfth, heading toward Thirteenth.”

“Okay. I’m walking. Where are we going?”

The neighborhood is old, canopied with huge trees. The small apartments give way to houses, decorated for Halloween with jack-o’-lanterns on the porches and ghosts hanging from the trees. The streetlights are on. It’s already dark, though not completely.

“Your voice sounds so sad,” she says. “Don’t be sad. You’re going to like this. Keep walking up Sycamore.”

“Is that where you live?”

“I live on Ash and Tenth. Keep going up Sycamore.”

“Am I going to find a pot of gold?”

“Yes.”

“I thought a rainbow was supposed to be the thing that you follow to get a pot of gold, not a voice on a cell phone.”

“Hey, look to your right.”

As Tripp begins to cross Thirteenth Street, he glances over and sees Lyla in the glow of a streetlight, carrying a cello case, heading in the same direction one street over. “Hi, Ms. Even.”

“Hi, Mr. Odd. We’re parallel,” she says.

“Why aren’t we walking together?” he asks.

“We’re avoiding suspicion,” she says.

“Ah. Why do you have your cello?” he asks.

“You’ll see.”

Tripp stays on Sycamore and heads up the next block. Most of the houses have fences, which makes it impossible to catch another glimpse of Lyla. “Do I keep walking?”

“Yep.”

When he approaches Fourteenth Street, he looks to the right. “The suspense is killing me.… Wait … wait … there you are. Hello, yonder cello player.”

“Hello, yonder Oddman. I’m glad to hear some fun in your voice. Keep walking straight ahead. Hey, you know what this means?”

“What?”

“If we keep seeing each other when we’re crossing, it means we are walking with the same approximate stride. We could use algebra to determine the length of our strides.”

“Geek! Do I keep going straight?”

“Turn right on Fifteenth. If the length of our strides remains the same, we should remain one block apart.”

Tripp turns right on Fifteenth and sees Lyla one block ahead. “Hey, where are you going?”

“Left on Walnut.”

“You disappeared.”

“Ouch.”

“What happened?”

“I banged into a garbage can.”

Tripp crosses the street and heads down Walnut. “Okay, what do I do on Walnut?”

“Go into the backyard of the house on the corner. The one on the right with lots of trees. I’m already here.”

“Am I walking into a trap?”

“Yes, I’m luring you into a dark alley where I intend to rob—What do you have in your pockets?”

“Two dollars and a guitar pick.”

“Where I intend to rob you of two dollars and your guitar pick. Hold on. I need both hands for a minute.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see.”

“What about the pot of gold for me? I would like a lot of money so I can buy my own house and my own guitar and live happily ever after.”

“Well … you might just get your wish.”

“You sound like you’re out of breath. How come?”

“Just keep walking. You’ll see.”

Tripp stops. The house on the corner has a tall fence. “You really want me to go into the backyard? Whose house is this?”

“Too many questions. Just come!”

“Do I go through the gate?”

“Yep. I’m already back here. Walk past the house and into the backyard. Bring your bike. All the way in the back. You’re going to see a tree house.”

“Tree house? What are you, a hobbit? Is your father the Lord of the Rings?”

She laughs. “This isn’t my house. It’s my neighbor’s.”

“We’re trespassing?”

“Keep walking … all the way in the back.”

The backyard is deep and dark. In a large oak he sees the faint glow of a tree house. Then the glow brightens,
and Lyla peers out of a window, her hair illuminated from behind.

“Wow.” He slips his phone into his back pocket.

“Like it?” she calls down.

“Very cool.”

“Ready for the next surprise?” she asks.

“I think so.”

“Open the cello case,” she says. “It’s by the trunk.”

Tripp sees a dark shape at the base of the tree. He parks his bike, crouches down, and unlocks the case. It takes a few moments for him to figure out what he’s seeing inside the case: the school guitar. He laughs.