Guitar Notes (19 page)

“One bell can make another bell ring?”

She nods. “It’s called resonance. One object vibrating at the same natural frequency of a second object causes that object to vibrate. That’s why we say the phrase ‘that resonates’ when we agree with something someone says.”

He stops eating. “Okay. That matches my Thrum Theory.”

“About inanimate objects?”

“No. That’s my Vibe Theory.” He leans in, blocking out the noise of the cafeteria, and looks at the pencil in her hand. “Here’s my Thrum Theory. I think every soul vibrates at a certain frequency,” he explains. “It’s sort of like each soul has a sound that is its signature—and your soul just wants to feel the vibrations of this sound. I think the vibrations of my soul and the vibrations of the guitar match each other, which is why it feels so right for me to play it.”

Lyla’s eyes sparkle. “So my vibrations want to connect with vibrations that are in tune with me? And when something feels really right to me—like a song or the way the red leaves of the maple tree are shining—it’s because
that song or those leaves vibrate with a frequency that matches my frequency?”

Tripp smiles and shrugs. “Why not?”

She nods. “I like it. Maybe it explains something.”

“What?”

“Maybe it explains the reason why one person likes another. It’s because their souls both thrum at the same frequency.”

They are leaning in toward each other, knees almost touching, the smile between them as intense as a flame. “To resonance,” he says, and they tap their pencils as if they are glasses of champagne.

 NOVEMBER 6. THURSDAY.

 NOVEMBER 7. FRIDAY.

The alley is narrow and dark with a rivulet of black, oily liquid running down the center and lined on either side with Dumpsters and empty cardboard boxes.

Tripp is waiting by the back door to Broody’s Rug & Carpet, under the light. Lyla appears at the far end of the alley, sees him, and runs toward him. The collar of her short coat is turned up. She’s wearing black mittens, a black beret, and, even though it’s dark, big black sunglasses.

She starts laughing as soon as she is close enough to see him clearly.

“I like your disguise, Bonnie,” Tripp calls out. “Why are you laughing? I’m supposed to look criminally
exciting.” He adjusts his black knit cap and fake mustache.

“You look criminally insane. I like it.”

“Here’s the goods.” He pats a rug, which is rolled and wrapped in plastic.

“Oooh. I want to see it!”

He rotates it so she can see the pomegranate-colored label.

“How did you get it out?” she asks.

“When my mom was busy, I set it out here. Then I told her I had to go and walked out the front door.”

“Is she still in there? What if she comes out?”

“She never comes out back here. She’s afraid of rats.”

Lyla starts looking around nervously, and he laughs.

He pulls a piece of paper out of his back pocket. “Our destination is 830 Bradford Road. I mapquested it, and it’s four miles away. That’s a long walk.”

“We shall take a cab!” Lyla announces.

“You keep suggesting that. Have you ever done it?”

“Not by myself. But my dad and I have done it in New York.”

Lyla takes off her mittens and picks up one end of the rug, and Tripp grabs the other.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Tripp whispers.

“It’s like a dead body!” She starts laughing.

“Shh!”

By the time they walk the rug to the main street, they’re
breathing hard. “This way, so my mom doesn’t see us through the window.” He pulls her to the left.

“It’s so cold, I can see your breath,” she says. She brings two fingers to her lips as if she’s smoking a cigarette. “Bonnie and Clyde always light up after a heist.”

After a few minutes, they manage to flag down a taxi. As it pulls over, Lyla takes off her sunglasses and points to Tripp’s mustache. “Quick! We have to look normal or he’ll freak.”

He pulls it off and winces, and she laughs again.

The driver, a man with a bright orange turban, leans over as the passenger-side window rolls down. He looks at them suspiciously and says, “Show me, please, you have moneys.”

They pull out enough money between the two of them and get in, the rug on their laps. It’s slightly too long, so they roll down the window and stick one end out.

“One extra dollar for window,” the driver says, accent thick.

“For opening the window?” Tripp asks.

Lyla elbows him. “Fine.”

“We are going where?” the driver asks.

“830 Bradford Road,” Tripp says.

As the cab pulls out, Lyla whispers, “It’s a magic carpet ride.”

The cabdriver looks in the rearview mirror and asks if they went rug shopping, except with his accent, it sounds like he says rug chopping.

Lyla and Tripp smile at each other. “We are redecorating,” Lyla says.

“Indeed,” Tripp adds.

Lyla’s phone buzzes, signaling a text message. “Daddy checking in … he’s asking if I’m warm enough,” she says. “I’m cozy. Bake sale going well,” she says as she texts. “Selling lots!” She leans toward Tripp and whispers, “Should we feel guilty for …”—she looks at the rug on their laps—“rug chopping?”

“This rug has been in our store for five years and nobody has bought it.” He whispers. “So we are really doing the rug a favor.”

Lyla laughs. “It will be loved by Henry.”

“Henry is a little man with a mind of his own. Just my style.”

“Henry’s little mind is about to be blown.”

Silently, they watch the passing lights out the window. After a while, Lyla starts to hum.

The driver smiles, warming to them, and says loudly, “Singing is a much pleasing thing.”

“Indeed,” Tripp and Lyla both say at the same time and try to keep from laughing.

“My cousin is a rock star in India,” the driver says.

“Does he play the guitar?” Tripp asks.

“Sitar,” the man says. “Strings, but not a guitar.”

“We have a band,” Lyla says. “It’s called the Thrum Society.”

“No kidding me?” the driver exclaims. “You are famous?”

“Not yet. But we have a gig.”

“Sing me a song!” He stops at a light and looks back at them.

Lyla starts singing their waltz song, and Tripp joins in. The light turns green. The driver’s head nods to their song.

“That was good!” he exclaims when they’re done. “That was really good!” He hands Lyla a card. “My name is Aamod. Call me if you need a ride to your music gigs. No extra dollar for the window.”

“How much would it cost for you to take us to Loblolly, Maryland, and back?”

“Never heard of this place.”

“There’s a theater there called the Pomegranate Playhouse,” Lyla explains.

“Call me with the address and I can price you the quote.”

Tripp and Lyla look at each other and smile.

The driver turns down a side street and slows down. “Which one is it?”

Tripp peers out. “Um … it’s number 830.…”

“That one,” Lyla says. “The one with the porch.”

They pool their money and pay, then Lyla slides out with the rug, and Tripp follows. “Wave and look natural, like this is our house,” Lyla whispers as the cab pulls away.

“I don’t think people wave good-bye to their cabdrivers,” Tripp says.

“He’s not just our cabdriver. He’s our fan.” She waves.

The cab turns the corner, and the street is quiet. The air is freezing, and they both shiver. “What now, Bonnie?”

“We put it on the porch and run.”

“We need to write his name on it.”

“No, that’ll seem like we’re stalking.”

“All right. How about ‘From Santa’?”

Lyla laughs. “From the Thrum Society.”

The porch light in the neighboring house goes on and Tripp panics, lunging toward the shadowy part of the lawn, pulling the rug and Lyla with him. His foot hits a skateboard and he goes down while the skateboard flies out from under him and bangs against the bottom step of the porch.

“Are you okay?” Lyla whispers, laughing.

“Ssh! Duck!”

Lyla crouches down as a man from the house next door walks to the street and gets in his car.

“If he looks up, he’ll see us,” Lyla whispers.

“Make like a lawn troll and freeze.” Tripp’s face takes on a ridiculous frozen grin.

Lyla laughs.

“Shh! Trolls don’t laugh,” he says through his teeth.

After the car disappears, they pick up the rug. When Tripp hits the first stair, it creaks noisily.

“Shh!” Lyla says.

“I can’t help it,” Tripp says. He sets his end of the rug on the porch and they slide it the rest of the way.

“Knock!”

“No. You knock!”

“Shh!”

“Same time.”

They both tiptoe up, look at each other, start laughing, knock, and run.

Tripp looks back twice. The second time, he sees the front door open and someone step out. They run past houses, parked cars, and piles of fallen leaves. He pulls Lyla down a side street. A dog barks and they run faster, laughing.

“Do you know where we are?” Lyla asks, breathless.

“I think we need to turn left on the next street.”

A police car enters the next intersection and turns toward them.

Lyla grabs Tripp’s arm.

“Don’t run,” Tripp says. “Look completely natural. It’s going to pass right by us.”

Lyla’s hand stays on his arm. “We’re doomed, Clyde,” she whispers. “We have guilt written all over us. We probably have rug fibers on our clothes!”

As they walk fast, past the headlights, Tripp starts to hum Lyla’s guilt song.

“What are you doing?” Lyla whispers.

“I’m acting natural. People always hum a cheery tune when they walk down the street.”

As soon as the patrol car is gone, Lyla bends over. “I wasn’t breathing!”

“Come on.” Tripp runs across the street and pulls Lyla with him.

When they hit the sidewalk on the other side, Lyla stops. “Look!” She stares straight up.

In the glow of the streetlight, specks dance in the sky.

Lyla brings her hand down. There is a snowflake on her outstretched fingertip. She holds it out to Tripp. “Confetti!”

“Yeah.” He smiles. “The sky is throwing us a party.”

 NOVEMBER 12. WEDNESDAY.