When we realized that none of us would ever get it because Tom had no intention of giving us an important role in the band, we stopped warring with each other.
Max is a great artist and plays guitar and bass like few people. When we play together it is as if our instruments are bound together by one aura. I’ve always admired the way he plays and the fluidity of his pen.
All the songs inside my notebook were written by him and me in four hands. There are more nights we spent composing songs than sleeping. He left with me when I moved to Seattle and we shared an apartment near the academy campus until a few months ago. Now he’s still in Seattle to finish his studies.
Max is the kind of person who doesn't care about anything or anyone. He hates being in the middle of problems or arguments. He only cares about music and Aurora Delgado.
Since I've been back, most of the times he writes me he does it to find out how she is, but I haven't visited her yet.
I’ve heard from her by text however what he needs is for me to see her in person so I can tell him how she’s really doing. Aurora was the girlfriend of Tom Owens, the founder ofStraight Punch, our high school band.
She was also our age but we didn't have any classes in common, however, she attended the baking club with Nova and Steven for three years.
Aurora and Max never got along until the summer before our senior year in high school.
In fact, she was supposed to leave with us after graduation and study creative writing at Seattle University. I don't know why she never joined us over the years, but surely she must have had a good reason.
We all have a reason for running away that maybe makes us cowards, but I'm okay with that. For now, at least.
I read the message in which Max asks me how it's going and how everyone is, to which I reply saying that everything is fine and that I would be visiting Aurora the following week. He immediately replies to me with a picture of the coffee table in ourold apartment on which there is a notebook full of erasures and an open can of Red Bull. I let a sigh escape and lean my head against the window of the car, concentrating on the conversation on the phone between my parents.
I watch my father out of the corner of my eye as he drives to the kindergarten where he got me a job as a music teacher.
I let a sigh escape as I rub my eyes, tired. I fiddle with the scrunchie I wear on my wrist as long as I let my nails alone. I run a finger along the faded scar across my forearm. There are smaller ones on the back of my hand and near my wrists.
I look up at my father when I hear Chris say my name. "How was Vincent's session?" he asks on the other end of the phone.
Daniel shoots me a look before answering. "Fine, love. I'm driving him to school. Do you want me to pass him to y-"
Chris interrupts him. "I have to go, honey. I'm about to go into a meeting. I just wanted to know how you were doing. Can you tell him that I love him so much?" he asks, knowing that he’s already on speakerphone and that I’ve already heard his words.
Daniel sighs, curving to the right to enter the kindergarten driveway. "Sure. I'll bring you something to the office so we can have lunch together."
Voices belonging to my father's colleagues can be heard on the other end of the phone. He simply agrees before ending the call by saying he loves us and the car pulls into the parking lot designated for teachers. I sigh before getting out of the car with my backpack and loading it onto my shoulder. I head to the trunk and load my guitar case on my other shoulder.
My father reaches me, lays a hand on my shoulder. "Are you all right, honey-bee?"
I nod, lying. "I just wish I didn't have to make you come all the way out here every day just to drop me off," I admit, walking slowly toward the entrance.
Today I have two hours with the children from the butterfly group and two more with the ice cream group.
My father walks beside me, accompanying me as he does every morning.
I love him, but I wish I could do things on my own. I wish they would see me as someone who can take care of himself.
I know I haven't given them a way to have confidence in me recently, but I just wish they would try to believe that I’m capable of giving music lessons to children without having a depressive crisis at any moment.
"Vincent I already told you that we can buy you a new car if you want to move independently," he reminds me, opening the school's front door.
We are greeted by colorful hallways and shouts of happy children. I walk toward my pupils' classroom. "And I told you I want to pay for it myself. Why can't I just take public transportation like everyone else?" I retort.
My father lays a hand on my shoulder comfortingly, but I don't want to be comforted. I want to be treated like a normal person and take responsibility for my actions.
Sometimes I want to be the shoulder for my parents to cry on, instead of always running into their arms scared. I wish they would love me because I’m a good person, not because twelve years ago they took responsibility for taking care of me.
"Vincent..."
I shrug my shoulders, continuing to walk toward the classroom. "I know. I know. I haven’t shown you that you can trust me. You've already told me that."
