Rae’s out sick, so at lunchtime I grab a turkey wrap, walk past the wall of yellow lockers, and push through the school doors. It’s probably not the best day to eat outside, but I crave fresh air and space to think. I round the brick walls toward the track where students are running in spite of the ceaseless drizzle.
I unroll my denim jacket from my bag and poke my arms inside the sleeves, then untangle my pink earbuds and pressPLAYon my father’s last album. The Derelicts made one more album after he died, but it wasn’t successful. Not that their other albums were all that successful. They never went platinum or anything, even though I think they deserved more attention than they got.
The air’s warm and sticky, alive with a million mosquitoes. I climb up the bleachers to the highest row and watch the bodies looping around the field, kicking up globs of red dirt. It’s strangely calming, almosthypnotic. The rain pricks my bare thighs like falling needles. I stuff my hands inside my pockets and close my eyes.
The strum of my father’s guitar rumbles through me, smoothing out my anxiety. Earthen tones detonate behind my closed lids—amber, khaki, garnet. Like a balm, his playing soothes me.
If only he were still alive.
If only the roads hadn’t been icy.
If only the fourteen-wheeler hadn’t skidded and rammed into him.
I sigh just as something grazes my elbow. I imagine it’s an insect and swipe it off.
It’s not an insect, though; it’s a hand.
I push my stringy hair off my forehead and pivot toward the body attached to it.
Ten’s mouth moves, but I can’t hear what he’s saying.
I pluck one earbud out. “What?”
“Do you have a bicycle license?”
My head jerks back a little.
“You’re a menace on that thing.”
“Um, okay.”Criticism.Just what I need. “If you’re done doling out gratuitous advice, I’d like to get back to my music.”
He rests his forearms on his thighs, laces his fingers together, and lets them hang between his knees. I pop the earbud back in, hoping he gets the message I want him to leave, but he doesn’t move. Well, actually, hedoesmove. He extends his arm, seizes one of my earbuds, and sticks it into his ear. He wraps his palms around the edge of the metal bench and stretches his long legs out.
His head bobs.
“I thought you hated music,” I say.
“Garage bands are okay.”
“The Derelicts aren’t a garage band.”
His gym shirt with the school crest—a stylized tree of knowledge—sticks to his chest. “The Derelicts, huh? Your father’s band?”
“Yeah. He was their guitar player.”
“Do you play the guitar?” he asks.
“No.”
“Do you play an instrument?”
“Who’s the nosy one now?”
“I never called you nosy.” He takes the earbud out and hands it back to me. “I said you asked a lot of questions.”
“Same difference.”
“Why are you sitting up here by yourself?”
