Blackbird Fly (16 page)

The Dog Log was documented. Danica, Claire, and Braden started speaking in low voices. I heard a few hushed giggles. I felt them looking at me. My skin burned. They were reading my name, right there on Braden's phone. The entire list could be spread to everyone with the simple touch of a button.

Maybe that button had already been pushed.

When I saw Evan standing outside the library at lunch, practically bouncing out of his skin, I assumed he was going to tell me what I already knew: The Dog Log had been spread to every student at Chapel Spring Middle School, and I might as well be wearing an enormous flashing sign that said, Ugly Loser. But as soon as he saw me he smiled and grabbed my elbow.

“You gotta see this,” he said.

“See what?” I followed him as he brisk-walked down the hall. “Where are we going?”

“Band room. You gotta see this—or better yet, you gotta
hear
this.” As we got closer Evan slowed down and put his fingers to his lips. Then he gently pushed open the door.

It was amazing.

Singing. That's what it was.

Not just any singing though. Not singing like I heard from the swing choir or when Gretchen and Alyssa used to rehearse in front of me during lunch. This was
real
singing. This was deep, powerful, booming singing. It sounded like an adult. Maybe it
was
an adult. I couldn't tell. Evan and I crept toward Mr. Z's office, because that was where it was coming from.

“Look,” Evan whispered, pointing through a thin sliver in the blinds.

I saw Mr. Z sitting on the corner of his desk with a guitar, and standing there was the last person
I ever expected to see—Heleena Moffett. This big, quiet mouse walked up and down the halls every day without saying much of anything. Every time she spoke, it sounded small, like a squeak, but there was nothing small about her voice now.

My mouth dropped open. I glanced at Evan.

He blew at his hair. “I know, right?”

“Where'd she learn to sing like that?”

“I don't know.”

He chewed his finger and listened as I squinted through the blinds and watched. When she stopped a few minutes later, I tugged Evan's sleeve.

“Come on. Let's go,” I said.

“No, let's wait,” he said.

“What do you mean, wait?” I said. “I don't want them to know we're here.”

“Why not? It's not like we heard anything bad. We heard something the opposite of bad. We heard something amazingly awe—”

Mr. Z's door opened wide, and Heleena stepped
out. She looked just as quiet and shy as ever. When she saw us, her eyes got real big and her cheeks turned pink. She didn't smile.

Mr. Z did though.

“Hey!” he said. “What a surprise. Ready for a lesson, Apple?”

“No,” I said, glancing at Heleena. “You told me you were busy on Tuesdays. I was planning to come, uh, another day, but—”

“No, she wasn't,” Evan said. “She hasn't come by because she doesn't have her own guitar, and she doesn't want to ask you to borrow one.”

Now
my
face turned red. I swatted Evan's shoulder.

He shrugged. “It's true.”

Mr. Z crossed his arms, still smiling. “So the truth comes out. Well, at least you were right about Tuesdays. Heleena has voice lessons. Although I'm not sure who the real teacher is.”

Heleena's cheeks turned an even deeper shade of pink.

“How'd you learn to sing like that?” Evan asked her. “Just from coming to voice lessons with Mr. Z?”

“Ha!” Mr. Z said as Heleena looked at her feet. “You don't learn how to sing like that by just taking lessons. It comes naturally. Some people are born to do certain things. Lessons only help make your talent shine even brighter.” He turned to Heleena and smiled proudly. “Heleena was born with a big voice.”

Evan looked at me. “Maybe you were born to play guitar and write songs.”

“Maybe,” Mr. Z agreed. “There's only one way to find out.” He disappeared into his office. When he came back a few seconds later, he was holding a Yamaha guitar. It wasn't the Fender Starcaster I'd always wanted, but it was something to strum, and here he was, holding it out to me. “Take this home and see how it feels.”

My heart was beating really fast—but this time I wasn't scared. I was too busy looking at the guitar. It was used but in good shape. Some parts were scuffed,
and it wasn't very shiny at all, but I didn't care. I studied the strings and wondered how many songs had been played on it. There was even a strap, though the leather was worn and the thread had unraveled in places.

“Try it,” said Evan.

I slipped it over my shoulder and adjusted the strap so I could play and hold the guitar at the same time. I asked Mr. Z if I was doing everything right, and he said I was.

“It suits you, Apple,” he said. “Fool around on it. See how you do.”

Evan, Heleena, and I walked out of the band room together. The guitar felt natural and light on my back. I shoved my hands in my pockets. I felt like Sheryl Crow or Tracy Chapman.

“How long have you been taking lessons?” I asked Heleena. “You don't even sound like you need them. You have the most amazing voice I've ever heard. It's definitely one of your IFs.”

“What's an IF?” she asked.

“I believe that there are at least three interesting facts about every person on Earth,” I said as we made our way down the hall. “I call them IFs.”

“That's a good theory,” Heleena said. “What are your IFs, Apple?”

Before I could answer, we heard a strange sound coming down the hallway.

It was barking.

Jake, Braden, Lance, and a few other boys were clustered near the water fountain, and I guess they'd seen us coming. They cupped their mouths with their hands, ducked their heads, and howled.

Everyone was looking at us. Some kids were laughing; others just stared.

I wondered if Heleena knew they were barking at both of us. I wondered if she knew about the Dog Log. I couldn't tell by her expression. She was looking down at her feet.

I
n a big city you have to know how to get around. That's why I needed maps of New Orleans. Lots and lots of maps that showed places to eat and places to stay. I printed them from online. The city looked more complicated than I thought, but I would learn. And besides, I wasn't planning on leaving the French Quarter that much. I could play all day, earn money, and find a place to sleep. I would make my own life,
just like George Harrison and all the other great musicians did.

Getting Mr. Z's guitar into the house would be impossible without my mother seeing, so Evan and I made a plan that involved me giving the Yamaha to him and then him delivering it to me through my bedroom window after dark. It's not like guitars are easy to hide. After that I would shove towels under my door or turn the volume on my music up, so that she wouldn't hear me practice.

At ten o'clock that night, I was sitting right next to my window, staring out at the lawn. Even though I'd been in this room almost my entire life, I'd never really sat and looked out the window before. There's something eerie about nighttime, especially when you're looking at it through your window. I heard a dog bark somewhere in the distance, which reminded me of the barking that afternoon at school.

I wondered what nighttime in New Orleans would look like.

Then Evan showed up, my guitar strapped to his back. Pretty soon I could hear his bicycle tires pushing down on the grass and twigs, and there he was, on the other side of my window. He had a big smile on his face; I could tell that he was excited about breaking out in the middle of the night. Well, it was only ten thirty, but it may as well have been the middle of the night.

I slid up the window some more. Evan handed me the guitar.

“Thanks,” I whispered, leaning it against the wall. My heart was beating fast again. Even though I wasn't the one who had broken out of my house, it was kind of exciting knowing that Evan and I were sharing a secret.

“No problem,” he said. He wrapped both hands around the handlebars of his bike. “You deserve it.”

My cheeks got warm, but I wasn't really sure why. It wasn't often that I got embarrassed around Evan.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the list I'd made for him earlier that night.

“What's this?” he whispered. He unfolded it and squinted at the words in the glow of the streetlight.

“Some Cebuano phrases. You know, if you still want to learn them.”

“Cool,” said Evan. He tried to read a few of them aloud, but it was too hard to see the words clearly in the darkness. Then he pulled an envelope out of his back pocket and handed it to me. “I have something for you too.”

The envelope held something small. I couldn't tell what it was.

“Don't open it until I leave,” he said.

“What is it?” I asked.

“You'll see,” he said, smiling. He folded the list of Cebuano words and put it in his pocket. Then he stood up on one pedal. “I'd better go before I get busted.”

“Okay.”

I expected him to take off in a hurry, but he stayed a few seconds longer, holding on to his handlebars
and looking at me like he was waiting for something to happen. Just when I was about to ask if he wanted to tell me something, he smiled and said, “Good night, Apple.”

“It's Analyn,” I whispered, smiling.

“Yeah, right.”

I watched him pedal slowly away. I watched until he disappeared down the dark street. Then I sat on my rug and opened the envelope.

It was a guitar pick. I turned it around in my fingers. It was bright, shiny, and gold.

The first time I plucked the strings, it was louder than I expected, so I wedged the towel under the door even more tightly and moved to the back right corner of my room. I kept the lights off to avoid suspicion.

I didn't know how to play anything, so of course I just picked at the strings and tried out their different sounds. I listened to the sounds the strings made when I held them down on the neck and the sounds
they made when I didn't. I tried as many chords as I could remember from the book and from online.

I got my laptop and watched a video of “Blackbird” for the dozenth time, but it was hard to keep up with the chords. Maybe I needed to be sitting across from Mr. Z.

I thought about the poster of the Beatles on his wall.

I'd bet anything he knew how to play “Blackbird.”

W
hen I met Evan at his locker the next morning, Heleena was already there. It was a strange sight, only because I'd never really seen Heleena talk to anyone at school before. She wasn't really talking now either, because Evan was blabbing endlessly, but she was listening and nodding and even smiling a little. A shy smile.

“Hey, guys,” I said as I walked up. It felt good
to have Heleena there, but I wasn't sure why. Maybe because I knew she needed a friend—and I did too.

“Hola,”
said Evan. He shut his locker.
“Kumusta ka?”

“It's kah-moo-stah-kah, not kah-moostay,” I corrected.

“Kah-moo-stah-kah?”

Heleena raised her eyebrows at us.

“Evan is learning my native language,” I explained. “He asked how I was doing.”

“That's neat,” Heleena said.

“I know a curse word,” Evan added. Then he shook his fists in the air and said,
“Atsara! Atsara!”

“What's it mean?” asked Heleena.

“We don't know,” Evan and I said in unison.

He turned to me. “I was saying how awesome it would be if you learned some Beatles songs on the guitar and Heleena could sing them while you play. Like a duo. And I could be your manager. Maybe I could book you some gigs.” He snapped his fingers.
“You can play at the inaugural meeting of MAYBO.”