Blackbird Fly (17 page)

“What's MAYBO?” asked Heleena.

“It's the new school club I'm starting.”

Heleena looked terrified. “I don't think I could sing in front of a group.”

“That's okay, because I'm the only member,” said Evan.

“It doesn't matter anyway, because I don't know how to play anything yet,” I said. “I watched some videos last night, but I'm having trouble with ‘Blackbird' because I've got to play a D and then have my middle finger on the G and then my ring finger on the B fret and open with a—”

Evan put up his hand. “My head just exploded.”

Heleena said she needed to go to her locker before homeroom, so we followed her. I tried not to think about who we might find lurking around it.

“You may not be able to play it yet, but you will,” said Evan, turning to me. Quietly he asked, “Did you open the envelope?”

“Yes.” I showed him my fingertips. My index finger and thumb were both red and raw.

Evan beamed.

I smelled Gretchen's shampoo before I heard Alyssa's voice. “He told me that I was in the discussion, and if there were a list of the top fifteen, I definitely would've been on there.”

“I think it's all stupid,” said Gretchen.

“Easy for you to say, big number one!” said Alyssa, smiling as she playfully swatted Gretchen's arm.

When we reached Heleena's locker, Gretchen glanced at us over Alyssa's shoulder. Alyssa turned around.

“Wow, it's some kind of Dog Log convention at Big-leena's locker, I see,” she said.

“Whatever,” I said.

Alyssa looked at me. “Gretchen is number one on the Hot Lot. That's something, huh?”

I shrugged and shifted my eyes to Gretchen. “Yeah, I guess. Congratulations?”

“Those lists don't mean anything,” said Gretchen. She wasn't smiling.

“All the boys were whistling at her yesterday after school,” said Alyssa. She giggled. “It was so embarrassing, because I was walking right there with her and they
wouldn't stop
.”

“How mature,” said Evan.

Alyssa crossed her arms. “The girls need to make a list for the guys so I can put
you
on the Dog Log.”

Evan bit his fingernails, pretending to be scared. “No, no, not the Dog Log! How will I survive?”

I caught Heleena smiling again.

“Freak,” said Alyssa.

“I've got you on a list, Evil Dorothy. You wanna know what it is?”

Alyssa sighed as if she couldn't be bothered with the conversation any longer, especially since it'd backfired on her. “Let's go, Gretchen,” she said, grabbing Gretchen's arm. “Bye-bye, doggies.”

Heleena opened her locker and grabbed some books.

“Don't worry about them,” Evan said. “Their brains aren't fully developed.”

“I'm used to it,” said Heleena. She glanced at me and looked away. “It's okay.”

And then I realized: She was used to it from me too. I had been on the other side of the locker. Part of that group. I'd never said anything directly to her, but I was there and walked alongside Alyssa and listened to her gossip and laughed at the things she said. I wasn't mean like Alyssa, but I'd stood there silently.

In some ways, maybe that's worse.

It had taken me fifteen minutes to sneak out of the house that morning with the guitar. I had ridden my bike to school so my mom wouldn't see it, which is something I hadn't done since last year when Alyssa told me my bike was “fantastically crappy.” Wearing the Yamaha on my back meant I couldn't carry a
backpack, so I had to carry my books in the crook of my arm. It made my arms tired, but it was worth it.

When we got to the band room, Mr. Z was sitting in one of the orchestra chairs, reading.

“Hello, Mr. Temple, Miss Moffett, and Miss Yengko!” he said cheerfully. He closed his book. “Are you all here for lessons?” A guitar was on the seat next to him. He picked it up.

“No. Just Apple,” said Evan.

“We're only here for moral support,” added Heleena.

“Ah, like an entourage.” He moved a chair to face him. The legs screeched against the floor. He told me to sit, so I did. “So tell me, Apple. Is there any particular kind of music you like, or—”

“The Beatles,” the three of us said in unison.

“Great. The Beatles. Perfect place to start. We can start with a few simple chords and then we can—”

“I want to play ‘Blackbird,'” I said. “And ‘Here Comes the Sun.'”

“Oh. Well, you should probably learn a few simple chords first. Within the next few months, you'll probably be able to play some Beatles. Depending on how everything goes.”

“But—” I glanced at Evan. “Is it possible to learn just the songs on their own, so it doesn't take a few months?” Quickly I added, “I'm just really excited.”

Mr. Z frowned. “Playing the guitar takes a lot of patience. You have to be sure you're serious before you commit.”

“She's serious,” said Evan.

Heleena nodded.

“Besides, Mr. Z,” Evan continued, “we're ready to start our band.” He motioned among the three of us and turned to Heleena. “Do you think you could sing ‘Blackbird' and ‘Here Comes the Sun' if Apple learned how to play them?”

She shrugged. “I've never heard them before.”

“Heleena can sing anything,” said Mr. Z. “But learning a musical instrument is—”

“Apple can do it,” Heleena said.

Mr. Z pressed his lips together and looked at me. “We can try, Apple, but keep in mind, it takes most people months just to figure out the chords, and then it takes years to really master playing songs. You're supposed to start off small, and learn how to fingerpick, before you try to take on titans like the Beatles. We can just go in like gangbusters if you want, but if it doesn't work out, you have to trust me and listen. Deal?”

“Deal,” I said.

“We're leaving,” said Heleena to Evan. “Lessons are better when you don't have any distractions.” She tugged Evan's sleeve.

When they were gone, Mr. Z positioned his guitar. I did too.

“All right then,” he said. “Let's play.”

In fourth grade, I knew a girl named Laurel Griffin. Laurel was kind of like Lita's daughter Olivia—she
made straight As, always knew the answers in class, never got sent to the office, that kind of thing. To make matters worse, Laurel played concert violin. She started playing violin at the age of three. She didn't even have to learn the chords; she just picked up the violin and played a concerto. The reason I know all this is because Laurel told everyone at least twice a day. She would say things like: “Jack Hamilton may have won the spelling bee, but I'm a child prodigy!” or “My parents say I should have my hands insured, because I'm a child prodigy in concert violin, and if anything happens to my fingers, it will be a tragedy.”

The funny thing is, Laurel wasn't known for being a child prodigy. Instead she was known for being a bragger.

One afternoon at recess, instead of running off straight to the slide or the jungle gym, she'd stretched, yawned, and plopped down on the grass.

“I'm so tired,” she'd said, even though no one had
asked. She'd said it loudly so we could hear. “I was up all night practicing for my upcoming concert. Dad says it's not really practicing, since I play perfectly every time, but he still makes me play it over and over. He's simply impossible.” That was one of her favorite phrases. “Anyway, I'm so tired. . . .”

Laurel Griffin annoyed everyone so much that she had no friends, and she annoyed me to the point that I promised myself I would never become a bragger. Then again, I never had anything to brag about.

Not until my lesson with Mr. Z.

Ten minutes into it, he narrowed his eyes and said, “Are you sure you've never played?”

“Last night was the first time I picked up a guitar.”

“Then how do you know all the chords?”

“Well, I don't know
all
of them. Just some of them.”

“Most of them.”

“Okay,” I said, smiling. “Most of them, I guess.”

“So how do you know them?”

I stretched my right hand. Playing the guitar can give you hand and finger cramps.

“I read about them,” I said. “And I watched some videos. Before I ever got the guitar.” I looked down at the borrowed Yamaha.

He shook his head. “I've never seen anyone learn a musical instrument that way. I've never heard of anyone just being able to pick up a guitar and play it. Except maybe Jimi Hendrix.” He tilted his head. “Your father isn't Jimi Hendrix, is he?”

“Not unless Jimi Hendrix lived in the Philippines and played
Abbey Road
on an old tape player.”

Mr. Z laughed, then said, “Let's try something.” He patted his guitar. “I'll play a song.” He pointed at me. “You watch me and listen. Then we'll see if you can play it back.”

“Can you play ‘Blackbird'?”

He nodded.

“Okay,” I said. I fixed my eyes on his hands.

“Ready?”

I nodded without moving my eyes.

I watched him play, and even though I was concentrating really hard, I could still hear the song in my head. I'd listened to it so many times, it was a part of me. That's how it goes with favorite songs sometimes.

When he finished, I sat up straight and got myself ready.

“Do you think you can play it?” he asked. “Just from that?”

I pressed my lips together. “Yes. I think so.”

And I did.

Twice.

I
carried Mr. Z's guitar everywhere.

In homeroom, the week before our field trip, Claire Hathaway asked if she could hold it. She strummed a few strings.

“This is cool,” she said.

Braden snickered. “She probably lifted it from Mr. Z,” he said. But either no one heard or no one paid attention.

When Danica saw Claire playing the guitar, she asked if she could try it too.

“Do you really know how to play this?” she asked.

I strummed the opening bars of “Blackbird.” Then Danica and Claire both tried, but it sounded like a bunch of jumbled chords.

“It's harder than it looks,” said Danica.

But it hadn't been. Not for me.

Even Mr. Ted had something to say when he came in and saw the three of us gathered around the guitar.

“Well, well, it looks like there is a musician in our midst,” he said. “Perhaps one morning you could regale us in song!”

Claire, Danica, and I exchanged grins and giggled. Mr. Ted laughed.

After second period I met Evan and Heleena at Heleena's locker. I had my guitar on my back, and I didn't care if Alyssa was there or not. Turns out she wasn't. It was just Gretchen, shoving books
into her neatly organized locker by herself.

“Hey, Apple,” she said quietly.

I thought about ignoring her, but I didn't.

“Hey, Gretchen,” I said, turning to Evan when he nudged me.

“I wonder if they'll let you take the guitar on the field trip,” he said.

I'd been wondering that same thing for days and days. I needed it—or at least I needed to raise the money to buy my own. Time was running out.

Heleena reached into her locker and pulled out a Ziploc bag full of coins. She handed it to me.

“For the Apple Yengko Fender Starcaster Donation Fund,” she said.

“Wow,” I said. The bag was heavy with quarters, dimes, nickels, and pennies.

“I had a bunch of loose change, and I wasn't using it for anything, so I figured . . .”

Evan nudged me and smiled.

“This is great, Heleena,” I said. I reached over
and hugged her. “Pretty soon I'll be able to give Mr. Z his Yamaha back and get a guitar of my own.”

The three of us walked together to our next class, but it almost felt like there were four of us now, with the Yamaha. No one else at school carried a guitar. It was starting to feel like an extension of my body. I couldn't wait until I got one of my own. I wondered what I would name it. Musicians always name their guitars.

The next time I saw Gretchen, she was alone again. I knew Alyssa wasn't out sick, because I'd already seen her walking with Claire Hathaway. I wondered if Alyssa and Gretchen were in some kind of argument. I figured I would never find out, but just before my lesson with Mr. Z, I went into the bathroom outside the band room and there was Gretchen, standing in the corner with her back against the wall. Her eyes were red and puffy, and she was holding a wad of
toilet paper. She looked surprised to see me, and I couldn't blame her—hardly anyone ever used this girls' bathroom unless the band was practicing. It looked forgotten too. Some of the stalls were missing doors, and one of the mirrors was cracked.

“Um . . . hey,” I said.