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Authors: John Brandon
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wouldâve dropped the class when sheâd dropped music history, because writing song lyrics was no longer in her plans, but she needed nine credits in order to keep her scholarship.
âI donât care for lyrics,â Ceceliaâs mother said. âOr people banging on drums. I like it when you play your guitar.â
âI know you do.â
âWhy donât you play something sugary sweet for me? Play it loud so the birds can hear it.â
âIâll play for you ,â Cecelia said. âI donât perform for pets.â
Cecelia made herself get up and go to her room. She opened her closet and grasped the guitar by the neck. She would turn her brain off and let her fingers strum as sheâd trained them to. Playing a song or two on herguitar was a small chore compared to explaining to her mother why she didnât want to play, explaining about Reggie, explaining about the band being over and the class sheâd dropped and the stunt Nate had pulled at the diner, making a pass at her, and the vigils sheâd been going to where she would sit for hours with cold hands and a stiff neck thinking about fairness and fate, and that her piece of shit car, since Cecelia could now hear the rain finally falling, was going to leak and Cecelia would have to take towels out with her the next time she drove somewhere.
REGGIE
An oversized belt buckle showed up, sitting on the piano, and he recognized it immediately. It had been a gift from his uncle when he was seven years old. Reggie had worn the buckle for months and then finally his uncle had come to visit from Phoenix. Reggieâs uncle didnât have kids. He was laid-back, unlike Reggieâs father with all his rules and his chart that kept track of chores and the little bank heâd given Reggie for the paltry pay he was awarded for the chores. Reggieâs uncle drank beer like he was in a commercial. He had a tan. Reggieâs uncle had cruised into town in a Corvette and parked it prominently in Reggieâs familyâs driveway for the neighbors to gawk at. And Reggie gawked at it too, later, when everyone was inside, his uncle telling a long story about getting lost on a hike. Reggie went outside and looked in the open driver-side window of the low black car, and never had he seen or even imagined such a dashboard. The inside of the Corvette was a cockpit, like something out of Star Wars . There were a hundred controls. The driverâs seat was sunk down among the buttons and levers and displays. Reggie reached in and stroked the leather of the seat and then gripped the steering wheel. An air-freshener in the shape of a nude woman dangled from the rearview and Reggie leaned in the car trying to smell it. He didnât dare open the door. His uncle came out of the house then to get something from the car and Reggie straightened up and took a step back. His uncle approached with that grin and rested his hand on Reggieâs shoulder, but as he went to pull the door openhe stiffened. He stepped away from Reggie and pressed his eyes closed and then pointed to the door so Reggie would look. His grin was long gone. On the door were four or five neat scratches. It took a moment before Reggie realized the scratches were at the height of his belt buckle and understood what had happened. Reggieâs uncle was cursing under his breath. It occurred to Reggie to say he was sorry but he couldnât because heâd never seen his uncle angry before. His uncle thumbed the scratches and shook his head, seeming to forget Reggie was there, and Reggie escaped around the house and sulked in the backyard.
Now Reggie touched the belt buckle but didnât lift it off the polished wood of the piano. The buckle was a skull with wings, the skull smiling deviously. The next time Reggie had seen his uncle, the next big holiday, his uncle hadnât had the Corvette and he didnât seem as tan or carefree. It was easy for Reggie to
âI donât care for lyrics,â Ceceliaâs mother said. âOr people banging on drums. I like it when you play your guitar.â
âI know you do.â
âWhy donât you play something sugary sweet for me? Play it loud so the birds can hear it.â
âIâll play for you ,â Cecelia said. âI donât perform for pets.â
Cecelia made herself get up and go to her room. She opened her closet and grasped the guitar by the neck. She would turn her brain off and let her fingers strum as sheâd trained them to. Playing a song or two on herguitar was a small chore compared to explaining to her mother why she didnât want to play, explaining about Reggie, explaining about the band being over and the class sheâd dropped and the stunt Nate had pulled at the diner, making a pass at her, and the vigils sheâd been going to where she would sit for hours with cold hands and a stiff neck thinking about fairness and fate, and that her piece of shit car, since Cecelia could now hear the rain finally falling, was going to leak and Cecelia would have to take towels out with her the next time she drove somewhere.
REGGIE
An oversized belt buckle showed up, sitting on the piano, and he recognized it immediately. It had been a gift from his uncle when he was seven years old. Reggie had worn the buckle for months and then finally his uncle had come to visit from Phoenix. Reggieâs uncle didnât have kids. He was laid-back, unlike Reggieâs father with all his rules and his chart that kept track of chores and the little bank heâd given Reggie for the paltry pay he was awarded for the chores. Reggieâs uncle drank beer like he was in a commercial. He had a tan. Reggieâs uncle had cruised into town in a Corvette and parked it prominently in Reggieâs familyâs driveway for the neighbors to gawk at. And Reggie gawked at it too, later, when everyone was inside, his uncle telling a long story about getting lost on a hike. Reggie went outside and looked in the open driver-side window of the low black car, and never had he seen or even imagined such a dashboard. The inside of the Corvette was a cockpit, like something out of Star Wars . There were a hundred controls. The driverâs seat was sunk down among the buttons and levers and displays. Reggie reached in and stroked the leather of the seat and then gripped the steering wheel. An air-freshener in the shape of a nude woman dangled from the rearview and Reggie leaned in the car trying to smell it. He didnât dare open the door. His uncle came out of the house then to get something from the car and Reggie straightened up and took a step back. His uncle approached with that grin and rested his hand on Reggieâs shoulder, but as he went to pull the door openhe stiffened. He stepped away from Reggie and pressed his eyes closed and then pointed to the door so Reggie would look. His grin was long gone. On the door were four or five neat scratches. It took a moment before Reggie realized the scratches were at the height of his belt buckle and understood what had happened. Reggieâs uncle was cursing under his breath. It occurred to Reggie to say he was sorry but he couldnât because heâd never seen his uncle angry before. His uncle thumbed the scratches and shook his head, seeming to forget Reggie was there, and Reggie escaped around the house and sulked in the backyard.
Now Reggie touched the belt buckle but didnât lift it off the polished wood of the piano. The buckle was a skull with wings, the skull smiling deviously. The next time Reggie had seen his uncle, the next big holiday, his uncle hadnât had the Corvette and he didnât seem as tan or carefree. It was easy for Reggie to
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