“Right on,” I said, unsure what that had to do with anything.
“Since I can’t do much else, I spend most of my time playing guitar, recording shit to send her. Weekends me and my friends get together to jam down in the basement though. Thank God for that, or I’d totally be losing my mind.”
“I bet,” I said, looking at his guitars again. Part of me wished he’d ask me to jam with his friends. Another part was relieved when he didn’t. “Adiós, Shakira. Hope that leg heals soon,” I said, heading toward the door. I could hear Grub outside, shooting his bazooka.
“Amen, Jesucristo,” said Dylan, crossing himself like Señora always did.
I scooped up Grub from the front yard, and we headed back to the café.
FIVE
BY THE TIME GRUB AND I GOT HOME, MY LEGS FELT LIKE RUBBER. MAKING deliveries by car would have made a lot more sense, but Mom’s boxy red, stick-shift 1992 Ford Festiva had over a quarter-million miles on it, and gas money was tight. So, the Lego—as we’d somewhat affectionately nicknamed it—was only sanctioned for top-priority excursions.
Besides, I drove stick shift about as well as I could pat my head and rub my stomach at the same time. Which was to say, I was crap at it.
I carried my bike up the five steps to the front door. Grub covered me, watching the street as I unlocked the door and let us in. Mom was still at the café, finishing up some paperwork and cleaning.
Grub ran to his room.
“Hungry?” I called to him.
“Yeah!”
“Cheese bread or mac-n-cheese?”
“Mac-n-cheese!” he answered.
Interesting fact about Grub: he only ate foods that were white or yellow.
Or whitish.
Or yellowish.
That may sound limiting, but he found plenty to eat. Popcorn, corn on the cob—anything with corn, really—bananas, french fries, cereal, and cheese were the main staples of his diet. “He’ll grow out of it,” Mom always said.
I had my doubts.
That was one cool thing about my mom though—despite paving the vegetarian road to healthiness, she basically let us eat what we wanted.
After boiling up two boxes of mac-n-cheese, I plopped down on our fake leather couch in the living room, which doubled as my mom’s bed. The apartment only had two small bedrooms, and she’d let Grub and me have them. In Chicago, I’d always had the basement bedroom, where I could blast my music as loud as I wanted and my friends and I could stay up late without bothering anyone. Now we could hear one another’s slightest movements through the thin walls. But I tried not to complain. I knew Mom had sacrificed a bedroom of her own to make the move easier on me and Grub. Me especially.
I picked up my guitar and strummed a few chords. It felt like a toy compared to the ones hanging on Dylan Rafferty’s wall. For the past year I’d been wanting to get a black Fender Telecaster, like Joe Strummer’s, the guitarist from the Clash. That hadn’t happened, obviously. But three weeks before we moved from Chicago, Mom had walked in with an acoustic guitar she’d purchased at a garage sale. While it didn’t compare to anything in Joe Strummer’s—or even Dylan’s—collection, it was pretty badass of her to get it for me. Mom knew I’d been wanting to learn guitar ever since I’d discovered Combat Rock in eighth grade.
I still dreamed of buying the Telecaster, but considering the way my delivery career was going, it didn’t look like it would ever happen. I’d made a grand total of eight dollars and fifty cents in tips that day. At that rate, I could hardly afford to buy new strings for the guitar I already had.
I looked down at the sad piece of equipment. The old strings made my fingers smell like rust, and the few dead, pinchy noises I managed to squeeze from it were poor excuses for music, but still better than they used to be.
When I first got the guitar, I didn’t know a single thing about it. For instance, no one warned me that pressing down on the metal strings hurt like hell. But after a couple days, calluses started forming on my fingertips. Then after a few more weeks of watching videos online, I learned three important skills: (1) how to tune it; (2) how to form a couple chords; and (3) the fastest way to retrieve your pick after it fell into the sound hole.
Three months later, I could play a halfway decent rendition of “I Wanna Be Sedated” by the Ramones. I’d read somewhere if I learned the G, C, D, and E minor chords I’d be able to play one thousand songs. Only nine hundred ninety-nine to go!
Just as I realized that a C chord could slide up two frets into a D chord, Grub came bounding around the corner and plopped next to me on the couch. He opened a cardboard box and began assembling Battleship pieces.
“Grub, not right now.”
“One game,” he pleaded, his brown eyes looking huge in his small head. Both Mom and I had trouble saying no to him, not necessarily because he was so tiny, but mostly because he was such a good egg, rarely complaining or asking for much.
I sighed. “One game.” I set my guitar down, then placed my destroyer, submarine, cruiser, carrier, and battleship on the board. “All right, you go first.”
“B-2,” said Grub.
“Hit. So, fun time making deliveries today? A-9.”
“Miss. Yeah! I finally made a new friend. C-2.”
“Hit. You mean the old guy? F-7.”
“Miss. Sergeant Porter. He played army with me. The kids at my new school never played with me. D-2.”
“Hit. They just don’t know you yet. Give it some time. A-1.”
“Miss. I don’t think the kids here like the same things I do. E-2.”
“Hit. What, no World War II buffs in second grade? G-10.”
“Miss. No, they just talk about Pokémon and iPads and stuff. F-2.”
“Maybe third grade will be better. Hey, you sunk my battleship!”
“I know, you always put it in the same place.”
As we continued to play, I snuck peeks at my brother with equal parts affection and concern. Grub had handled the move to Buffalo Falls like a good soldier, dutiful and uncomplaining as always, but I knew Mom worried about him —and I did, too. The move had been hard enough for me and I was twice his age and relatively normal.
Both Grub and I had known our Chicago friends since we were in diapers. We’d never had to make friends; they were just always there, the neighborhood gang. We’d all roam from yard to yard, everyone’s parents looking out after everyone’s kids. When you grow up with people like that, maybe you accept them the way they are because you don’t know anything different.
Grub was a fixture in our neighborhood, army helmet and all, and everyone loved him. He was just Grub to them. But here in Buffalo Falls, he was just . . . weird.
We finished the game without any more talk of Chicago or friends, sticking to easier topics like naval warfare. Grub won handily, of course, picking off my fleet like a German U-boat, then retreated to his room.
I was putting away the game when Mom burst through the door, dropped her purse, and hurtled off to the kitchen. “I’ve been thinking about it, and you’re right, Zeus,” she called. “We’ll go ahead with the free brownie and soup tomorrow. We had another 5-Day Deal cancellation.” From the kitchen I heard the THOOP! of a wine bottle opening, followed by a trickle.
“Really?” I was shocked she was using my idea. “That’s awesome!” That meant going back to Hilltop Nursing Home tomorrow. Never in my life would I have considered that prospect exciting before now.
But this was different.
Rose would be there.
Rose.
Something about her felt . . . important. Special. Something.
Maybe it was the way she played piano. Or the way she looked. Or the way she looked at me. Whatever it was, I couldn’t get her out of my head.
I picked up my guitar and strummed a few chords as I thought back to our encounter. When I told her I’d be back again tomorrow, she’d given me the thumbs-up. That was a good thing, right?
Or was it a sarcastic thumbs-up? W
hat if she was just mocking me? She and her quarterback boyfriend were probably having a good laugh about it that very moment as they made out in the back of his Jeep Wrangler. That guy that threw his Slurpee at me? That was definitely him. Rose’s boyfriend.
I pictured his hand sliding under her yellow sundress and felt like I might be sick.
I started scolding myself. Stop it, Zeus. Why are you obsessing over her? God, you haven’t even talked to her; why are you so worked up? Okay, so she’s hot and she’s awesome at piano. But you’ve talked to girls before; it’s not like they’re some foreign creatures. Chill.
“How’s the guitar coming along?”
Mom appeared before me out of thin air, snapping me out of my neurotic daydream. “I suck.”
“Language, son. Let me ask again—how’s the guitar coming along?”
I sighed. “I’m grossly underdeveloped in my musical competence, but I’m showing slight signs of improvement.”
“There, see how much better that feels?”
It didn’t feel better, but it didn’t feel worse either. “I ran into two kids my age today who are somehow both incredible musicians. How is that possible in this backwater?”
“Maybe this backwater’s good for creativity.”
“Or maybe there’s nothing to do here but practice.”
Mom joined me on the couch. “So tell me more about your new friends.”
“I wouldn’t call them friends. More like customers. The guy was in my Spanish class and plays guitar. The girl plays piano at the nursing home. And I’m sure they both have a ton of friends already.”
“And I’m sure they’ve got room for one more.” Mom gently slapped my leg. “Especially one as delightful as you.”
“Yeah, right,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Everyone around here has been friends since kindergarten. They’re not interested in making new ones.”
“Oh, nonsense.” She faced me and tucked one leg beneath her, a knowing grin on her face. “So tell me more about the girl.”
My face immediately turned the color of her wine. “What about her?”
“You like her, do you not?” she asked, eyeing me from behind her glass. “I’m your mother, remember? I know when my son’s hormones are raging.”
“Mo-om,” I said, drawing out the word into two syllables, the universal shorthand for “If you don’t stop talking, I will cut off my ears with a steak knife.”
She rolled her eyes at me this time. “Okay, okay. No need to get cranky. You certainly won’t make new friends that way.”
And then all of sudden I was cranky. “Seriously, do you have any idea how humiliating it is to ride around on a woman’s bike, with your crazy little brother clinging to your back shouting army crap the whole time? Do you really think I’m going to make new friends that way? Some guy even threw his drink at us earlier.”
Mom winced. “I know it hasn’t been easy, but—”
“Not to mention I can’t even text my Chicago friends now. They probably think I’m dead.”
“But you said you made some new friends today.”
“Are you even listening?”
Mom set her glass down and put a hand on my leg. “Zeus, I’m sorry about your phone, but we all have to make sacrifices sometimes.”
“How many do I have to make?” I asked, my voice rising. “You moved us to the armpit of America where I have no friends and nothing to do. I ride a dumb bike, work for nothing but tip money, and keep Grub entertained for you. And now you take my phone? Why can’t you just buy a new one?”
Mom blinked and looked away, then got up and walked to the door where she’d dropped her purse when she came in. She pulled out the phone and handed it to me. “I’ll need it back in the morning,” she said, still not looking at me. “I don’t have money for a new one right now, Zeus.” I could tell she was trying not to cry.
“Mom,” I said, but she was already walking to the kitchen.
That night as I lay in bed, I listened to “Kiss Off” by Violent Femmes on full volume through my earbuds. I need someone, a person to talk to. Someone who’d care to love. Could it be you? Tomorrow I’d try to figure out the chords on my guitar, but right then all I wanted to do was feel the music inside me like a wave.
It was angry.
It was frustrated.
It was lonely.
As I drifted off to sleep, I wondered what Rose would think of it.
SIX
THE NEXT DAY I SPED THROUGH MY DELIVERIES IN RECORD TIME. IT WAS nearing two thirty, so I hoped Rose would still be at Hilltop playing piano. I careened down the sidewalk while Grub held tight. We had returned with the tomato bisque and brownie, hoping to win back Missy Stouffer’s business. Well, that plus an additional objective, which is why I’d packed an extra brownie.
“At attention, soldier!” Sergeant Porter shouted as we approached. The same nurse from yesterday stood behind him, pushing him through the nursing home grounds.
“Sergeant Porter!” said Grub, jumping off the bike pegs and running toward the old man.
“I’ll need a debriefing on any new intel you’ve gathered by fifteen hundred hours.”
“Sir, yes, sir!”
“As you were.”
What may have been a smile quivered across the old man’s face; it was hard to tell. His advanced age had given him a permanent scowl.
Grub unstrapped his Nerf bazooka and took up position behind some shrubbery near Sergeant Porter, who nodded at him in approval. Every now and then Grub would make a run for another bush at the old man’s command.
The nurse and I stood in silence for a moment, watching the unlikely pair guard Hilltop from imaginary foes.
I finally cleared my throat and turned to her. She had the same dark features and coppery skin as Rose, only the nurse was a little shorter and plumper. Her eyes looked tired, but her face was kind. “Ma’am, I hope you don’t mind my brother. He’s a little different.”
She held up a hand. “Don’t even think of it. He’s the first person Blackjack has connected to in weeks,” she said, glancing at her charge. I followed her gaze.
The man saw us looking at him and yelled. “Why don’t you bunk lizards stop yapping and give us a hand!”
“Blackjack, kumalma ka,” she called.
“Ako ay kalmado,” Blackjack muttered loudly.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“I told him to relax, and he told me he is relaxed. I grew up in the Philippines, where he was stationed during the war, so we share a few phrases. It’s amazing, really. He has almost perfect retention of the Tagalog words he learned seventy-some years ago. And then some days he forgets who I am.”
“Alzheimer’s?”
She nodded.
“Is it bad?”
She smiled and gave a slight shrug. “He has good days and bad days. But he recognized your little brother right away, which is great.”
I thought back to Grandma and shivered, even though the day was hot. She’d had Alzheimer’s and I’d hated it, watching her become someone I didn’t recognize—someone who didn’t recognize me. I’d missed her before she was even dead, mourning the person she used to be, the Grandma who always knew how to make everyone feel loved and special.
“What’s your brother’s name?” the nurse asked, breaking through the memory.
“Manuel, but my mom calls him Manny. I call him Grub.”
“And what does he call himself?”
“Private Grub,” I said, raising my eyebrows.
She laughed, and I noticed she had the same smile as Rose. “Of course.” She waved at Grub and gave him a salute, then turned back to me. “I’m Mary Santos. That’s Sergeant John Porter, but everyone calls him Blackjack.”
“Nice to meet you, Mary. I’m Zeus.”
“Nice to meet you, Zeus. Making another delivery?” she asked, nodding to the cooler in the bike basket.
“Sort of. I guess the director didn’t like the salad yesterday, so it’s more of a compl
imentary kind of thing.”
“I see. Well, I believe Ms. Stouffer is in the common room with some of the residents, if you want to head in.”
“Great— Uh, will there be music today?”
“Every weekday from one to three,” she said with the same knowing look my own mom had given me last night.
I shifted uncomfortably until Blackjack saved me.
“Get me out of this jungle, I’m sweating my balls off!” he bellowed.
“Panoorin ang iyong wika!” Mary scolded, going over to retrieve him.
I didn’t know what that meant, but I imagined it had to do with him talking about his balls. I followed them back to the arched entryway, and much like the day before, Grub crawled, rolled, and dove ahead of us. As we entered the building, a wave of Lysol hit my nose again.
That was going to take some getting used to.
The same woman sat behind the reception desk, but she must have recognized us from the day before because she waved us in and returned to what she was doing. As we continued down the hall, I could hear the piano. My heart skipped a beat and I felt a quick rush of adrenaline. As we got closer, I noticed the music had a much different tone compared to the Tom Jones dance party yesterday. It was nostalgic and sad and hopeful all at the same time.
When the end of the hallway opened into the common area, I saw the mood of the music had permeated the room like a haze. No one danced, no one sang. Hell, no one even stood, except for Missy Stouffer, who walked around writing on a clipboard. Everyone else had been hypnotized by the piano’s soaring, wistful notes, lifting them far away from Hilltop Nursing Home. I looked over to Rose at the piano, expecting her to wink, or smile, or somehow make me blush, but she looked straight down at the keys, fully immersed in the music. It was beautiful.
She was beautiful.
I could have stood there and listened to Rose play all day, but Missy spotted me like a hawk on a field mouse. It took her a moment, but when she recognized me, she held her hands out and shook her head quickly, her body language saying, “What do you want? Can’t you see I’m busy?” I held up the box containing the soup and brownie. She repeated the same motion as before, even more exaggerated this time.