She says, “That was beautiful.”
Tripp looks at Lyla and starts to cry. Then he looks back up at his mom. “She has to wake up,” he says.
She nods through her tears.
The door opens, and Lyla’s dad walks in, speechless.
“I’m sorry.” Tripp wipes his face quickly. He fumbles to put his guitar back in the case and then he stops and slips his pick under Lyla’s hand. He looks at her one more time. Then he grabs his case and walks out, his head buzzing, his feet unable to feel the floor.
Just as the elevator door is opening, his mother arrives behind him. She doesn’t say a word, but she puts her arm around his shoulders and she holds him against her side.
After the small thump signals their arrival at the lobby and while they’re waiting for the elevator doors to open, the words spill out. “None of it was ugly, Mom.”
Her words come back quickly. “I can see that.”
The doors open and she reaches into her pocket and takes out a tissue, which she hands to him, and then she picks up his guitar case. “Don’t worry. I’m just carrying it to the car, not stealing it.” She laughs as she wipes away her own tears and steps out.
Still in the elevator, he laughs and then he thinks of Lyla and starts to cry again, and his mom dives back in, stopping the doors with the guitar, to hug him.
HOSPITAL; 6:36 P.M.
“Lyla?” Her dad’s voice is a whisper.
He pulls the chair close to her bed, and when he tries to hold her hand, he finds the red guitar pick that Tripp has left. One word is written on it in permanent marker: Thrum.
He puts the pick back in her hand and folds her fingers over it. Then he gently puts an earbud in each of her ears and pushes the play button on the recorder.
The sound of the guitar comes first and then Tripp’s voice.
The sun was tied up in clouds
And the moon wrung out of its songs.
Up on Twelfth Street the trees were just trees
Holding nothing but leaves in their arms.
All my days were locked in a closet with the
Rags and the brooms and the mops,
Nothing to feel but the feel of nothing
Slipping through keyholes and locks.
But you know what I need,
You strum against my strings
And make me sing,
Sing lucky, lucky me,
Sing lucky, lucky me.
The music rides on a wave into her.
You were telling your little white lie,
Making everybody happy, crying inside,
Staying so long with what they chose,
You almost missed what you needed most.
All your days were stuck in a rhythm
That you couldn’t change or stop,
Nothing to say ’cause your words and emotions
Were twisted and chained in a knot.
But I know what you need,
I strum against your strings
And make you sing,
Sing lucky, lucky me,
Sing lucky, lucky me.
The sound travels through her and strikes against the strings of her soul. Deep inside, she begins to feel the vibration. It has rippled all the way to the bottom of the lake through the dark green water.
She sees the boat, far above her, on the surface. Tripp is playing the guitar. They are singing. The day is beautiful.
She tries to rise toward the boat, but the weight of the water is too heavy. And then she hears his voice.…
We can’t let this pass us by,
Can’t let it go without a fight.
We are who we’re meant to be,
Singing lucky, lucky me.
TRIPP’S ROOM; 11:31 P.M.
Tripp is lying in his bed, unable to sleep, when his phone buzzes. He answers.
“Is this Tripp? This is Lyla’s dad.”
Tripp sits up. “Yeah, it’s me.”
“Sorry for calling so late, but …” Tripp hears Mr. Marks choke back tears, and he feels as if his heart has stopped beating. “She … she squeezed my hand.” Tripp hears his happy laugh break through. “It’s a really good sign. It’s what we’ve been waiting for, Tripp.”
A chill runs up Tripp’s spine.
“I’ll call you tomorrow and give you a progress report.”
“Thanks,” Tripp says.
There is a moment of silence on the other end and then Mr. Marks says, “I think it was the music, Tripp. Your music.”
The tears stream down Tripp’s face and he breaks into a smile. When the call is over, he gets out of bed and knocks on his mom’s door.
“Tripp? What is it?”
He opens it, and she sits up in bed and switches on her light.
He looks at her, happy that she is here, in her plain nightgown and her messed-up hair with that worried look on her face, to witness what he is about to say.
“Lyla’s dad called.” He smiles. “She squeezed his hand.”
DECEMBER–MARCH
To:
[email protected] From:
[email protected] Date: 12-1
Re: Tripp Broody
Dear Mr. Gillias,
My son and I have discussed it and have decided that it is best for him to remain in his current school. We enjoyed meeting the Crenshaw staff and thank you for your time.
M+H METRO HEALTHCARE, LLC.
To: Franklin Marks
From: Husna Ahuja, M.D.
Dear Mr. Marks,
Great news. Results from the neurological tests came back yesterday. No residual problems with brain or motor functioning. Everything looks normal. Report from Point Orthopedics indicates that Lyla responded well to physical therapy and the follow-up x-ray of the femur was also normal. She should be able to participate fully in school and continue with extracurricular activities. We’d like to see her for a follow-up in two weeks.
A note from Annie …
Hey Lyla,
I’m glad we talked it all out, too. I decided to say yes to Coles after all. I’m excited & scared. I’ll probably hate it, but I agree with my mom that it’s too important to not try.
I found out that Bethany, that girl we met at camp last year, is going so I’ll at least know one other person. I’ll miss you & everybody at Rockland, except for a few people & teachers. Ha ha. BTW I listened to your songs on your website, & I thought they were amazing. Really.
Love, Annie
February 16
Lyla, I was just listening to our recording of Lucky Me. You should add cello! I could hear it in my head and it sounded so cool.
House of Musical Traditions
Date: 03/10 Time: 4:07
Staff: Molly Trans: 4628823
***COPY***
Luna Acoustic Guitar $399.00
SUBTOTAL 399.00
SALES TAX 24.94
TOTAL 423.94
THANK YOU FOR SHOPPING WITH US!
MARCH 28. SATURDAY.
TRIPP’S ROOM; 10:01 A.M.
… SUNNY AND WARM. HIGHS AROUND 50. SOUTHWEST WINDS FIVE TO TEN MILES PER HOUR. 97.3 FM WEATHER. STAY TUNED TO THIRTY MINUTES OF UNINTERRUPTED MUSIC BROUGHT TO YOU BY …
The sound of the radio drills into Tripp Broody’s ears, and his eyelids open. His right hand reaches up and swats off the clock’s alarm button. Why is his alarm on? It’s Saturday. After three slow blinks, he notices the note stuck between the strings of his guitar, which is in the stand by his bed.
Dear Tripp,
Before I went to work this morning, Lyla’s dad called asking if he and Lyla could swing by and pick you up at 10:30. So I set your alarm. I’ll let them explain what it’s about. It’s fine with me if you want to do it. Have a great day, and tell me all about it when I come home.
Love, Mom
Tripp lifts up the shade of his window. The sky is cloudless; the trees are all green with new leaves. His phone buzzes. A message from Lyla.
Lyla/are you up?
&nb
sp; Tripp/yeah. what’s going on?
Lyla/not telling. we’ll be there soon. bye.
He pulls on jeans and a shirt and eats a quick breakfast. After a few minutes, there is a knock on the door, and Tripp runs to answer it.
Lyla is standing on his steps in her red coat, with her black beret over her short hair, a guitar case in her hand.
“Hello, Mr. Odd,” she says, smiling.
“Hello, Ms. Even,” he says.
“Get your guitar because …” She grins.
“What?”
“We have a gig today,” she says.
“We do?”
She pulls a piece of paper from her pocket and hands it to him.
Washington Metropolitan Transit Authority
Musicians in the Metro Permit
Granted to Tripp Broody and Lyla Marks
Behind her, waiting, is her dad in his car.
“Are you in?” she asks.
He smiles. “Indeed.”
When they arrive at the station, Tripp and Lyla show their permit to the Metro attendant and set up on the platform. People are streaming off the train and through the Metro turnstile: business types in suits, shoppers with bags, everybody in a hurry.
Even though they have a permit, they still feel self-conscious in the bustling, focused atmosphere. People are here to get on and off trains, not to hear music. But Tripp and Lyla tune up and look at each other for encouragement, and when they start to play, the chords rise and echo off the curved walls with such a bright, huge sound, there is no turning back.
They begin to sing. Tripp relaxes into the sound and lets his voice pour out. Lyla feels his confidence and sings out, too.
A woman pulling a wheeled suitcase steps off the train, and when she hears the music, she stops and listens. The trains whoosh by. A man carrying a small boy stops. He sets down his son and listens with him, nodding his head. The boy bends his knees up and down to the beat, and the dad grins.
Tripp and Lyla sing, and their song rides on a wave in all directions: it fills the station, and enters into the ears of all the people getting off the trains, and rises up the long escalators, and flows out into the March air.
And they are thrumming.
THE THRUM SOCIETY SONGBOOK
Words and Music by
Tripp Broody and Lyla Marks
WWW.THRUMSOCIETY.COM
A Little Room to Play
VERSE
CHORUS
VERSE
REPEAT CHORUS
BRIDGE
VERSE
END CHORUS
Mr. Odd
VERSE
CHORUS
VERSE
REPEAT CHORUS
Tell-Tale Heart
VERSE
CHORUS
VERSE
REPEAT CHORUS
BRIDGE
REPEAT CHORUS
Guilty
VERSE
CHORUS
VERSE
REPEAT CHORUS
The Pomegranate Waltz
VERSE
CHORUS
VERSE
REPEAT CHORUS
VERSE
CHORUS (repeat last line and end on C)
Waiting in a Tree
VERSE
CHORUS
VERSE
REPEAT CHORUS
REPEAT CHORUS
Get Away
VERSE
PRE-CHORUS
CHORUS
VERSE
REPEAT PRE-CHORUS
REPEAT CHORUS
BRIDGE
REPEAT CHORUS TWICE IN NEW KEY
Lucky Me
VERSE
CHORUS
VERSE
CHORUS
BRIDGE
REPEAT TO END
Acknowledgments
My thanks, first and foremost, go to my editor Regina Griffin for believing in my characters even before they were fully formed. For helpful comments on early drafts, thanks to Karen Giacopuzzi, Lucia Lostumbo, Molly, Michael, and Cissie Williams, my nephew Brian, and my family Max, Simon, and Ivan. Two great books and one awesome CD inspired me along the way: Zen Guitar (Simon & Schuster, 1997) by Philip Toshio Sudo; From Where You Dream: The Process of Writing Fiction (Grove Press, 2005) by Robert Olen Butler and Janet Burroway; and Art of Motion (CandyRat Records, 2005) by Andy McKee. I am grateful to musicians Dede Wyland, Suzanne Brindamour, and Mark Sylvester for feedback on the songs in the book and to Cletus Kennelly at the Urban Garden Recording Studio for making the recording process a joy. A shout-out to Crazy Dave for allowing Lyla to buy her Luna guitar at House of Musical Traditions and my admiration to Yvonne at Luna Guitars for creating such inspiring instruments. Thanks also to Jillian Van Ells, who encouraged me to test-drive the songs, and to the girls at Holton-Arms School and the boys at Landon for being such enthusiastic audiences. Finally, a special thanks to Bill Williams for jumping in to collaborate on Tripp and Lyla’s music with such a fun and fearless attitude. Lucky, lucky me.
Mary Amato, Guitar Notes
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