Page 34 of Just Between Us

Cassie narrows her eyes, nostrils flared and she turns a murderous glare on Josie. “Find your own perfect face. This one’s mine.”

I hear a clap and Penny’s voice, again from off the screen. “Okay, you two, it’s bedtime. Tell Liam good night and we’re done.”

“Good night, Liam! Quit hogging our girl!” Josie shouts, shooting me finger guns.

“Night, Liam,” Cassie says, quieter, and waves at the screen.

The call ends and I’m left staring at my lock screen, a grin on my face I haven’t earned. Because here’s the thing about nights like tonight. The best and the worst parts happened within an hour of each other. Ryan cracking open a door that’s better bolted shut, and Cassie’s face on a phone screen, saying this one’s mine like she means it.

I set my alarm, click off the lamp, and lie in the dark with two names in my mouth. One I can’t stop saying and one I can’t start.

Sitting in East Nashville,two blocks from Five Points where the best hot dogs you’ll find are sold from a silver Airstream, is one of my favorite places on earth.

The old brick building that houses the Next Note Foundation was once a mechanic shop. The two garage doors have been repainted cobalt blue, and last summer a few of the kids painted music notes and the foundation name across them. Inside, the place still carries the faint smell of gasoline and motor oil from years ago. Pair that with the low hum of guitar chords and thetap, tap, tapof a drum kit, and I remember why I love volunteering here.

I pause in the doorway to take in the view. Teenagers are scattered all over the room, some tuning their instruments, a few practicing songs. In one corner a group sits huddled around a phone screen, watching god knows what.

“Liam,” a familiar voice calls. Rhonda Pierce, a tiny woman in her early sixties is headed my way. Her silver hair stays trimmed in a pixie cut and red glasses magnify her eyes to twice their size, making them look like she’s peering into your soul. Half the time I think she is. She’s dressed in her standard outfit: overalls rolled at the cuffs and black Doc Martens.

“Long time no see, handsome.” She raises onto her toes to give me a hug.

She steps back, giving me a once over with her owlish eyes. “What’s kept you away so long?”

I give her my most charming dimpled smile. “Rhonda, Rhonda, Rhonda. Has somebody missed me?”

“I’ve missed you!” a kid, Trey, shouts, from a nearby couch. “My guitar needs to be restrung and I can’t ever do it right.”

I walk over, lowering next to him, and he hands me his acoustic. Strumming a few chords, I adjust the pegs to get it in tune. It’s a second-hand Yamaha student acoustic, and while it’ll do the job, it does have trouble staying in tune.

I’ve reminded Trey he’s welcome to play the guitars we keep on hand here, but he refuses. Trey struggles with change, no matter how small. Rhonda learned that the hard way once when he had a total meltdown after she rearranged the furniture. So, his student guitar it is.

“You got strings?”

Trey looks at the floor, and I immediately feel a pang of guilt. I don’t ask a lot of questions; I just listen if the kids want to talk. But from what I’ve gathered, Trey’s family doesn’t have much money.

“Hey, Trey, buddy. It’s no big deal. I’ll grab some from the office. Be right back.”

I jog to Rhonda’s office and open the supply cabinet, taking out the bin labeled strings. Back on the couch with Trey, I unwind the first one to begin the restringing process while he talks nonstop. Rhonda says when I’m not here, he’s pretty quiet, which is hard to believe seeing how he’s hardly stopped to take a breath. He’s told me at least five stories about a stray cat that’s been hanging around his house while I’ve worked. When I’m finished, I hand the guitar over.

“Try it out.”

Trey strums a few chords and looks up, smiling. “Thanks, Liam.”

“You’re welcome. But you know Rhonda or any of the other volunteers could help you. I’m not here as often as they are.”

Who knows if he heard me, because he’s already strumming a melody, eyes closed. I know kids can be little shits sometimes when it comes to someone who is different than them. As far as I know, everyone here at the foundation is nice to Trey, but I sure hope school is the same.

I make my way around the room, checking in on a few faces I haven’t seen in a while. Pausing at the group hovered around the phone, I step closer to see what they’re watching. It’s a pianist whose fingers move so quickly across the keyboard, they almost look like rubber. A heated debate is underway on whether he’s actually playing that quickly or if he’s edited the video to look it. They keep pausing at certain intervals to try and catch an error in the editing. After watching for several minutes, even I can’t tell if the videos are real or not.

I move on from this group when Stacey, another volunteer, calls my name. “Come listen to this song Anna wrote.”

Heading to the corner of floor pillows they’re perched on, I do my best to fold my body onto one. Damn, the floor is a long way down when you’re tall. I nod at Anna when I’m ready. “Show me what you’ve got.”

She begins to play a beautifully haunting song, telling of love and loss and how heartbreakingly difficult it is to overcome that loss. One particular line really hits harder than the rest.Till the waves drag me out with the tide. The waves keep on crashing and I can’t see past ’em.

This kid can’t be any older than fifteen or sixteen, and it guts me to think she’s already experienced a loss so great she can paint a vivid picture in my mind with her words. A picture I’m all too familiar with.

When she finishes, I’m regretting sitting on the floor, because I want to give her a standing ovation. Man, that kid is going somewhere. I chat with the two of them for a few minutes, andthen stand, moving around the room to various kids who call for help.