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Stupid, stupid,stupid.
My eyes burn as I shove myself tostanding.
It takes all my effort not to trip over the shoes by the door as I stumbleout.
The whole time, my brain is shouting,He’s not yours. He was never yours. He never will beyours.
6
Annie
After dumpingthe Rice Krispies squares in the garbage, I try unsuccessfully to fight thenausea.
Once I’m done throwing up, I brush my teeth, wash my face, and grab abook.
I go straight for my favorites. Austen.Dickens.
I shut both within two chapters and go for the seriousescapism.
HarryPotter.
But nothing helps. My entire body aches, and it’s not from drinking. At least, I’m pretty sure it’snot.
So I head for thedriveway.
I haven’t been on the Big Leap bus in months, but now I head up thestairs.
The front part has couches, a coffee table. Racks of guitars line one wall, and pictures hang on the other. My gaze runs over the images. Ones of my dad and his band on tour, from the kids who recorded here, of Dad and Haley. One of my dad and me and Aunt Grace, taken when I was eight or nine, with a gap in my frontteeth.
There’s one of Tyler and me. It’s a selfie, taken right here on this bus on my birthday two yearsago.
I trace the edge with a finger as the backs of my eyesburn.
Another image is a quote from one of my dad’s interviews. One of the kids who came through this program had it printed, mounted andplaqued.
Music saved mylife.
This morning, I could usesaving.
I turn away and lift a guitar off the wall and head to the recording studio at the back, on the other side of a soundproof glass door. There’s a big soundboard, a couch, a few stools, and more instruments andamps.
I take a seat on one of the stools and settle the guitar in mylap.
The strings bite into my skin when I start to play. It’s been a while since I have, and I can feel it in my fingertips, hear it in thesound.
Still, I keepgoing.
It feels good in the same way it feels to work your muscles when you haven’t in a longtime.
Through the small windows at the top of the walls, the cloudless sky peeksin.
I let my fingers play over the strings, an easy chord that fills some of the space in my achingchest.
Another. This time it shifts, swells insideme.
Another.
Before I know it, I’m playing “Part of yourWorld.”
