Grace Unplugged: A Novel (2 page)

“Oh.” Grace nodded.

“Here’s your guitar.” Mom leaned it against her desk and then lingered there.

“Thanks.” Grace started to put her headphones back on.

“Just a minute.” Mom held up her hand.

“What?”

“About college,” Mom frowned. “I understand how you feel, Grace, but surely you can see our side too. We know the importance of education. I think you do too. You’ve worked hard in high school. You’re a good student. The next natural step for you is college. Surely you can see that.”

Grace shrugged. “Not really.”

“I think we need to talk about this some more, don’t you?”

She bit her lip. Mostly she did not want to have this conversation now.

“We love you, sweetie. We want what’s best for you.”

“Maybe doing music is best for me.”

Now Mom launched into a mini-lecture about how many starving musicians there were in this country. But Grace just tuned her out. She’d heard it all before. Finally Mom must’ve gotten the message because she glanced at her watch. “Well, Dad and I are heading over to the Fulton’s twenty-fifth anniversary at two. It’s supposed to be quite a shindig.” She made a goofy smile. “You’re welcome to join us, if you like.”

Grace smirked to think of the slightly stuffy neighbors down the street—she could just imagine how that “shindig” was going down. “Thanks, but no thanks, Mom.”

The Fulton’s anniversary party must’ve been an all-day affair because it was after dark when Grace heard her parents come home. She was actually feeling a little left out and had been tempted to go down the street to see what was going on. But now that her parents were home, she was determined to continue her pity party of one. And, really, it was more than that. She was making a stand—a stand for independence. If a girl couldn’t make a stand like this at eighteen, when could she? Eventually her parents would have to listen.

Hearing a quiet knock at her door, she turned off the music playing on her laptop and clicking over to e-mail, braced herself, as she told the knocker to “come in.” The stand—or perhaps standoff—was about to begin. And she was ready.

“Hey,” Dad said gently as he came into her room.

“Hey,” she said back, feeling caught off guard by his exceptionally friendly tone. Was it possible he was having a change of heart? But just in case, she kept her eyes on her laptop, pretending to be checking e-mail. She did not want to look directly into his eyes. Sure, at times she hated his conservative parenting ways, but most of the time she loved him, and she knew he could break down her resolve in minutes if he said the right things.

“Listen, about what you said in the car.”

“What? You’re right; I’m wrong. I get it.” She tried to sound nonchalant, but she heard the antagonism in her voice. She wasn’t going to let him soften her up.

“Come on, don’t act like that.” He came over to her, putting a hand on her shoulder.

“Like what? You’ve obviously made up your mind.” She tossed the laptop aside, staring defiantly up at him. But seeing the fatherly concern in his eyes, she knew he could break her if he wanted to.

“Grace, we’re not
forcing
you to go to college. It’s just that music’s unpredictable. You know that.” He peered hopefully at her. “We just want what’s best for you, sweetie.”

“Fine. I’ll go! Are we done?” She just wanted this conversation to end. Besides, she knew she’d been acting childish and selfish. She didn’t even like being like this. She reached for her guitar, trying to avoid his gaze. He’d won, right? Why couldn’t he just leave? Let her stew in her wimpy compromise for awhile. But instead he reached into his pocket and pulled out what looked like a small jewelry box. What now?

“I know your birthday was last week,” he said apologetically. “I don’t know if it’s the right time, or if any time’s right anymore, but it just arrived.” He set the box on her desk then stepped back.

“What?” She laid her guitar aside and went over to her desk. What was going on here? Feeling hopeful and expectant, she opened the velvet box and was surprised to see that it contained a pretty silver ring. Suddenly she felt totally off guard by this gift—not to mention ashamed for how she’d acted like such an entitled brat today.

“Thanks,” she murmured as she pulled out the ring. But even as the word passed over her lips, it hit her. This was not just an ordinary ring—not just a belated birthday gift. No, of course not.

This was a promise ring.
The kind of jewelry that dads bestow upon their daughters to ensure that their precious girls do not engage in premarital sex. But something was wrong here. Dads usually did this when their daughters were in, like, middle school. She wasn’t even in high school anymore. What was up with this now? She gave him a seriously perplexed expression.
Really?

“It’s called a—”

“I know what it’s called, Dad.”

“I probably should’ve done it years ago, but . . .”

She stared down at the ring, trying to imagine that she was thirteen years old and over the moon at this thoughtful fatherly gift. But somehow she just couldn’t muster it. Not at this stage of the game. Not after a day when it had felt like all he wanted to do was control her. Why did he not get this?

“So,” she started slowly, “now that I’m eighteen you think I’m gonna start sleeping around or something?” She studied him closely.

“Of course not. It’s just—”

“Dad, I know what I’m supposed to do or
not
supposed to do. I don’t need a ring to remind me.” She put the ring back in the box, snapped it closed, and set it back on her desk. Folding her arms across her chest, she stepped away as if the ring was poison and, staring at the floor, she waited for him to leave.

“Grace, what is the matter with you?” he demanded. “Every time we talk lately, everything I say, it’s a battle. Would you please look at me?”

With arms still folded in front of her, she glared at him, not saying a word.

“Like at church,” he continued hotly, “when I want you on piano, you insist on playing guitar. Or when we rehearse a certain way, and I tell you that’s how we’re going to play it, and then you still do your own thing.”

“I have my own style.”

“It was a Chris Tomlin song. It’s
worship
. It’s not a Renae Taylor concert!”

“Like you know anything about Renae Taylor,” she snapped.

“I know she’s a bad influence, and her lyrics should make you sick.”

“Fans love Renae’s lyrics. They love how she sings.” She narrowed her eyes. “And some people love how I sing too. Even at church!”

“Grace,” he said firmly. “Whether you like it or not, I’m in charge of the band, and you’re either part of the team or you’re not!”

She sat back on her bed, picking up her laptop. Why was he being so bullheaded? And why didn’t he just leave?

“Listen,” his tone softened. “I really didn’t come in here to fight. We’re just concerned about you.”

“I’m fine!” she said stubbornly.

Now he just stood there for a long moment, watching her as if he was trying to come up with something intelligent and fatherly to say. Apparently, he was feeling just as blank as she was. Then he picked up the box holding the ring. “If nothing else, just think of the ring as . . . something to remind you how much we love you. You don’t have to wear it.” Then he left.

Leave it to Dad to get the last word like that. Sure, she knew they loved her. How could she ever forget that? If only they could simply trust her a little more. If only they could let her live her own life and pursue her own dreams. If not now, when she was young and energetic and passionate about music, when?

Chapter 2

G
race got up early on Monday morning. Her plan was to write a song. Not just any song but a worship song. And hopefully a really good one. Somehow she felt that if she could successfully do this it might prove to her parents—or maybe to herself—that she really was ready to pursue a career in music. But after a couple of fruitless hours, she felt completely uninspired. Not only that, she felt like climbing the wall.

Deciding that she needed some wide-open spaces to inspire creativity, she packed her guitar into the car and headed off to Homewood City Park. Except for a couple of moms and a handful of kids in the play area, the park was quiet. Grace went over to her favorite bench by the pond and sat down and opened up her guitar case. She removed her guitar and song notebook and took in a slow, deep breath. Much better. She played the chords she’d been toying with, humming along, and hoping that the song would meld together.

But, just like at home, she felt empty and blank. She knew the tune she was playing with had potential. But she felt stuck. Like there was something blocking her.
Just let it flow,
she told herself,
don’t hold back
. And so she began stringing along words and rhymes, but the results were so corny and cliché that she could barely stand to hear it. Where was the metaphor she was searching for? Where was the magic?

Finally she realized her efforts were worse than futile; they were downright depressing. And if her music was bumming her, how would it manage to encourage anyone? She looked down at the Fender guitar in her lap, scowling as if it was personally to blame for her complete lack of talent. Okay, that was ridiculous and unfair. She ran her hand over the smooth, wood-grain surface. She loved this nicely worn instrument, knowing it was full of character. She always had loved it—right from the day her father had presented it to her. Unlike the ring he’d given her last night, the guitar was a perfect gift. She still remembered her eighth birthday like it was yesterday.

Her parents had been acting mysterious all morning that day ten years ago. Dad had even pretended to have forgotten it was her birthday altogether, and Mom just kept slipping these sly little glances to Dad. Finally, just when Grace was starting to worry that they truly had forgotten her special day, Dad told her to close her eyes. “No peeking,” he said as he turned her round and round. “Now you have to find your gifts yourself.”

Her parents chuckled as Grace kept her eyes shut and held out her hands, slowly moving forward.

“Cold, cold,” her mom had warned.

So she turned a different direction, shuffling forward.

“You’re getting warmer,” Dad told her.

“Really warm,” Mom added.

“Can I open ’em now?”

“Keep ’em closed.” Mom giggled.

“Here,” Dad said, “I’ll film this.”

“No,” Mom told him. “I got it. I want you in it with her.”

“Red hot!” Dad yelled as Grace’s hands touched the couch.

“Now?”
she eagerly asked them. “Can I open my eyes?”

“Not yet,” Dad said. “You ready, Michelle? Getting all this on film for posterity?”

“Yeah.”

“All right,” Dad told Grace. “Open ’em.”

Grace opened her eyes to see the most beautiful guitar in the world. Glowing and golden, it was resting in its opened case that was leaned up against the couch. She could hardly believe her eyes.

“No way!” she said to her parents. Was it really hers?

“You been rockin’ on mine,” Dad chuckled. “Time you had your own.”

“Oh! My! Goodness!” She reached out to touch the sleek surface of the wood, tentatively plucking the strings, which were tuned perfectly. This was really hers!