Struts & Frets (3 page)

D's and F's, maybe . . .

If she had come up to my room at that moment, I would have been completely screwed, because it would have been clear that I was doing just about everything
except
my homework. Guitar strings, my guitar, my songbook, and a
pile of CD jewel cases all circled me like some kind of punk rock Stonehenge. But I knew she wouldn't check in for another half hour or so. My mom was a therapist, and I guess it was pretty rough having to listen to other people's problems all day, because when she came home she refused to do anything until she'd sat down and had a glass of white wine.

Still, I couldn't play my guitar and sing anymore, obviously. So I quietly restrung my guitar without tuning it, then cracked open my history books and began pretending to care.

“Sam?” Her voice was softer and thicker after a couple glasses of wine.

“Yeah, Mom?”

“Take a break from history for a minute,” she said.

Like a dutiful son, I closed the textbook from which I had been reading the same paragraph over and over again because I just couldn't seem to pay attention to it.

“Talk to me,” she said.

I turned away from my desk and looked at her.

For the most part, my mom was pretty cool. If she didn't understand me, it wasn't because she didn't try. My major complaint about my mom was that all of my friends, at some point, had to confess to me that they thought she
was hot. Why couldn't they just keep it to themselves? Even Rick once said, “I mean, she's not my type or anything, but you have to admit, your mom is a total MILF!” I told him I would admit no such thing.

When we were first starting the band, Joe hadn't hooked up the Parks and Rec room yet. Rick, TJ, and I were hanging out one night, trying to think of places we could rehearse. TJ suggested my place. When I asked why, he said something about my mom maybe bringing us lemonade every once in a while. Well, I told him that one thing I was damn sure of, Joe would
never
meet my mom. TJ agreed that this was probably for the best.

“Hello?” my mom said. “Earth to Sam?”

“Sorry, Mom,” I said.

“How was school?” she asked.

“Boring,” I said.

“A few more details would be nice,” she said.

“History is dumb. Spanish is hard. Math is pointless.”

“What about English?”

“It's okay,” I said. “We just finished
Beowulf
, which is about some knight dude, but they call him a Thane instead, and he kills this monster called Grendel, and then Grendel's mom gets upset and tries to kill him. So that's kind of interesting, I guess.”

“What about science?”

“Science is just gross. We have to do these labs, right? Where we cut up plants and worms and stuff, and then we have to label all the parts on a worksheet.”

“That sounds better than just reading things in books,” said Mom.

“I guess,” I said. Of course I couldn't tell her that at least I could fake reading things in textbooks. I didn't mind English or history, because they were about people. I felt like even Shakespeare had something to teach me about being a better songwriter. But science? Where was the poetry in cutting up slimy dead things?

“I know it's hard to see this right now, but science and math are really important. Colleges offer big scholarships for kids who excel at those subjects, and the variety of careers you can choose from is virtually endless.”

“Mom, I'd rather gouge my eyes out with rusty spoons than study math. It's the lamest thing in existence. It's like the opposite of all creativity.”

“Sammy, that's just not true. There's all sorts of amazing and wonderful things going on in math and science. Don't forget that it's going to be mathematicians and scientists who solve the world's ecology problems.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“And computers. Video games. These things are made by math and science people.”

“I know, I know. But it's still just numbers. And I'm not good at that stuff.”

“You don't know that. You've never really even tried.”

“Trust me, Mom. I'm not.”

There was a moment of silence, during which I could tell I'd said something over the line, though I really couldn't see any flaw in my logic.

“Well,” she said. “How was rehearsal?”

“Okay, I guess,” I said.

“Okay, you guess?” she said.

“We're going to call ourselves Tragedy of Wisdom.”

“Oh,” she said. “That's nice.”

See? Even she knew it was lame.

“Do you have rehearsal tomorrow after school?”

“No,” I said. “TJ can't make it and Joe thinks that there's no point rehearsing without the drummer.”

“Joe thinks,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“What?” I said.

“Never mind,” she said. “If you don't have too much homework tomorrow, could you spend a little time with your grandfather after school? He's been pretty down lately.”

“Yeah, sure, I guess.”

“You know it always cheers him up to see you.”

“Sure doesn't seem like it,” I said.

It takes me a long time to fall asleep. I'm not sure why. I don't really get tired like I guess a lot of people do. I mean, I wake up tired and stupid and slow, then as the day goes on, I get more and more awake until, by the time I'm supposed to go to bed, I'm totally wired. No, I don't eat a lot of sugar and I don't drink tons of soda or coffee. It's just how I am.

You know that buzzing sound you hear from old fluorescent lights? Not real obvious at first, but it kind of creeps up on you and gets really annoying after a while? Well, that's what runs through my head every night. So I just lay in bed in the dark and stare up at the ceiling while I wait for the buzzing to fade out. It always does, but sometimes it takes hours. And I can't close my eyes or I start to lose perspective on how big the room is and where I am in it, almost like I'm floating or sinking, and the buzzing gets so intense it feels like I'll drown in it. I used to read or listen to music in bed, but that only made things worse because not only would I have all my old thoughts from the day to settle down, but I'd be getting new ones also. So now I just stare up at the ceiling and wait.

The thing that kept floating through my head was Jen5's question:
What would you do with the rest of your life?

But of course, I already knew the answer to that question. I'd just make more music. Despite its name, Tragedy of Wisdom was going to become famous. Not lame famous, like those sellout bands that play in football stadiums and can't even relate to regular people anymore. No, we were going to be cool famous, like those bands that hardly get any radio play, except on college radio, and if they have a video, it's only played late at night because it isn't commercial enough for the soulless marketing people. We were going to have one of those small but intense fan bases that would swap bootlegs of our shows online but buy the CDs anyway and totally obsess over my lyrics and what they meant. Cool writers would make references to us in their novels. Hot artsy chicks with nose rings would stalk us at concerts. The works.

That's what I planned to do with the rest of my life. Not bad, huh?

said Mr. Sully, our art teacher. “Fruit is soooo dullsville.” He was an older guy with a long beard and long hair pulled back into a ponytail. Or at least, the hair he
had
was long. He was mostly bald on top. He looked more like he should be guarding a pot farm with a couple of Rottweilers down in southern Ohio than teaching art in a high school. But he was nice enough and kind of funny—at least, when he didn't mean to be.

“But I want tell you,” continued Mr. Sully, nodding his head up and down rhythmically, “that painting a fruit still life can be awesome if you approach it the right way.”

We were all standing in a big circle facing inward, each with an easel. In the center of the circle was an apple, a banana, and an orange on a table.

“I want you to think back to last year,” said Mr. Sully, “and just muse on all the different styles of painting we talked about. I want you to meditate on them until you pick the one that speaks to you.” He lowered his head, as if to show the proper posture for meditating, then he jerked his head back up, blinked, and said, “Then I want you to paint in that style. Okay. Begin.”

“Fruit,” said Jen5. “I hate painting fruit.” Today she was decked out in a gray tweed sports coat over a black lacy tank top and torn-up flared jeans. Her massive tangle of frizzy, nearly dreadlocked blond hair was pulled back in some kind of leather-thong-and-chopstick combo.

Jen5 didn't really have a specific look or style. You couldn't pin her into a group like goth or geek or punk. Sometimes she looked like an art chick, sometimes like a skater chick, sometimes even a little like a college professor. But most of the time she looked like all three at once. The first thing that people noticed about her was the color of her eyes. Just like her style, you couldn't really tell what they were. Sometimes they were blue, sometimes green, sometimes gray or hazel. On official forms where you had to fill in stuff like your height, weight, and hair color, in the eye-color line she usually wrote “paisley.”

“Fruit, flowers, sunsets,” I said with a shrug. “What's the difference? It's all painting.”

Jen5 scowled at me. “Sure, for you. Because you don't like painting. If you did, you'd know that there was a huge difference.” Then she turned her scowl on the fruit. “Maybe if it was organic fruit or something . . . then it would have shades and variations. Stuff you could play with. But the stupid Frankenfruit they pump full of chemicals now, combined with all the wax they pour on it . . . we might as well be painting fake plastic fruit. There's nothing real about that. Nothing alive.” Then she sighed, squirted some paint onto her palette, and went to town.

Visual art was definitely Jen5's thing. Drawing, painting, sculpture, photography, you name it. She kicked ass at all of it. It was amazing to watch how she attacked the canvas like she was pounding the colors into it. Paint flew everywhere—in her hair, on her clothes, smeared across her hands and face. It wasn't so much that she didn't care. It seemed more that she actually liked when it got messy. But as much as the paint was all over the place
off
the canvas, the paint
on
the canvas went exactly where she wanted.

“Wow, Jenny! Fantastic!” said Mr. Sully as he gazed at her half-finished painting. “I am totally feeling what you are putting down! Impressionistic fruit! Right on!”

Jen5 grunted without looking at him and continued painting, but I saw a little smile on her lips. She'd never admit
it, but Mr. Sully was probably the only teacher whose opinion she valued.

Then Mr. Sully looked at my sad little picture. The only difference between the apple and the orange was the color. And the banana looked more like a wilted, yellow green bean.

“Ah.” He nodded and patted me on the shoulder sympathetically. “Well, you just keep at it, Sam. I know you have the fire. This just isn't your medium, man.”

“No kidding,” I said.

“But that doesn't matter, you know,” he said, his eyes getting dreamy. “All art, all creativity comes from the same place. Painting, music, dancing. It all comes from the same well. We drink and we are full. Are you feeling me?” he looked at me expectantly.

“Sure,” I said. “Sure, Mr. Sully.”

He nodded happily. “Just keep at it! Follow your bliss!” Then he floated off to babble at some other student.

“Wow, Sammy,” said Jen5, looking over my shoulder at my painting. “That sucks.”

“Eat me, Niffer,” I said.

“Hey, I'm sure you'd say the same thing if you ever heard me try to sing.”

“I've heard you sing,” I said.

“What? When?”

“Third grade. School play. I believe the piece was entitled ‘Peanut Butter and Jelly.' I was spellbound.”