37

Whatever It Takes

At the knock, Sawyer practically vaulted over the couch.

“Careful!” Mom’s warning didn’t slow him down, but knowing Chey waited on the other side of the door, he paused. Took a deep breath. Transformed his posture into indifference. Squashed all eagerness. Then he opened the door and stepped out of the way so Chey could enter. “Hey.”

“Hi, Chey.” Mom twisted around smiling over the back of the couch. The TV blasted a cooking show on cakes.

Chey lifted her hand in a wave, her nose wrinkling.

Sawyer sniffed. The acidic smell of nail polish hung in the air.

“Would you like a manicure?” Mom asked.

“Mom.” He stretched the word into three syllables, each one carrying warning.

“Most girls would appreciate a guy who can paint nails.”

Sawyer groaned.

“Aren’t I right, Chey?” Mom raised her right hand showing off fuchsia nails. “He does a great job—no streaks, no paint on the skin.”

Chey admired Mom’s nails then looked at Sawyer, her face pinched like she fought not to laugh, but was losing the battle. “You did a good job.”

“Never again.” He practically pushed Chey into the hallway.

“I’m seeing you in a whole new light—drummer boy manicurist.” Her shoulders shook. “That’s what you should name your nail salon.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He shoved her into his room. Mom could paint her own nails in the future. “Let’s play.”

Chey squeezed between his bed and the keyboard. Sawyer kicked a shoe into a corner and dug through a box of CDs.

“I found this.” Sawyer held up a case.

“What is it?”

“Justin made it.” Sawyer paused, as if saying Justin’s name required a moment of silence. Felt wrong playing Justin’s music with someone else. But time to move on. Justin wasn’t giving him a choice. “It’s his guitar part in our songs. He recorded it for me and Zoey so we could practice at home. During school, we can’t play together as often. Anyway, I thought we could use it to practice.”

“OK.” Chey turned the word into a question, as if she didn’t understand what Sawyer meant.

“Just listen to it first.” Sawyer placed the disc in the machine and hit play. The song was slow. Automatically, Sawyer moved his hands as though beating the drums.

Behind her keyboard, Chey closed her eyes. Sawyer watched her, the way she bobbed her head, the way she swayed, the way she sat on her hands as if to keep them still. Sawyer was certain she heard more than Justin’s playing. She heard her music too.

The song ended, and Chey opened her eyes.

“Do you want to listen again or try playing?” Sawyer held a hand over the CD player.

“Playing?” Chey’s voice squeaked. Panic flooded her orange-brown eyes. “What am I supposed to play?”

“Whatever fits the song.”

“I can’t do that. It’s one thing to make stuff completely up like we did yesterday, but I can’t come up with something that sounds good with other music.”

“Yes, you can.”

“No, Sawyer, I—”

“Do you want to play with me or not?”

“Are you saying you won’t hang out with me if I refuse to play with that CD?”

“You said you wouldn’t hang out with me unless I stopped cussing.”

“That’s hardly the same thing.” Her laughter was high pitched, almost hysterical.

He just shrugged letting his eyes challenge her. If she wanted—no, needed—the music as badly as he did, she’d try.

“Fine.” She sat a little straighter, as if physically rising to the challenge. “But let me listen again.”

Sawyer played the track again. Then replayed the first thirty-seconds a dozen times before realizing Chey needed another push. Or a shove. “This time, play.”

Chey opened her mouth to argue.

“Play,” he demanded.

She scowled, narrowing eyes that tried to look angry, but still held panic. Fear.

He didn’t know what to say to make her feel safe. But he knew what not to say. He wouldn’t say anything about her first attempt, which wouldn’t be her best. Even if that was the point. They called it “band practice” for a reason. No one’s first run through sounded great. Few sounded even decent. But she’d get better, just as he always did.

Chey twisted a knob on the keyboard and pressed down keys. Silent keys.

“It doesn’t count if no one can hear it.”

Chey glared and eased up the volume, changing the silent notes into a whisper.

He hit the pause button. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing.”

“You tell me off practically every time we’re together, but you’re playing like you’re scared.”

“OK, first you compare my playing with your cussing, now you’re comparing it to telling you off. That doesn’t make sense.”

“Yes, it does.”

“No. It doesn’t.”

“Yes. It. Does.” Couldn’t she see how playing a few notes, good or bad, wasn’t any scarier than being bold to someone’s face?

Chey pressed her lips together as if she might give him the silent treatment—with both her mouth and her hands—indefinitely. But then she spoke. “Fine.”

He hit play, and she began, grimacing when the notes clashed. But he didn’t say a word. After thirty-seconds, he restarted the song. Over and over it played, and Chey grew bolder.

She found her harmony.

As Sawyer saw her confidence grow, a pride swelled inside him stronger than any he’d ever felt when playing his drums. “Gold star.” Sawyer paused the CD. Sometime between the tenth play and the hundredth, he’d gotten comfortable on his bed. “Get it now?”

“Get what? How this is like cussing or telling you off? No.”

“Just don’t be scared about it.” He leaned forward, hands outstretched wishing she could see and hear what he did. “Whatever you start with will probably not be good, but it’ll get better.”

“That would’ve been nice to know earlier. Can we take a break now?”

“Yes, please, take a break,” Mom called from the living room. “An hour and a half of the same thing and I’m losing my mind.”

“Did we really work on that for an hour and a half?” Chey asked.

“You worked on it. I just hit the back button.”

“And that wasn’t even a whole song.”

“Told you being in a band was hard.”

“This isn’t a band. It’s you, me, and a CD.”

“Did you have fun?”

“Fun?” She sounded as if he’d asked if Algebra class had been fun. Then her face softened. “Yeah, it kind of was.”

He grinned. She got it. He knew she would.

“So is this what it’s really like to be a band? Playing the same thing over and over until you get it right?”

“Sometimes.” His smile faded. “Though you’re right—you, me, and a CD isn’t a band.”

“Might make a decent album title.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“So we’d need an actual guitarist in the room to be a band?”

“It would help. And a name.” Sawyer relaxed against the wall. He, Justin, and Zoey never had agreed on the name thing. Now they never would. “But what you really need to do is perform.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. What good is playing in a tiny room like this where no one can ever hear you?”

“I can hear you,” Mom called.

“Someone other than my crazy mother.” His voice grew louder with each word.

“You think we could perform?” Chey didn’t act bothered by Mom’s eavesdropping. “Just you and me?”

“Maybe. If you ever learn an entire song.” He didn’t put any meanness in his tone. Besides a name and a venue, a band needed a song. Or a dozen songs.

“When does your mom leave for work?”

“It’s my day off,” Mom answered.

“Enough with the eavesdropping,” Sawyer yelled.

“Let’s play again,” Chey said. “But with you on drums.”

“Finally.” Sawyer slid off the bed and sat behind his drums. “Now it’ll be music.”