A GRAY SATURDAY MORNING. HER MOM AND BEATRIZ HAD gone to get groceries at Fred Meyer, leaving Lucia on the couch with a blanket and her book. Lucia waited until the house was entirely hers for ten minutes—no emergency returns.
On the second try, the call went through. Lucia stood at the sound of his Hello? on the other end. A man’s voice. Medium deep.
“Hi, it’s me. Lucia. I left a message?”
“Yeah, I heard it.”
“Is this . . . Are you . . .”
“Have you talked to your mom about this?”
“A little.”
“Does she know you’re calling me?”
Lucia headed toward the basement door. Even though no one else was home, it seemed safer to go underground. “Yes?”
“Be honest.”
“Not really.” She descended the wooden steps. The basement smelled dark and cool. The dehumidifier hummed busily in the corner. Bullet stopped in the doorway at the top—the stairs were hard on her joints now—and lay down at the threshold, watching Lucia.
“Okay, we probably shouldn’t be talking until I’ve had a conversation with her.”
Lucia pulled the chain on the ceiling light. “I have your guitar.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. The one that was on the record cover.”
A little laugh of disbelief. “Do you play it?”
“Uh-huh. I’m in a band.”
“No way. You’re in a band.”
“With my friend Sydney. We met at rock camp. We’re called the Tiny Spiny Hedgehogs.”
“Wow. Do you, like, play shows?”
Lucia sat on a storage trunk next to the clothes dryer and toyed with the latch. “We played at the rock camp showcase, at our friend’s birthday, and at a pizza place,” she said. It didn’t seem right to mention Beatriz and Uncle Topher’s wedding—her mom had stressed that she had to be very careful about that until the green card was issued. “We have, like, eight songs now.”
“That’s impressive. Maybe you should make a record.”
“Really?”
“Sure.” He seemed to think better of it. “Actually—you don’t want to become a novelty band. You don’t want too much too soon or you’ll never want to play music again. Those kids with stage moms—speaking of which, I really shouldn’t—”
Lucia said quickly, “Are you in a band? I saw a video of you playing on TV.”
“Not anymore.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. My band broke up, the one I cared about. And then I didn’t want to be in a band I didn’t care about. It’s easier when you’re young, you’ll play with anyone just to try it out.”
“I like playing with Sydney, but we have some creative differences.”
“Oh really?” He laughed. Lucia flushed with pleasure. Usually Sydney was the funny one.
“That’s what my mom calls it. But at least we have fun. My first year at rock camp I was in a band with four other girls and we fought every day. One of them hit another one over the head with the mic.”
He did it again, laughed. “Ouch.”
“Some people should not be allowed to have microphones.”
“You could say that about half the people I played with.”
At the top of the stairs, Bullet scrambled to her feet, ears up. Lucia heard the back door creak open, and the dog whined and started to wag. “I gotta go,” Lucia said. “They’re home. Bye.”
She hung up.
“Luz?”
“I’m in the basement,” she hollered back. She stuffed her phone into her hoodie pocket and took the stairs two at a time. It came to her as she rounded the corner: “I was looking for my horse T-shirt.” She knew the T-shirt was in Beatriz’s drawer—Beatriz loved that shirt and had borrowed it from her. It was the first time she felt a lie come so easily. If you thought ahead for a few seconds, and grafted it to a truth, you could slide right through.
Beatriz unwrapped her scarf and said, “Desculpa. I have that one.”
“Thief!” her mother said to Beatriz.
“It’s okay,” Lucia said with an angelic smile. “I like when Beatriz wears it.” Her mother’s eyes went soft and she kissed Lucia’s head. Lucia felt guilty and pleased at once.
Her pulse beat hard and she felt heat around the edges of her vision. She had a secret—a huge one. And she’d made Ryan Coates laugh. His number was now a song in her head.