So maybe music doesn’t awaken a soul sense. Maybe it just reminds us of the times when we’ve felt it before.
I look at Lenny with wet eyes. “Thank you,” I sign.
He inclines his head and leans against a pillar, a satisfied smile under his beard. I sit on the stool that was assigned to me and I listen. My whole body listens.
It’s an hour before the organist is done playing. The vibrations resonate in my chest one last time and I feel them echo in the outer parts of my body until the air stops flowing through the pipes. I open my eyes, which had been closed. I start to thank Lenny one more time, but he’s asleep, snoring against the railing. I carefully exit the room and run back to my house.
I can’t just let her go. I can’t just let her go. I need to give it another chance. I dig through the pile of stuff on my once-tidy dresser, looking for a card…
I find it and visit the website. “Asaph the Flutecrafter,” scrolls across the screen. I click on “Contact Us” and see that the store is located in Finleyville—about a half hour away.
I pound down the stairs and into the living room, where Mom looks up from her book with a question in her eyes.
“Where are you off to in such a rush?” she asks.
“I have to buy something!” I sign.
“What thing? Are you okay?”
“An instrument! For Robin!”
Her face turns guarded. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Carter. She hurt you pretty bad.”
“I know! But it doesn’t have to end like that.”
What I don’t say is that maybe I touched her soul the first time she saw me. Like she touched mine. Maybe the music will stir her like it stirred me.
Mom looks away and sighs, shaking her head slightly. I wave my hand to get her attention.
“Please, Mom! Please. Can I take the bike out?”
At that, she sets her jaw. “No, Carter. We’ve talked about this. You’re grounded from the bike.”
“But it’s important!” I sign. “So important!”
“I’m sorry, Carter. No bike.”
My mind races. “Then can I take the car? Or can you give me a ride? It’s not far!”
I see her thinking about it.
“Please,” I sign. “Please, Mom.”
She looks at me, face grim, and I see her answer before she gives it. “No,” she signs. “I can’t. I don’t think it’s a good decision and I won’t help you make what I think is a bad decision.”
“Please!” I sign. “You always say that you want us to make mistakes and learn from them! Let me make this mistake!”
She shakes her head again. “You made your mistake. You kept the bike out past dark without telling me. That was your mistake. I hope you learn from it.”
My mother is immovable. I clench my jaw.
“Fine,” I sign. I stiffen, turning toward the stairs, keeping everything under wraps until I shut my door. Then I throw myself on my bed and punch the pillow. Barry’s car is in the shop. It’s no use asking Dad. My parents are fanatics about being “on the same team.” It’s hopeless.
Unless…
I drag myself back to the computer, where “Asaph, the Flutecrafter”’s page is still on the screen. I scroll through the inventory. Robin’s flute is called a “pennywhistle,” I discover. I scroll through until I find the little brass whistle that had Robin so entranced. I choose an engraving: “Songbird,” in script. I choose a bag: navy blue velvet. I choose a case: teak box with brass fittings. The whole thing takes about an hour and sets me back a good bit; about half the money from Barry’s ASL lessons. I know better than to ask my parents for the cash. But it’s worth every penny. I’ll have it sent to her house. I just wish I could see her face when she opens it. I find the FAQ section and read through it. Yes, everything on the website is in stock. Engraving only takes one day. It should ship the next day. After choosing two-day shipping, I know she should get it by the end of the week, when I leave for home.
I’m just about to hit Send when I change my mind; I mail it to myself.
Chapter 35
Robin
“Robin? You up there?”
I’m lying on my bed with my feet up against the wall, playing blues riffs. “No!” I yell. “Someone else is in my room playing B. B. King!” Blues is not always my thing, but it’s great for technique and super fun to jam to.
Jenni pokes her head around the door frame. “Ha-ha. Glad I caught you. Just stopped by to drop something off. Can’t stay too long.”
I make a face and sing, still upside down. “Ba-bananaNA. I have a buddy… Ba-bananaNA. And she’s so cool… Ba-bananaNA. We are both seniors… and we’re almost back to school! I got the bluuuuuues…”
Jenni joins in. “I got the ‘my-rich-guy-summer-fling-is-going-back-to-Albany-’cause-it’s-almost-time-for-school’ blues.”
I stop playing the guitar.
“Aw, I’m sorry.”
Jenni shrugs. “It’s okay. We both knew it was just a summer thing.” She plops down on my bed, causing the guitar neck to bounce and my hands to fumble. “Anyway, I made my first online sale. Somebody bought two keychains and asked for a vest!”
“Really?” I look up.
“Yeah! Pretty cool. They’re paying, like, a ton for the vest.”
“Nice,” I say. “Congrats.”
“Here: catch.” She throws a pile of soft cloth in my face. Once I get past the initial sweet smell of homemade waffle cones, I smell spiced oranges and motorcycle exhaust and Asian food: Carter’s house.
After a flood of memories, my right hand takes the pile of sweet-smelling cloth off my face. It’s my All-County select choir sweatshirt.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“It’s your All-County sweatshirt,” says Jenni.
“Thanks. I mean, where did you get it? I’ve been looking for it for a while.”
“It’s been in my car for forever. Trina gave it to me to give to you a couple of days after you guys broke up. Sorry.”
“I’m glad it’s not lost.”
“Yeah.” She pauses a minute. “So how are you doing?”
I shrug. “Fine, I guess.” My fingers start to noodle around in the key of A. “Better than last week, you know? Kind of wish I’d known it would just be a summer thing.” I bend a C-sharp until it’s a D. “Did you know? That it would only be a summer thing for me and Carter?”
Jenni shrugs. “I didn’t know. I guessed, maybe. Just because of logistics and whatever. But it really seemed like the real thing to me.”
I sigh. “Yeah. Yeah, it really did.” My hands stretch, fiddling with the baby E string, going into a range only classical musicians or rock gods can perfect. Jenni makes a face. “I think I could forgive him,” I say for the millionth time, “if he hadn’t lied to me for the whole summer.”
Jenni nods.
“Like, if he’d told me that he has an implant but just doesn’t want to wear it… I think I could have handled that. But he never told me! He just let me think that he could hear absolutely nothing! That it wasn’t even a choice for him to hear my music!”
Jenni looks away, studying my Decemberists poster too intently. Something’s up.
“What?”
“Nothing,” she says.
“What?” I ask again. “Come on, Jenni. Tell me. I can take it.”
She begins to play with the split ends in her hair. “I just… I don’t know if that’s true. Can you imagine somebody that you like—”
“Love—”
“Love… telling you that he could listen to your music, he could hear it, he just doesn’t want to? How crappy would that feel?”