What to Say Next(56)

“Fine.”

“I heard you joined the Academic League. That’s rad.”

“I assume we’ll have to pay you for the full hour even though it’s a short lesson, so let’s get started.” I play a few chords as a hint that I’d like our work to commence, just in case I am being too subtle.

“No rush. Let’s talk a little first,” Trey says, and puts his guitar on the floor, like we have no need for our instruments. “We can go over our time.”

“Will my mom be charged extra?” I ask.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m not worried. I’m clarifying.”

“No, you won’t be charged extra,” Trey says, and then blows up his cheeks and lets out a deep breath exactly like Miney does. Trey swings to look at me—he’s sitting on my rotating desk chair; I’m on the bed—and he does this weird thing where he forces me to make eye contact. This technique of his invariably precedes a question that will make me uncomfortable.

“David, why don’t you ever ask how I am?”

Phew, I’m relieved. That’s an easy one. I thought he was going to bring up his showcase again. Recent out-of-character events like hanging out with Kit and fighting the football team and joining Academic League notwithstanding, me getting up onstage with a guitar in front of people is just not going to happen. I have my limits.

“Why would I do that?”

“Because it’s polite to ask someone questions about themselves from time to time,” Trey says.

“We have only sixty minutes a week allotted to my learning how to play the guitar and I’d prefer not to waste them.”

“Come on. We’ve been working together almost ten months, and you know almost nothing about me. Whether I have brothers or sisters. What my major is. Where I live. How old I am. Aren’t you curious?”

“Not really.” I assumed he was an only child, since all his insistent chattering suggests he is desperate for company. My mother told me he was a college senior, so that makes him about twenty-one. And as for major, he seems suited for the liberal arts. I’d guess comparative literature or art history.

“People like it when you make small talk. It makes them feel like you care,” Trey says.

“What’s your major?” I ask, because though I appreciate efficiency, I do not like hurting people’s feelings. And now that he’s brought it up, I am curious. Could be I have him pegged all wrong. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time.

“Double major: math and psych.” He says the last word firmly, like if I were transcribing the conversation I should put it in all caps. Math and PSYCH. But I’m distracted by his empty neck. For the first time, he’s not wearing his conch shell necklace, and its absence and the consequent pale expanse of skin—one more break in our routine—bring on a sudden wave of depression and hopelessness. I feel like crying or lying down in a dark room, which is inconvenient given I’m about to start my weekly guitar lesson.

Maybe I’ll buy him a scarf for Christmas. Cover up his neck, which given his toes is surprisingly hairless.

“I wouldn’t have guessed math, and if you’re a psychology major I bet you like reading the DSM too,” I say as a thought forms in my brain the same way I burrow into complicated algorithms. Lego pieces stacking on top of each other until they manifest into something recognizable. Like pointillism.

The wave of depression rolls away and is replaced by a vivid certainty.

For once, I understand. Ten months too late, maybe. But I finally get it.

“You’re not really a guitar teacher, are you?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

“My dad told Principal Hoch today that I have a social skills tutor. That’s you, right?”

“I like to think of our work together as multifaceted,” Trey says. He picks his guitar up off the floor and fiddles with the strings. “I mean, I do teach you how to play, but I also hope I teach you other stuff as well.”

“I didn’t realize. I feel stupid.” Why is it I have to go through life only seeing part of the picture when everyone else gets to see the whole thing? Like my magnification level is set at fifteen thousand percent. “I wish you had told me. Then I wouldn’t have rushed us through all the talking.”

“Really?”

“Well, yeah. I could probably learn guitar from YouTube, but there’s nothing on there for how to talk to other kids in high school. Believe me, I’ve searched,” I say.

“Okay then.” Trey puts down his guitar, looks up at me.

“So do you have any brothers or sisters?” I ask.





“Sweetheart, open up.” I wake to my mom banging on the door, loud and intrusive. My cheek is wet with drool and tears. My eyes feel swollen and heavy to open. I must have fallen asleep mid–emotional breakdown. I’m embarrassed all over again by what seems to bring on the waterworks these days. Small things instead of the big ones.

It’s not like this is some lifelong dream. This is the Mapleview High Bugle we’re talking about. So I’m not editor in chief. Who cares? It’s not like I was particularly passionate about the newspaper anyway. I’m not like David, who gets carried away with all the things he’s interested in, reading college-level textbooks late into the night. I still have no idea who or what I want to be when I grow up. This was simply a way to pad my college application. Nothing more.