Wild Reckless (Harper Boys #1)(10)
The conversation is about to make a shift, because I can tell by the look on her face that she realizes who my neighbor is now.
“Well it looks like you can kiss that quiet goodbye,” she says, nodding forward to Owen’s driveway. He’s climbing into a beat-up old pick-up, and the girl from earlier is sitting next to him, riding in the middle of the cab between Owen and another guy. He peels out of the driveway, his tires leaving a tuft of smoke and the smell of burnt rubber in the air. The girl screams something as they speed by us, Owen never once glancing our way.
“Yeah…” I start. I unbuckle my seat and pull my bag to my lap from the car floor. “That’s sort of why I had those questions. I haven’t really officially met him yet, I mean…other than the rock kicking thing. He’s just kind of quiet…and, I don’t know, mysterious maybe?”
“Kens, trust me on this one. Owen Harper isn’t quiet. You just haven’t given him a reason to be loud yet. That’s probably a good thing,” she says. “Just keep your eyes open, and watch out for James. He’s the one you need to worry about. That boy’s nothing but trouble.”
“Great. Nothing like living next door to trouble,” I say with a deep breath. “Hey, thanks for the ride.”
“Sure, I’ll be here at six-thirty or so to give you a ride in the morning. Be ready, though. I hate being late,” she says, reaching over to turn the radio back up to DEFCON levels. I can barely hear her singing along with the music as she backs out of my driveway and heads for the corner.
The Harper driveway parallels ours, and I spend a few minutes looking at the dark black lines Owen left in his wake. There are fainter ones surrounding it, which means he must peel out often.
Typical boy.
The house is empty—every room is mine alone until at least midnight. I spend the first hour munching on peanut butter cereal and watching people reveal the real father of their baby on one of those talk shows. It’s an embarrassing obsession of mine, but watching shows like this is my greatest relaxation. There’s something about the circus of absurdity—I find it calming. Helps me put all of the drama I think I have in perspective.
My reading and math homework is a breeze compared to my nightly assignments from Bryce. I feel like I’m learning things I was taught last year at the Academy, and if I were a better student, one who was more driven by academia, I might care that I’m not being challenged. But as long as I get to play the piano every day, I really don’t care that my math and science and literature are simple. There’s nothing wrong with easy. And I think I’ve earned easy. Besides, I know all my parents will ask about is music anyhow.
The sun sets around six, and unlike in the city, things actually get dark here. I almost find it charming—the soft rustling sound of the dried leaves being blown along the porch and driveway is strangely comforting.
I leave the front door open, the porch screen closed to let in the chilled air. It’s making the house cold, but I like the cold. It justifies pulling on my sweatpants and long-sleeved shirt. If I knew how to light the fire, I’d do that, too. Summer is leaving, making room for fall. I spend a few minutes dumping a pack of powdered cocoa into hot water, then stirring, and I blow on my cup as I walk to the piano. I take a sip too soon, and the liquid burns the tip of my tongue.
Once I set my cup down on the piano bench next to me, I pull out my sheet music from my boxes. There’s something that just isn’t right, and I’ve been dying to play through these lines—alone, without the critical ear of my father nearby to offer his opinion, or rather to point out that I should be perfecting my classics training instead of spending time doing the part I actually love.
My eyes closed, I let my fingers find their home. It’s natural. It always is, the way the polished slivers of black and white feel slick to my touch.
I crack an eyelid open and relent a smirk at my strange surroundings. This is not where I want to be, not where I want to play, so I close the eye again and pretend I am back in my practice room, my door closed and my sounds for nobody’s ears but mine. The rest just happens—fingers flying, pounding, stopping abruptly, and shifting from soft to quiet.
I like the change in music—to move from smooth to staccato, sometimes no transition at all. My father hates it, so I save these moments for nights like this. And before I know it, I fall into my routine, the blues rhythms coming through, taking over. My eyes open because this sound—the sound of my heart—has made me feel at home.
Without warning, though, my bliss is interrupted.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
The sound is constant, halted only by the loud clanking of a ball shanking off of the metal hoop outside. The shadows of the trees are sharp and dark against my curtains, and I can tell someone has turned the driveway floodlights on. My floodlights. The ones attached to my home. Where the basketball hoop is also located.
After what feels like a full minute of deep breathing, I find a fraction of my calmness from before and let my fingers glide back into their position. With my eyes closed, I do my best to tune out the continual barrage of noise taking over outside, and I almost get back into my groove, when the thud from before ricochets off of the side of my house.
“Oh, come on!” I shout, standing quickly from my bench and spilling the hot chocolate onto the floor. “Damn it!”
Changing direction, I head into the kitchen first and grab the towel folded over the cabinet under the sink and race back to the spilled drink, doing my best to soak it up from the wood floor.