The Accidentals(17)
Across the room, Evie begins to snore, so I pull my old iPod out from beneath my pillow and press the ear buds into my ears. Setting it to Shuffle, I hit Play.
I’ve always loved the moment of anticipation before a song begins—that beat of silence that yawns with expectation. There’s an eerie intimacy that comes from plugging a song directly into two holes in the sides of your head. Sometimes I can even hear the vocalist take a breath before the first note. The effect is like being in the room with them.
Eyes closed, I wait. And when the first strummed chord charges through those fine little wires and into my ears, I’m not even surprised that it’s one of Frederick’s. I’ve been wearing a groove in this song since fifth grade. The opening riff for “Wild City” is as familiar as air.
Then his voice comes in, sad and low:
She liked to turn the amp up louder
Her hips would sway and I’d forget the chords.
Nobody else could wield that power
I drank it down and begged for more
This music has always been my only connection to him. And in a weird way, he’s never let me down. I push Play, and my father shows up every time.
And now? I don’t know what will happen. I only know that if Frederick doesn’t show up after school tomorrow, this refrain will never sound the same to me.
Late nights in the Wild City
My ears would ring for years
Bright lights in the Wild City
We paid for it in tears
Chapter Six
On Monday afternoon I ace my pre-calc exam. The relief lasts a good fifteen minutes. After that, I go outside to see whether Frederick will really turn up again as he’d promised.
I think I’ll always wonder—even if Frederick stays in my life after I leave Florida. A little piece of me will always be sitting here on the bench outside school, wondering if today is the day he decides I’m not worth the trouble.
There are three cars in the pick-up circle. And none of them is a black sedan.
Okay. Carlos is probably stuck in tourist traffic.
I check my new phone again. No messages. No texts. But I find a Google news alert on “Freddy Ricks.” When I tap on it, the headline stuns me. Freddy Ricks cancels nine tour stops, including a sold-out show at Madison Square Garden.
Seriously? I click the link to the article and read:
Citing tendinitis in the thumb and two fingers of his picking hand, the singer songwriter will be refunding tickets at all locations. “He’ll have an outpatient procedure, and some therapy,” publicist Rebecca Showers told the media. “Freddy should be as good as new by October.”
That’s all it says.
In my peripheral vision, somebody waves his arms.
Looking up, I spot Carlos standing beside a tan SUV that I’d never seen before, and gesturing wildly in my direction. I get up and run toward the car.
He showed up again. Fourth time. But I won’t get used to it.
When I open the car door, I hear Frederick’s phone voice. “Henry, I would have more time to speak with you, except the lawyer you hired for me just kept me waiting an hour in his office. So make it quick.”
As I slide onto the seat, Frederick raises a hand in greeting, giving me the universal sign for just a minute. “Wouldn’t it cost just as much to fight the union contracts as it would to just pay them out? Uh-huh. Well, we knew we were going to take a hit.”
I arrange my backpack at my feet, all the while sneaking looks at his right hand. As I watch, he makes a fist and beats his own forehead.
“Honestly, Henry. All I care about is whether my Taylor is going to turn up today. No, I’m not rubbing your nose in it. I just need to know. Text Carlos the tracking number? Thanks.” With his right thumb, he ends the call and then proceeds to whack the phone against his leg in agitation.
His hand is fine.
He turns weary eyes to me. I’ve always assumed his life is nothing but fun. Music and adoration all day and all night.
Today he doesn’t look like a guy who’s having fun.
“Sorry about that,” he says. “How was the weekend?”
“Okay. I finished with pre-calculus. I did the laundry.”
He gives me a weary grin. “Par-tay.”
“It was pretty wild. I have a killer hangover.” I watch his reaction. As far as he knows, I might have a killer hangover.
He doesn’t even blink. “Hey, I thought up a word for you. Inferior.”
“Uh, what?” Did he just call me inferior?
“A negative without a positive. You can’t be ferior, right?”
“Oh!” I laugh nervously. “Actually, in my case you can. I’m very ferior. Ask anyone.”
I get a tired smile before his phone buzzes again. He looks at the display and then shoves it in his pocket.
“The movie on the plane was the last Harry Potter,” Frederick says as we walk the grounds at his fancy hotel. “Have you seen those?”
“Sure. But the books are better.”
“Right? The Hobbit movies were better, though. Even though they didn’t stick to the book.”
“Yeah?” I wonder what he thinks of the song Ed Sheeran wrote for The Hobbit, and whether he’s as impressed as I am that Sheeran played every instrument on the recording, except for the cello.