Being Henry David - By Cal Armistead Page 0,74

going to lead to a can of worms I’m not ready to open. As soon as I tell the police my story, everything will be out, and I’ll be done.

“Just give me your name, and we’ll talk immediately afterward. Okay?”

“Yes, sir. I’m Hank,” I say. “Davidson.” He writes this down. Still not ready to be Danny, not yet. When he asks for an address and phone number, I go ahead and give him Thomas’s. Can’t think of any lie that sounds reasonable. Besides, by the time they come looking for me, it won’t matter.

I watch as the EMTs roll Jack’s gurney into the ambulance, close the back doors, and drive off, blue and red lights still rolling, making me queasy. I press back the memories of Rosie and the accident, push them far away, and there’s nothing more to do. So I turn toward the school in a daze. Hardly feel my own feet shuffling through the gravel or my hand on the cold metal door.

As soon as I enter the back hallway of the school, I’m bombarded with bright lights and amplified music. It’s like stepping into another world, unconnected and unaware of what just went down outside. With the loud music coming from the stage, it’s unlikely anybody heard the shouts or the sirens. I feel like an alien, stumbling with squinted eyes into a surreal universe where I don’t belong.

Ms. Coleman spots me in the hallway and gestures at me like crazy. “Hank, there you are!” she shouts in a shrill voice. “Come on, you’re up next!”

She ushers me toward the wings, where Ryan, Sam, and Hailey are standing together waiting for one of the bands on the stage, a heavy metal group, to wrap up. Waiting for me. Panicked looks give way to relief and anger as soon as they see me. Ms. Coleman hands me my guitar, and I stand next to the members of Carpe Diem. I sling the guitar strap over my shoulder and avoid looking at anybody.

“Jesus. About time,” Ryan says.

“Hank,” says Hailey. She’s standing there in her slinky black outfit, trembling hands clutching a plastic water bottle. Afraid, beautiful, angry. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Just…” I gesture vaguely. “Outside.”

She squints at me in the muted backstage light. “Oh my God, look at you. You’ve got dirt on your face. Did you and Cameron get into a fight?” Furious, she yanks a tissue out of her pants pocket, saturates it with water from her bottle, and wipes at my face. I wince as she finds some scraped spots on my nose. “I knew it,” she murmurs to herself.

“It’s not about Cameron,” I tell her.

She reaches into my messy hair, tries to make me look presentable, flicks angry green eyes at me. “Then what happened to you out there?”

“Too much to tell right now,” I whisper, and my eyes burn with acid tears.

Hailey finishes finger-combing my hair and looks into my face. I don’t know what she sees there, but the anger lifts, replaced by concern. “You okay, Hank?” She presses her red lips together.

I look into her pretty face and find myself unable to lie. “I don’t know.”

She grabs my hands and squeezes tight. Concern gives way to something deeper and she presses her forehead against mine. “Listen, Hank. When we get out there, pretend it’s just us, together in the white room, okay?” she says in a soft, soothing voice. “Just you and me, me and you, making music.”

I nod, absorbing her words but unable to respond.

“Okay, Carpe Diem,” Ms. Coleman says, practically pushing the four of us onto the stage. “Get out there. You’re next.”

We walk onto the darkened side of the stage and find our places just as the group on the spotlighted half begins to play. I can’t seem to register anything they’re doing. Can’t identify the music, can’t hear progressions or lyrics, my senses paralyzed.

As if in slow motion, I turn my attention to the guitar, Thomas’s butterscotch Telecaster, and plug it into the amp. Try to get centered, focus. Can’t screw up. Have to push everything else on my mind away. My past, my future. Everything. Put it all in a box, lock it shut and place a beast on guard in front of it. I know how to do that, right?

The group before us finishes their tune, and I’m vaguely aware of applause while I go through the opening chords of “Blackbird” in my head. Come on, I can do this. I know this