Stupid Fast - By Geoff Herbach Page 0,17
JERRI DROPPED THE F-BOMB
When I got home, Jerri was drinking coffee and reading an old magazine on the front stoop. It was already too hot out there, and she was sweating. It was obvious she was waiting for me. I tried to walk right past her, but she grabbed my arm and looked up into my eyes.
“You’re getting home late,” she said.
“Why did you make me take this stupid job?” I asked.
“Did it feel good to listen to your dad’s music yesterday, Felton?”
I didn’t answer immediately. I looked at her face, which was pale.
“Yes, it did.”
“Sure brought back some memories for me,” she said. “Not good memories.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“You were listening to some pretty angry music.”
“Yes.”
“Do you ever wish you were with him, Felton?”
“With him? What are you talking about?”
“Somewhere not here?”
“Jesus, Jerri.”
I didn’t know what she meant at all, of course. So I tried to tell her what was up.
“Listen. Jerri. I feel like a…Sometimes, I feel like a trapped squirrel, okay? I’m a damn friendless squirrel nut that doesn’t know how to do anything.”
“Squirrel nut?” Jerri raised her eyebrows for a moment. Stared at me. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“There’s nothing to say really,” I told her.
“Can I help you, Felton?”
“I’m hungry.”
“You wouldn’t eat dinner.”
“I know that.”
Jerri stared at me, squinted, then let go of my arm.
“Go inside. I’ll make you a big omelet, okay?”
“Okay.” I opened the door to go in.
“You know I’m really trying,” she said.
“Why?” I asked, stopping. “Why are you trying?” Why do honkies laugh? Why does Jerri need to try? Why can’t I do anything well?
“You know I’m going to a therapist, Felton?” Jerri said.
“No.”
“That’s where I went on Friday. She’s worried about you too.”
Oh. Oh. “Who? Who’s worried, Jerri?”
“My therapist.”
“Your therapist?” My stomach dropped.
“Yes.”
“Good. You need a therapist, Jerri.” I didn’t want a therapist. I’ve had a therapist. My therapist caused me to whisper Gus’s name like he was my girlfriend when I was in fourth grade. My therapist made my heart attacks worse. I went inside and tried to slam the door, but it didn’t really slam.
Andrew was already up doing what he does, singing off-key while playing one part of a song over and over on the piano. He calls the parts he plays over and over “phrases,” but I don’t hear anything like meaning in them or even a complete thought, which I know, from seventh grade English class, a phrase should have. Hearing him and seeing him and not feeling so good about myself anyway, I was mean, which I completely regret. I regret a lot, which maybe is unhealthy. At least he didn’t get I was being mean at that point.
“Hey, Andrew,” I said. “You’re not that great at piano.”
He stopped playing and sat up straight.
“Why?”
“I saw a girl play a hell of a lot better than you just this morning.”
“How did you see her? She practices in the morning? Did she ask you inside?”
I was confused.
“Um, sort of.”
Andrew swiveled around on the bench, eyes wide open.
“Aleah Jennings,” he nodded.
“Oh. Aleah Jennings. She’s black?”
“Uh huh. She lives in Gus’s house. Aleah Jennings, Felton!”
“Yeah.”
“She’s probably the best sixteen-year-old piano player in the universe. I read her blog.”
“Aleah Jennings?”
“She won the Chicago Competition last spring. I watched it on YouTube.”
“I heard her.”
“She makes me…She makes me want to be a zookeeper.”
“What?”
“She’s too good, Felton.”
“What?”
“I should be that good.”
“You’re thirteen. She’s older.”
“Or an astronaut or a veterinarian. I like animals. I’d be a good veterinarian. I don’t like how they smell.”
“You’re a great piano player, Andrew. You’re probably the best thirteen-year-old piano player in the universe.”
“Not even close.” A look of pure ice fell on Andrew’s little kid face, a look of pure unadulterated ambition. “But I’m going to be. I mean…I mean…I can’t believe she lives here. I made Jerri call over there yesterday. I made Jerri…I invited Aleah Jennings to come over for tea tomorrow. I had to invite…Jerri was mad because she’s not feeling herself lately but…”
“Really?” I blushed at the thought. “She’s coming here?”
“I hate Aleah Jennings!” Andrew cried. Then his face turned red and his lips trembled. Andrew’s whole body trembled. “I hate her! I hate her!” he cried.
Wow. Freak. Out.
I watched him for a moment, observed him. This went through my head:
Who carries around a leather pouch full of shiny rocks and crystals?
Me.
Why do I carry around a leather pouch full of shiny rocks and crystals?
Jerri.
Who is crying like an insane baby because there’s a good piano player