wall-to-wall guitars. In spite of my lessons, I feel ridiculously out of place, especially since the clerk has blue hair and more piercings than a pin cushion. She also can’t be that many years out of high school herself, and she’s on a first-name basis with Jared.
While he tells her what we’re looking for, I catch my reflection in a security mirror and wonder what he sees in me. It’s not my looks that bother me, although I have to admit the clerk owns that blue hair in a way I only wish I could. As a result I’m feeling really plain as well as absurdly preppy in my hideous school uniform with its sweater vest and pleated skirt. But what really eats away at my insides is that I feel like such a poser. Part of me wants to run over to the keyboards in the next room and bang out some Beethoven just to prove that I have the tiniest bit of talent.
When Jared adjusts the tuning on one of the guitars then plays one of his own songs, my insecurity reaches new heights. I’m a string ready to snap, tempted to dash out of the store and declare myself a failure before I ever give this playing thing a fair go.
The clerk totally doesn’t help, either.
“Isn’t he amazing?” she says, offering me a guitar to try. “Watch for it. This dude is going to be famous one day. I’m calling it now.”
The guitar she hands me is a better size for me than Jared’s, but it feels awkward and misplaced in my arms anyway. “Yeah, no doubt.”
Jared just laughs and rolls his eyes. “You’re both crazy. Claire’s the talented one. I can barely read music, but you should hear her on the piano.”
“It’s hard to totally suck when you’ve been taking lessons as long as I have,” I say. But Jared’s compliment gives me enough confidence that I play a few chords. I still wish the clerk would go away, though, so I can relax.
She seems to read my mind because she gets up a minute later. “I think I can leave you two at it. Will I be seeing you Saturday?” she asks Jared as she heads to the doorway.
Saturday? My fingers pause, and I look at Jared curiously. He nods without glancing up.
After the clerk leaves, I place my thumb back on the strings but my mind is elsewhere, overrun with more insecurities. “What’s Saturday?”
“It’s nothing, just this thing they do. The owners are partnered with some organization that helps underprivileged kids. I’ve been volunteering with them, giving some of the kids guitar lessons.”
“Really? That’s awesome.” You’re awesome, is what I think. Why didn’t I know he did that?
But Jared shrugs. “It’s fun. Some of the kids are really into it. So what do you think of that one?” He motions to the guitar, seeming eager to change the subject.
“It’s all right. I don’t know. How did you pick yours?”
He sets down the one he’s been playing with and takes the guitar I have. “Actually, I didn’t. It was my dad’s.”
“I didn’t know your dad plays.” His parents got divorced when he was young, but so far Jared’s rarely mentioned his dad.
“Played,” Jared corrects me. “He used to be good enough to get some paying work, supposedly. That was before I was born. Then he quit.”
“Because of you being born?”
Jared shakes his head. “Because it wasn’t enough for him. He couldn’t be happy with what he had. It’s one of the reasons he and my mom got divorced. He’d get frustrated and take it out on her, pick fights and run off for days. That sort of thing. He’s an asshole. He threw the guitar away during the divorce. My mom rescued it from the trash and saved it for me.”
I’m not sure what to say to that so I fall back on the lamest thing possible. “That sucks.”
Jared scowls. “Hey, it means I got his guitar. It’s the only good thing he ever did for me.”
I lean over and kiss his cheek to save myself from saying anything else stupid, and he smiles and hands me a different instrument.
“Try this one. You just need to pick the one you like—one that sounds good and fits comfortably in your arms. Kind of like picking a girlfriend.”
I poke him and knock the guitar out of tune. “You like me because I sound good?”
“Sound good, look good, are good.” He returns my kiss on his cheek with a kiss on my ear, and an idiotic grin spreads over my face. The same dumb smile is mirrored on his own. Then he taps the guitar. “Play good, too.”
I laugh my disagreement because he’s wrong about that part, but his kisses make me giddy and he dares me to believe it. And as the weeks go by, with him at my side, I do get better. By the end of the year, we’re writing songs together. We have great plans. Ridiculous fantasies. One day Steele-Winslow will be the new Lennon-McCartney.
It’s Jared who takes a part-time job so he can buy me concert tickets for Valentine’s Day. And it’s Jared whose shoulder I cry on when I can’t contain my worries about my mom and the chemo. It’s always him, the first to come through for me on anything. Sometimes we have whole conversations without saying a word because we can read each other’s expressions so well.
I don’t know when my parents morph from being wary of him to outright disliking him, but their annual Christmas party is a good bet. Such a party is not for the faint of heart under the best of circumstances, but I thought I’d prepped Jared well. He looks good in his borrowed suit, he keeps a respectful distance from me at all times, and he calls Grandma B “ma’am” when she speaks to him. All goes well until my parents ambush us by the tree in the den.
“So, Jared,” my dad says. His cheeks are Santa-pink, courtesy of the champagne. “You’re a junior, are you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Started looking at colleges yet?”
Jared squeezes my hand. “No.”
“No?” My parents exchange glances. “Well, you can’t start that sort of thing too soon. Claire’s a year behind you, and we’re already making plans for which schools she’s going to visit this coming summer.”
“Oh, come on,” I say. “You’re making a plan. So I can visit Yale.” That’s where my dad went to school, and he has high hopes of me following.
My dad’s chest puffs with pride. “Because it’s a fine school and ought to be a family tradition. Where did your father go to school, Jared?”
“Um, he didn’t go to college.” Jared kicks at the carpet, clearly aware that was the wrong answer. So he tries to atone. “But he owns his own business.”
“Good for him,” my mother says. She seems particularly frail tonight, washed out in her gold gown, and the tree’s twinkling lights reflect off her pale skin, giving her a mottled appearance. “What kind of business?”
Jared fidgets with the silver ring on his thumb. “A bar in New Haven.”
“So.” I clear my throat. “That puts him kind of close to Yale, right?” Jared’s caught midway between a smirk and a wince, but my dad gives me a knowing look.
