The Sound of Letting Go (5 page)

Friday breakfast

again at the island,

three others sitting at that table.

Toaster waffles cut in nine precise pieces

to please Steven, comfort him;

just the right smear of butter,

perfect soaking of syrup,

and Mom, grinning, saying “Isn’t this a lovely morning,”

as if the words, her lyrics for the day, could make it so;

as if the morning could be anything more

than another preamble, another overture

to a future none of us can predict or understand.

Sometimes I close my eyes and see the four of us in it.

More often, the image is just Mom and Steven and me.

Dad has gone off and found someone else to love,

someone without the baggage,

the pain we bring him.

Mom goes to yoga every night

and I am still there, watching Steven,

waiting for my own life to begin.

I’ve got to escape this place.

Can music people read each other’s minds

from all the way across town?

Know today is the day someone needs to be rescued?

Mr. Orson catches me after jazz band—

which is good because I don’t see Dave Miller

in the hall, so my mood would’ve sunk

if it weren’t for his hand on my shoulder.

“Daisy, I’d like you to take a look at this.”

The school music director puts a booklet in my hand.

“It’s an application to the Overton Music Academy’s Summer Jazz Intensive.

If you’re interested,

I’d be happy to write you a recommendation.”

I know the place. Kids from that summer program

get accepted to Juilliard—

the high note of collegiate music programs—

get invited to play with national orchestras,

score recording contracts . . .

I know, too, that it’s in Pennsylvania,

enough miles from home

to make visits from my family practically impossible.

I imagine a new future scenario, another trio:

Mom, Dad, and Steven making do for the summer

while I am in Philadelphia,

City of Brotherly Love,

home of the great Ben Franklin of A-PUSH fame.

Suddenly even history is more appealing.

“I know you’ve got a challenging family situation,”

Mr. Orson interjects into my reverie.

“If it’s not something you could—”

“Oh, no. I could. I mean, I would love to apply.

Overton looks amazing.” I fan the pages in my hand,

barely glancing at the details, the words, the price—

at anything beyond the promise

of a rest,

a few weeks away from home,

a break from the cursed routines

that serve nobody but Steven.

In homeroom, Justine puts one earbud in my ear,

keeps the other for herself.

We sit with our heads together, listening

to Billy Joel’s classic “Piano Man” on her iPod—

she loves good lyrics even if they’re decades old.

It’s a song about a washed-up musician

who’s never made it anywhere,

but people ask him, always, for a song.

And it’s like another sign, another “don’t be like that,”

egging me on, telling me to apply to Overton

even though, despite what I told Mr. Orson,

a note of doubt is already flattening my optimistic tune.

Would Dad let me apply and leave Mom with no one

to spell her for yoga—hell, for a trip to the grocery store—

since our last willing babysitter quit

after Steven’s new teenager-strong legs

kicked a hole through the front hall closet door?

If I asked them together,

would Mom come to my defense while Dad was all

too-much-money-too-much-time-too-much-stress

until I was the too-much that drove him off

beyond the office late nights,

weekend golf outings, ever-longer “runs”?

“What is it?” Justine asks.

I am sitting beside her,

index finger still pressed against the one earbud,

listening to silence since the song has ended,

the final bell has just rung,

and Mrs. Pendleton, in an offensively flattering blue skirt,

is walking up to her desk.

I am not ready to say the word
Overton
out loud,

so I just giggle,

“Oops, I was thinking about music,”

which is always kind of true.

Justine snorts. Her eyes stray to the evil Cal O’Casey,

whom I can only hate so much

because he plays his saxophone like nobody’s business

and never complains

about having all the crappy bari lines.

In fact, it seems to me his biggest flaw

is that he says mostly nothing, asks for nothing,

refuses help.

If it weren’t for his brogue attracting so much attention,

I think he’d manage to disappear.

I can’t believe I’m sorry

that in history class we’re gunning toward the Civil War.

Now I want to roll back to October,

revisit the first Constitutional Convention,

see the Liberty Bell in glorious, glorious Pennsylvania.

They’ve put poor Cal in this class, though

his entire knowledge of American history seems to consist of insights into the psyche of mad King George.

Justine glances at his bewildered face,

whispers, “Bet now he wishes he had me for a tutor.”

That’s what you get from the logistics of a small-town

public school:

only two foreign language options

and an Irish kid drowning in A-PUSH.

“That Ellington piece was somethin’ this morning.”

Cal catches me and Justine at the door after class.

His words aren’t a question,

and I don’t know how he wants me to reply.

“Think we have a shot at the Battle of the Bands finals?”

That’s a question with an easy answer.

Even though I think Cal plays almost as well as me,

and he’s right,

the Ellington piece sounded amazing this morning.

“There are lots of entrants,” I say.

“We’re up against private schools and big-city programs.

So the odds aren’t great.”

“Music is tough like that.

So much about competitions, getting accepted places.

Winning. More like football, er, soccer,

than most people know.”

“That’s true.” I feel my face crinkle into a smile.

“Enough music talk.” Justine links her arm with mine.

“It’s time for lunch.”

A bowl of frighteningly red soup sits before me,

its tomato base enriched with every meat and vegetable

that didn’t get used up earlier in the week.

Good old “Friday Soup Surprise”

doesn’t taste as bad as you’d think.

I eat hot lunch every day,

not just because I’m too lazy to pack

but because it sets me free from Chez Autistic Frère

(that’s partly French, thank you)

a few minutes faster.

I crumble eight packs of generic saltine crackers

into the ruby swill,

add pepper.

Not so bad.

“I don’t know how you can eat that!”

Justine pushes mandarin oranges around her plate.

“Just close your eyes,” I tell her.

“Like you were doing in homeroom?

What was that look on your face?

Dreaming about Dave Miller, maybe?”

“Not only.”

I push the Overton brochure across the lunch table.

“Oh. My. God. You have to go!” she squeals.

“Go where?” Ned, in a light gray shirt and khakis,

sits down beside her.

“Just some band thing.” I take the brochure back,

grateful for Justine’s “talk later” gaze.

“How’s choir?”

She rolls her eyes. “You know. Christmas carols.”

“I love Christmas carols,” Ned says.

“That so, Little Drummer Boy?”

It’s Dave Miller,

not sitting down or anything but, empty tray in hand,

kind of lingering near where we are.

A holy-cow-Dave-has-come-by-my-table-

two-days-running

(also partly a wow-Dave-really-doesn’t-like-Ned) giggle

escapes my lips along with a wet shard of cracker,

which I smear away quickly with the back of my hand.

“At least I like something.”

Ned lifts his longish nose into the air.

His Adam’s apple slides up the front of his thin neck.

“I like
some
things.” Dave grins

and nods his head at my bowl of soup. “Not that.”

“How do you know if you don’t try it?” I ask,

even managing a flick of the hair, a hint of tease in my tone.

“Isn’t that the question?” He looks at me pointedly.

I think of The Movie House, the pits,

the places to which Dave has invited me,

the places I haven’t gone,

the things I’ve imagined about him. I swallow.

The acid residue of tomato broth stings my throat.

“Okay,” Justine pipes into the silence,

“we all like something. We all hate the red soup.

Except for Daisy.

You gonna sit down, Dave?”

I turn my lips

into what I hope is a careless yet inviting smile, eyes on Dave.He grins back but shakes his head.

“Think I’ll go catch a few rays of sunshine

before the bell.”

Justine and Ned and I follow him with our eyes

as he tosses his soda can in the recycle bin,

deposits his tray, saunters out the cafeteria door.

“Good that you stayed with us, Daisy.

That guy is such a jerk,” Ned says.

There is almost too much to parse:

the implied “us” of Justine-and-Ned.

Ned approving of my actions in that parent-like way,

calling Dave a jerk, even though Ned was the one

flaunting snoot-in-air attitude.

“You should know, Ned,” is my retort

as a memory flashes into my mind

of a day in second grade:

After using the bathroom,

I accidentally tucked my skirt into my polka-dot tights,

exposing my underpants

and a full view of the backs of my legs

to the entire class.

Halfway back to my seat, I noticed Ned giggling.

When he caught my eye, he looked down,

saying nothing.

It was Dave who stood up from his chair

(without asking Ms. Martin, our teacher’s, permission),

walked over to me, and whispered,

“Hey, better fix your skirt.”

Dave didn’t get in trouble.

At that moment Ms. Martin looked up from her desk,

saw, understood,

came over to my desk,

and wordlessly straightened things out.

Now Dave is always tardy, breaking rules,

while Ned fund-raises for our school by selling flowers,

and I don’t know who is right and who is wrong,

only that, if you lived in my house,

attended Autism Family Support Group meetings,

you’d find it hard to be self-righteous either way.

There must be something icy in my gaze,

because Ned now sports a wounded expression.

Justine puts a comforting hand on his forearm.

“Don’t take out your frustration on Ned.”

“I’m sorry.” I stand up fast.

The Overton brochure flutters to the floor;

I say “Got it” before Ned can bend to retrieve it for me.

“Really. I didn’t mean anything. Gonna head for band.”

Now they’re watching me as I set down my tray,

make for the door.