Sitting in the music teacher’s front room on a ridiculously low, sagging sofa, Felix gave up trying to read the New York Times. He refolded it, tried again to cross his legs—which was impossible given that his bottom was inches from the ground—and listened. Harry didn’t sing much when he was in the house, but Felix was painfully familiar with the warm-up exercises. Even in a classroom setting, they sounded like a cat being strangled.
Zak, the teacher, began strumming an acoustic guitar while Harry jabbered away about school. And I’m paying for this? A discussion followed on the importance of thinking ahead for the switch to modality three at the end of the third line in “Pony Street.” Elvis Costello’s “Pony Street”? Tom had been a big Elvis Costello fan. Once, he’d taken Felix to see Elvis perform at the Royal Albert Hall. Felix sat up.
Then Zak started playing real music, and the unfaltering voice that accompanied him was Harry’s. From the front room, it was impossible to imagine that such a powerful voice—clear and rich—belonged to a teenager with vocal tics. Felix never indulged in what ifs—because really, what was the point?—but he couldn’t stop the thirty-second fantasy: What if his son had never developed Tourette syndrome? How different would their lives, his marriage, have been?
Felix closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, the music had stopped. Harry emerged, head bobbing, and tripped over air. His voice folder and sheets of music drifted to the floor.
“Keep up the good work, Harry. Same time next week,” Zak called out, as an attractive young woman with pigtails walked in carrying a guitar case.
“Hey, Harry,” she said, grinning.
Harry, who had been down on all fours, shot up with his arms full of paper. “Hey, Rach.”
“Harry,” Felix said, “please take two seconds to put those back in your folder before you drop—”
Too late.
Rach giggled. “You klutz!”
“Tell me about it.” Harry laughed.
“Here, let me help,” she said.
“Nah. I got it. My dad can help. Go have your lesson. The clock’s ticking.”
“Nice to meet you, Harry’s dad,” Rach said, and disappeared into the music room.
Harry was back on the floor, trying to retrieve a piece of paper from under the upright piano, where there was dust and God only knew what else. In a house this dilapidated and rickety, mouse droppings and dead cockroaches were likely candidates.
“Aren’t you going to ask what I think?” Felix said to Harry’s backside.
“Sure, Dad. What did you think?”
“Not bad. Except for that note you missed at the end of the third verse. And there was a bit after the second verse when your voice wobbled.”
Harry stood, laid out all his pages on the piano stool, and stuffed his folder in an annoyingly haphazard way. “That’s why I didn’t ask,” he said quietly.
They drove home in silence, except for Harry’s vocal tics.
ELEVEN
Felix stared at his Thursday to-do list until a low-grade headache set up shop in his temple and started telegraphing little messages of pain across his forehead. Tugging off his glasses, he squeezed the bridge of his nose.
Midnight, and he had two things left to accomplish before bed: hang the happy birthday banner and blow up balloons. Were fifty too many? Ella had told him not to bother with balloons, but if he was doing this, he was doing it right. Besides, a quick Google search would, no doubt, debunk the mystery of how to hang balloons.
Due to the astronomical expense of party supplies, Felix had taken full advantage of all the deals. Thanks to the discovery of BOGOF—buy one get one free—they had enough paper goods for Harry’s eighteenth. In fact, they would never need to buy paper plates or napkins again, which was why he’d chosen a timeless color. Black.
He should probably create tomorrow’s to-do list before the headache crippled him. Suppose you had to do this task multiple times a year because you had more than one child? Unimaginable.
He pulled out a blank index card and started writing. Had Harry told everyone to bring sleeping bags and pillows? Could sixteen-year-old boys be relied upon to remember pillows? What if they forgot to bring bedding? He ripped up the list and started over.
Remind Harry:
1) All boys sleep in his room. (No louts sleeping on the sofa.) 2) Midnight curfew on noise.