Dill glowed, joyous. Not just because of the computer. Because he and Lydia had made up. The gift was evidence of that.
“Oh, here,” Lydia said, taking the laptop and opening it. “Let me show you how to take video of yourself with it. Then you can start recording your songs.”
“I’ve never recorded myself before,” Dill said. “We haven’t even owned a computer since the police seized ours.”
“Seriously? You’ve never recorded yourself? Okay, well, it’s time to start. That’s your first assignment.” She demonstrated how to shoot video and record using the laptop’s built-in videocamera and microphone. “You got it?”
“I got it.”
“Excellent.” She got up and sat back down at her desk. “Now scoot, because I have a lot of work to do,” she said, with a whisking hand motion.
“Lydia. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” She scrolled through her document, not looking up. “Oh, by the way, I have to cancel this week’s Friday movie night. Too busy with college and blog stuff.”
Dill’s face fell. Lydia gave him a cautioning glance and raised a finger, mouthing the words you promised.
Dill nodded, turned, and left.
When he got to the bottom of the stairs, Lydia called down, “Hey, Dad, I gave my old computer to Dill. He’s not stealing it.”
“Okay, honey. Hey, Dill, come in.”
Dill stepped into his study. Antiques filled the room. Leather-bound books. A large Dolan Geiman collage made from found materials hanging on one wall. A couple of guitars hanging on another wall. A vintage Fender amplifier.
Dr. Blankenship rose from his desk and got down one of the guitars: a gorgeous 1960s Fender Stratocaster in a tobacco sunburst pattern. He handed it to Dill, who handled it like it was a museum piece. It must have cost a fair penny.
“This is beautiful, Dr. Blankenship.”
“Put it on. Let’s play a couple licks, huh?”
Dill set down his new computer on Dr. Blankenship’s desk and slung the guitar over his neck. He played a quick run to limber up his fingers. Dr. Blankenship got out a cord and flipped on the amp. They waited for it to warm up.
Dill strummed a chord. “Where did you get this?”
Dr. Blankenship plugged in the guitar. “An estate sale in Nashville. Let ’er rip!”
Dill played, tentatively at first.
“Go on, go on! Screw the neighbors!”
Dill played harder and faster while Dr. Blankenship grinned and gave him the thumbs-up. It felt good. He played and played. And then a stab of nostalgia. The last time he had played the electric guitar in front of anyone was in front of his father, before his father decided not to hand him the snake. Before his father was arrested. He stopped playing and took off the guitar.
Dr. Blankenship took it from him and hung it back on the wall. “So? What do you think?”
Before Dill could answer, they heard Lydia calling down from upstairs. “Daddy, what’s happening down there? Why does your guitar playing sound so much better than normal? I’m scared. What did you do with my daddy?”
“I love my smartass daughter,” Dr. Blankenship muttered. “Anyway, you were interrupted.”
“Yeah. It’s beautiful. I’d say you scored on this one. I haven’t played an electric guitar in a long time.”
“Do you have one?”
“I used to. After…everything happened with my dad, we had to sell a bunch of stuff, so we sold it and my amp. It’s okay. I don’t have anywhere I can play it anymore.”
“How often do you get to see your dad?”
“A few times a year. Next time I go, it’ll be around Christmas. Assuming our junker car is still running by then.”
“If you need a ride to Nashville around Christmas to see your dad, I’d be glad to take you. I get my Christmas treats at the Trader Joe’s there. I could close the office for the day.”
“Are you sure? I mean, that’d be really cool, but I wouldn’t want to be any trouble.”
“It wouldn’t be any trouble. And to be perfectly honest”—he lowered his voice and looked both ways—“it’d be nice to hang out with another male every now and again. There’s a lot of estrogen in this house.”
“I totally heard that,” Lydia called down. “Don’t be sexist and gross.”
“Yeah, I can see what you mean,” Dill said, picking up his new computer. “You tell me when works for you.”
“I will. Hey, did Lydia offer you a ride home?”
“No.”
“Do you want one?”
Dill smiled. “No thanks. It’s a beautiful night.”
As Dill walked home, a brisk wind blew, drying the leaves, which skittered and danced in front of him in the moonlit shadows. Their scratching on the pavement was a song to him.
They sat at a cafeteria table, alone and apart as always. The cafeteria, reeking of fish sticks, buzzed around them. Dill had his unappetizing free lunch. Travis had a massive container of his mom’s mac and cheese. Lydia had her baby carrots, pita chips, hummus, and Greek yogurt. Travis read his Bloodfall book and Dill had in his earbuds, working intently on something on his new laptop.
Lydia read The Diary of Ana?s Nin.
Dill popped out one of his earbuds. “Hey, Lydia, any chance you could upload some videos to YouTube for me tonight? I tried, but the school’s got YouTube blocked.”
“Sure. What?”
“Some videos I made of me playing my songs. Five of them.”
“Five? I gave you that, what, two days ago?”
“I had a bunch saved up.”
Hunter Henry, Matt Barnes, and DeJuan Washington, three football players, walked by their table.
“Hey, Dildo, the police know you’ve got a computer now?” Hunter asked. His friends snickered.
“I think the school blocks kiddie porn,” Matt said. More snickers.
Dill popped his earbud back in and ignored them. Travis visibly tensed up, but he kept reading, also ignoring them. Dill and Travis knew the drill.
Lydia set down her book with a smile. “Yeah, we informed the police at the same time we put your names on the National Micropenis Registry. Don’t be surprised if you have trouble at the airport. Among other places.”
“I’ll show you my dick,” Hunter said.
“Remember, I wear glasses.” Lydia picked up her book.
“Yeah, how could we forget because they make your face so butt-ass ugly,” Matt sputtered.
“You could forget because you lack the ability to form semantic memories, which is why Tullahoma High humiliated you guys by running the same play twice in a row last time they beat you in the fourth quarter,” Lydia said, without looking up from her book.
“What do you know about football, bitch?” Hunter said.
“Well, that you’re supposed to score more points than the other team, and that’s hard to do when you—and specifically you—fumble in your own end zone like you did against Manchester last year, allowing a game-losing safety.”
Hunter turned red.
“Leave it, bro,” DeJuan said. “She ain’t worth it. She’s trying to make you do something stupid.”
“I never have to try very hard,” Lydia said.
Hunter slapped Lydia’s book out of her hands, onto the floor, before the three stomped away.
Dill popped out his earbuds, picked up Lydia’s book, and handed it to her. “I didn’t know you were a football fan.”
Lydia leafed through her book to mark her place. “I’m not. I only keep track of our team’s losses and individual humiliations and shortcomings. I put them in my mental file on every player who gives us shit. It’s really more fun than actual football. Anyway, I gotta run to class. Give me your computer; I’ll take it home tonight and upload your videos.”
Chloe & I have been scoping apartments for fun. What’s your budget? We found a cute place for 3K/month, Dahlia texted.
I can swing 1K/month, no prob, Lydia texted.
LOL I wish. 3K each.
Well, she thought, looks like I’m about to become the Dill of my new group of friends—financially at least. Forrestville dentist and real estate agent money wasn’t much of a match for Chic editor-in-chief money and actress money. She’d have to start thinking of ways to make being the “poor girl” part of her charm and appeal. The way Dolly did, in fact.
Oof. Maybe out of my budget, Lydia texted. Plus haven’t gotten accepted to NYU yet, so.
You’ll get in.