Stupid Fast

Chapter 10: I'D NEVER SEEN ANYONE DO ANYTHING THAT WELL, NOT EVEN ANDREW




In some ways, the night that followed the pool day was kind of like tonight. I am listening to music like I did then. I can’t sleep (it is 2:13 a.m.!) like I couldn’t that night. But I’m not thrashing around. I broke a bunch of shit in my room that night.

Yeah.

The morning after I told off Peter Yang’s mom, I had a really hard time getting up for the paper route. Yeah, I’d spent the entire evening barricaded in my room, all emotional and homicidal, pacing, breaking old toys (poor Star Wars action figures), considering the things I had to do to feel good about the world or to destroy the world: get a driver’s license, drive to Mexico, etc. (or fire bottle rockets and Roman candles at Ken Johnson in his stupid car).

I listened to my dad’s old CDs. (Andrew found them in a box in a closet a couple years ago—this was several years post-bonfire, and Jerri barely reacted to them.) Lots of Beatles but also some other stuff, like the Pixies and Nirvana and the Smiths and Sonic Youth and punk music like Minor Threat that nobody else even knows about really (except Jerri, of course, who said she never liked any of it). Andrew took all Dad’s classical CDs. I got all the rock ones. And a lot of it is angry-sounding, and I was angry, a Gus-less wonder adrift and abused. I liked Sonic Youth. It’s what Dad listened to in the Volvo after he ran up the Mound that time.

Jerri came to my closed door at some point in the night, knocked loud, asked me to turn down the music, then shouted “You all right in there?”

“Yes. Leave me alone.”

“What’s that music? You having bad thoughts?”

“No. Just need to be alone.”

“I didn’t mean…You know…I thought you’d want to know that Coach Johnson called.”

“Who?”

“Coach Johnson called for you today, Felton.”

“I don’t care about any Johnson. I don’t care about Coach. And I don’t give a shit about his stupid son, okay?”

Jerri paused outside the door. I imagined her staring blankly at the wood.

“Umm, do you want to talk about it?”

“I’m listening to music here!” I shouted, then cranked up the tunes. I guess she went away.

Yes, the head football coach is Ken Johnson’s dad.

Too much Johnson, man. Too much Johnson. “I’ll pound all you Johnsons!” I shouted. Then I pounded on my chest. Why the hell do they think you want to play football? the voice in my head said. What a bunch of idiots! Sonic Youth exploded from my little computer speakers. I glared and clenched my fists and looked in the mirror.

It was truly exhausting to be so mad. Plus, I was awake until like 5 a.m. And, thus, I was really completely exhausted for the paper route the next morning. (I got up to go at 6:45—not enough sleep!) I was very late delivering. I didn’t get to Gus’s house until almost 7:30.

The people who were living in there had the door open and the curtains were pulled. The living room had every light on, even though it was plenty light outside by that time, and the wood masks were staring out the window. I sort of zombie-walked up the stoop to drop the paper off. I heard a noise when I pulled the screen door open. And I couldn’t help it, my exhaustion left me without my natural fleeing defenses, so I sort of popped my head in to see what the noise was.

The black girl in her white nightie was pulling herself up to Gus’s piano.

Gus is a terrible piano player. Awful. He has no natural rhythm, and he is tone-deaf, and he can’t see the keys very well because his hair wad is in his face. He bangs and shouts and makes me laugh until I have a headache and want him to stop.

This girl, who I now know so well, is not even slightly terrible. She’s got great rhythm and knows how melodies should sound. In fact, she is completely amazing.

Stop. Listen to me. Completely utterly amazing.

I watched. She paused, drew in a deep breath, then just exploded onto the keys, exploded into this classical music thing, which I would not normally like, but oh my holy shit.

I stood there sort of tingling, I’m sure with my mouth hanging open, just staring at her like a total dork while she played. I recognized something in her. Maybe genius? The music was like a wave that hit me in Florida when we were visiting Dad’s parents right before he died. The music made me kind of cry. I’m sort of crying now. Seriously. What a dork I am. This girl, who I love, used every bit of the length of both her arms going up and down the keys. Then I heard this deep voice say “Can I help you?”

I looked up, and there was this huge dad staring at me (Ronald).

“Um, yes. Paperboy,” I mumbled.

“Aleah plays well, doesn’t she?”

“Holy crap,” I replied.

“Well put,” he said.

And then I nodded, handed him the paper, turned, and took off like a stupid-ass jackrabbit.

She’s so good. She’s so good. She’s so good.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the girl in her nightie and her dad and being caught staring at her and how I was alone and how I can’t play piano or anything.

You’re just jumpy. That’s all you are. Jumpy, jumpy, jumpy.

I tore through the rest of the route, hurtling off my bike, dropping papers off at houses, then to the nursing home. Inside, old ladies were out of their rooms, heading to breakfast because I was late, and they called to me: “Help!”

“Shut up, old ladies,” I told them. “I’ve got nothing. You’re just old.”