Another Little Piece of My Heart Read online

  I feel a strange mix of sadness and relief as I observe the shift schedule hanging over the time clock. Tomorrow is my last day. I offered to stay through Friday—we’re leaving on Sunday—but Ben said he had it covered. And honestly, I wouldn’t mind those couple extra days to do nothing but practice for my Friday night coffee-shop debut.

  Grabbing my till, a pen and scrap paper, I’m armed for the job. Time to face the music, er, questions.

  I don’t get more than the chance to say hi to Beth, though, as I get behind my register. I’d forgotten all about today being Tuesday—senior citizen discount day—so it’s a slow but steady pace.

  Behind me, I hear Beth turning on the charm. “I’m so sorry, I’d never have guessed you were over sixty-five. You don’t look a day older than my mom.” She fakes a giggle. “If you go up to customer service, they’ll refund you the difference.”

  A somewhat round woman steps in my line, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Sort of. This customer put me through hell last week because she forgot to bring enough money for all her groceries. So I rung her up, then had to remove, one by one, the least essential items from her order until she had enough cash to pay for what was left. But at least I remember that she is definitely over sixty-five, so I’m spared some awkwardness.

  “Oh, good. It’s you,” she says as she unloads her cart. “I want you to know I triple-checked my purse before I left the house this morning.”

  I smile politely.

  “That was so horrible last week. I was so embarrassed, but you were lovely and gracious. I appreciated it.”

  “Just doing my job.”

  My forgetful customer hands me her shopper’s card. “Well, I made you work above and beyond the call of duty. I want you to know I wrote your manager a letter so he knows how helpful and nice you are. I told him he should give you a raise.”

  I almost drop her card handing it back. “Aw, thanks. Tomorrow’s my last day, though.”

  “Yes, that’s what he said. You’re going off to school, I assume?”

  Sourness takes a bite out of my recently improved mood, but I fight it off. “Not yet. I’m taking a year off to work on my music.” If Friday night goes as badly as I fear, I’ll be taking a year off to work on rebuilding my self-esteem.

  “Good for you. A little life experience is never a bad thing before devoting yourself to studies.”

  “In that case, I’ll be well-prepared for college.” I mean, that pretty much sums up this past month: life experience of the emotional-trauma kind. That’s supposed to build character, isn’t? If I can’t get a decent song out of this, maybe I should forgo music and write a memoir.

  Traffic in the market slows down after my satisfied customer leaves. Beth finally gets a chance to slip away from her register, and she cleans the conveyor belt on mine so we have an excuse to talk.

  “I’ve been working here for two years, and no one’s ever written a note about me.” She pouts.

  “Be glad. You have to suffer much before you do anything note-worthy. It’s not really worth it.”

  “Yeah, I bet.” Beth hunches over the belt, her cheeks reddening. I can smell her strawberry-scented lip gloss she’s so close. “I’m so sorry for the other day, by the way. I had no idea that was supposed to be you. You are not the bitchy girl he describes in those songs. I was in shock.”

  Her embarrassment makes me kind of embarrassed, too. “Hey, don’t worry about it. I know that. And it wasn’t fair of me to not say anything when we talked about Jared before. So how would you know? I should have owned up to knowing him. It’s just not something I like to remember.”

  “Oh, I completely understand. I can’t imagine how horrible it’s got to be to turn on the radio and hear your ex singing about you. I’d die.”

  I snort. “Trust me, I came close to dying the first time I heard him on the radio. Actually, I came close to murder the first time I heard him on the radio. Lucky for Jared, I didn’t know where to find him.”

  “You do now.”

  “True.” I flex my knuckles. “But I’m over the murderous urge. My rage has simmered more to the knee-him-in-the-nuts stage, but even that’s passing.”

  Beth laughs and tosses her curls out of her face. “I’m going to tell everyone I know that I’ve met the real person Jared Steele sung about, and she’s not that girl in his songs. And that he’s a total liar. If that’s okay with you.”

  “Hey, fine with me. Just don’t give out my name. But really, all I care about is that I know I’m not that girl.”

  And maybe that Jared knows it, too. Because let’s face it, I might not be over Jared, but after what I did to him, he’s got to be over me. But it should be the real me he’s over; not the me he conjured up to go with a catchy tune. It should be the girl who had to make a difficult choice and might have screwed up, but who certainly didn’t dump him for a stupid red Miata.

  A customer steps into my line and I nudge Beth. She gets up and I get back to work.

  But Beth’s comment sticks in my head as I scan boxes of cereal and cartons of orange juice. It repeats incessantly as I bag groceries—eggs and bread on top—and hand over receipts for signing.

  I’m not that girl.

  I find myself nodding to it, with a rhythm all its own, when no one’s in my line. I’m not that girl.

  “Whatcha bopping to?” Beth asks.

  I realize I am, in fact, bopping, and the tune is catchy but unfamiliar. “Not sure.”

  Even as I say it, it becomes untrue. I know what it is—it’s what I’ve been desperately trying to pull out of this crappy-assed month. A new song. A good new song. One fully forming even as I stand at my register.

  My heart beats faster. There’s promise here. Lots of promise, and my brain is working it all out whether I’m ready to capture it or not. With quivering hands, I grab my pen and scrap paper and scribble down as much as I can remember.

  The rest of my shift passes tortuously. My fingers rebel, fumbling with bills and missing keys. When I have a free second, they’re pressing against my palm, against imaginary strings while my brain parses out the appropriate chords and mulls over lyrics.

  Dancing to a music no one else can hear is all that keeps me from bursting into song as I work.

  Although lately I’ve been dragging my feet to get home, today I can’t fly out the door fast enough when my shift is over. I race upstairs to the attic, not bothering with politeness and hoping April isn’t in the bedroom to derail me.

  I’m shaking all over and giddy, like I’m on the world’s biggest caffeine rush. It’s what always happens to me when I know I have a good idea.

  I dig out my notebook and pull the scrap paper from my pocket. Pausing for a moment, I sit on the edge of my bed and force myself to do Kristen’s alleged yoga breaths. I have to focus enough to write. The energy rush is great, but I can’t work if I’m too scattered.

  Then I get out Jayna and get to work.

  I’m not that girl

  Why do I have to shout it to the world?

  Hmm... “Why do you make me shout it to the world?”

  I scratch things out. Write phrases back. Play with words. Test out chords.

  When are you gonna see?

  I’m not the one locked in your memory.

  So do me a favor and let me be.

  “Set me free? Let her be?”

  No, let me be who I am, not who you think I am. There’s that emotional versus literal honesty thing again, and it’s all confounded by needing a phrase that fits the tune in my head.

  I can picture Jared in his bedroom, going through the same process as he wrote his songs about me. Was he frustrated or focused? Angry or sad? Did he have his bag of Peanut M&M’S beside him? I catch myself smiling as I wonder.

  I don’t even hear someone calling my na
me until that someone pounds on the attic door.

  “Claire! Cuz?”

  I jump. “Yeah?”

  Hannah opens the door. “You got home an hour ago. Aren’t you going to eat? We saved you dinner. I didn’t even lace it with anything, although I was tempted.” She sticks her tongue out at me.

  “Oh, yeah. Food.” I’d grabbed a peach before leaving Milk and Honey because I do my best song-writing when fueled by fruit. But a peach isn’t much dinner, and yet strangely, I’m not that hungry. Still too much energy in me. “I’ll get something soon. Thanks for saving it.”

  “‘Course.” Hannah reaches for my scrap paper. “I heard you strumming something up here. What are you working on?”

  I grab the paper from her. “New idea. Consider it a surprise. I’m going to play it at The Bean Factory’s open-mic night on Friday if I can polish it before then.”

  “Ooh!” Hannah claps. “That’s awesome. Can’t wait to hear you play.”

  Huh, maybe telling Hannah wasn’t the best idea. I hadn’t considered that my family might want to hear me, and I’m not sure I want them to. Still, I owe Hannah. “Okay, you can come. But do not—do not—tell anyone else. I will be way too nervous.”

  “You’re used to performing.”

  “Not alone.”

  She harrumphs. “You have to let me tell Lisa. She’s the one who suggested it.”

  “Okay, fine. But only Lisa.” I grimace. “And tell her not to tell anyone.”

  While I was confident about playing with my band and wanted Jared to hear that, I’m so not confident in this solo gig.

  The thought of it hits me anew with nerves, and the remains of my giddy energy die. With its demise comes hunger.

  I set Jayna down and let Hannah talk me into the kitchen. One more day of work, then two days to pull myself—and a couple songs—together. And if I suck on Friday? Well, aside from my cousin who probably won’t know the difference, I won’t ever have to see anyone in the audience again.

  That makes my stomach unknot enough to eat.

  Chapter Twenty

  On my last day at Milk and Honey, I exchange phone numbers with Beth and stroll home, concentrating on how it feels to let the experience end. Overall, that would be good. My feet and my back hurt, and my hands are dry from touching so much paper all day long and lined with cuts. And to top it off, I have a faint headache.

  All normal though. I will never ever fail to appreciate a cheerful, helpful store clerk.

  When I get home I discover I’ve missed dinner again, too.

  “Hurry up and eat,” Hannah says. “We’re going out for ice cream when you’re done.”

  I’d rather go upstairs and finish my song, but I’ll have a couple more days to do that. It would be dumb to forgo what little of summer I have left. My song can wait. One last trip for ice cream, for sitting on a sand-encrusted plastic chair on the boardwalk, watching the sky over the Atlantic darken while I fight to eat my scoops before they drip down my fingers—that cannot wait.

  My dad’s in the kitchen, drinking coffee and doing something on his laptop. We’ve barely spoken ten words since he got back from the Michelsons’ party, and I’m not sure what to make of it. No punishment’s been doled out so far. Not unless this silent treatment counts, and that’s been more positive than negative.

  “Done with your job?” he says as I douse my pasta in Parmesan cheese.

  Surprised, I dump way too much on. “Yes.”

  “Did you enjoy it?”

  Is that a trick question? “Not exactly.”

  “That’s why you need to go to college.”

  “I would be going to college. But if you’ll remember, something ate my college fund.”

  My dad turns the laptop around so I can see the screen. He’s on one of his financial sites. The numbers are meaningless to me, but he points to a low six-figure sum in the bottom right corner. “No, something borrowed from your college fund, and it’s being restored. This isn’t enough for four years at Brown, and you’ll probably be ineligible for financial aid next year because I hope to be working by then. So, after you turn eighteen, this fund goes in your name. I’m trusting you’ll use it for the right thing, not running off to New York to play with your band.”

  Pasta sticks to my throat and I choke on the Parmesan flakes. “Where did you get that? That’s mine?”

  “It’s part of what I’ve been working on this summer—trying to make the most of what we have left. With your grandparents’ help, I’ve also started a fund for April. She’ll have to go to public school for the next three years, but it’s a good high school, and knowing April she’ll get over it once she figures out she doesn’t have to wear a uniform every day.”

  “Thanks.” It comes out kind of squeaky because I’m in shock.

  My dad just nods. “You’re a talented musician, Claire, but your mother and I always wanted you to be more than that. We wanted you to be an educated one, not someone who will sign anything handed to you and who won’t monitor her finances and end up in trouble. You have a good brain. You should see what it’s capable of, and nothing will inform your music better than being exposed to new ideas and information.”

  If it’s possible to go deeper into shock and still breathe, it might have happened. “Yes. I mean, I agree.” He doesn’t say anything else, so I add kind of lamely, “Sorry I didn’t go to the gala.”

  “It was fine. No one missed you.”

  And that’s my dad. Any wonder where April gets her charm from?

  Lack of ceremony aside, my mind buzzes as I shove down the rest of my dinner. College fund has been restored. College has been restored! It’s a freaking miracle. My dad might as well have parted the Red Sea. Sure, the money came too late for the fall, but maybe not too late for the spring semester, and anyway those sorts of details don’t matter right now. I’m going to college, after all. That’s what matters. I need to call Kristen so I can squeal. Unfortunately, I don’t have time now, so I’ll simply celebrate with an extra-large, extra-topping-laden ice cream.

  Giddy, I dash through the living room, yelling to Hannah that I’ll be ready to go as soon as I change.

  “Oh, there’s something for you on your bed,” she says as I dart up the stairs.

  There is indeed something on my bed—a folded piece of paper. “Where’d this come from?” I ask April.

  My sister’s putting the finishing touches on her makeup. Why she needs makeup to get ice cream, I can’t imagine.

  April scowls. “Jared and Mike were by today. Jared left it. He said it’s yours.”

  My heart misses a beat as I pick up the paper. He’s written my name on the page, and even that’s enough to smack me with a dull sadness. I remember seeing my name on other papers—notes and cards. All stuff I’d burned the first time “Daddy’s Girl” played on the radio. Kristen had declared fire to be cleansing. The only thing I’d put my foot down over was this cute purple-and-green plush snake he’d won me at a carnival. No stuffed animal deserved to die in the flames for Jared’s treachery.

  “Are you going to open it?” April asks.

  I close my eyes, releasing the memories of blackened notes and cards and the snake that’s collecting dust in storage with my other belongings. “Yeah, I’m trying to figure out what it is. Shut up.”

  “Well, you’d know if you opened it, stupid.”

  I ignore her and unfold the paper. Jared’s handwriting is as illegible as ever, but I’ve retained my ability to decipher it: “Been playing around with that song you were working on. Thought you might be having problems with it because it was meant to be a duet. Maybe this will help?”

  I’m going to be sick. My insides are frothing and the room is swaying. I sink to the bed because I’m not sure I can stand.

  He finished my song. Someh
ow he remembered what I’d written, and he completed the rest.

  That’s bad enough. More proof that Jared’s better than I am, blessed with more talent in his pinkie finger than I have in my entire body. Again, I have to wonder what I think I’m doing by attempting to play solo.

  But that’s only part of it. And no matter how insecure it makes me feel, what’s even more traumatic is that it’s not just that Jared did this for me at all. It’s how he did it. I barely notice the chord notations because I’m struck dumb by the lyrics he wrote. He took the song I thought I was writing about my family—the tangled knots of love and power struggles, as Kristen put it—and made it about us.

  Or what could be us. After all, it’s still comes down to love and power struggles really. The knot at the heart of my family issues has its very own Jared thread.

  “What did he give you?” April asks. “You okay?”

  I manage to nod, afraid of what will come out if I open my mouth.

  “What is it?” She tries to snatch the paper from me, and that breaks my stupor.

  I yank it away with trembling fingers, not wanting her to see and make a snide comment. More importantly, not wanting to share until I understand it myself. “He gave me some notes on a song I’m working on, that’s all.”

  As if that’s nothing. As if I’m not examining every syllable or pencil mark for some hidden meaning.

  “What song? Oh, God. You’re not writing songs with him again, are you?”

  “No. It’s something he heard me working on.”

  Songs don’t interest April, thankfully. She huffs to the door. “You’re nuts. Ice cream, come on.”

  “I’m not going.” The very thought of it turns my stomach, and I can’t hold myself together for too much longer.

  “Whatever.”

  I rest my head in my knees, breathing deeply. The dizziness hasn’t left yet.