Page 31 of The Play Maker

I start picking through a melody I half-wrote weeks ago. There’s something in it I still haven’t figured out.

I don’t write songs for attention. I write ‘cause it’s the only place I don’t have to fake being okay or funny or loud.

I strum softer and let the sound fill the room.

Then my phone buzzes.

I glance down, seeing Scarlett’s name flashing on the screen.

I place the pick in my mouth and swipe to answer the call. “What’s up, Shrimp?”

“Why do you sound like you got run over by a truck?”

I chuckle, shaking my head, and take the pick out of my mouth. “Hello to you too, Scar,” I reply.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

I flop back onto the bed, my eyes flicking to the ceiling. “Yeah. Just tired. Long day. How’s school?”

“Boring. You?”

“Also boring. Except mine’s stupid expensive and might ruin my life.”

She laughs. I miss that laugh. I miss tickling her and annoying the shit out of her. “You’re so dramatic. Did you play anything new?”

“Maybe.” I sit up, resting my back against the headboard. I strum a few soft chords, not really sure if they sound right. “This one doesn’t suck.”

She chuckles. “You say that every time.”

I smirk. “Maybe I’m just humble. And consistent.”

There’s a pause on the other end. “Or maybe you’re scared people might actually like it.”

I stop playing for a second, fingers frozen above the strings. Damn, maybe she’s got a point. “You sound like my therapist.”

“I am your therapist. And my rates are going up.”

I laugh and pick up the rhythm again. “You wanna hear it or not?”

“You know I do.”

I settle the guitar and start messing with the strings. My fingers move on autopilot, like they always do when I’m trying to unwind. It’s not a song yet, just a few chords I can’t seem to get out of my mind. It’s still a little rough around the edges, but that’s fine.

“It’s really good,” she says after a while. “You should post it.”

“Nah.” I set the guitar down. “I’m good with just you hearing it.”

She sighs, knowing I won’t ever post it, no matter how many times she tells me to. “When are you coming home?”

“Soon,” I assure her, running a hand through my hair. “Maybe during winter break.”

“You better. I miss you or whatever.”

I chuckle. “Miss you too, Shrimp.”

Most people are glad to be away from their family, but Scar and my mom are the most important people to me.

I still remember when I taught her how to skate. Mom was working late, and I needed to practice. Dad wasn’t around, so I always had to be. I’d push Scarlett around on the rink, her tiny hands clinging to a traffic cone like it was her lifeline. She’d shriek every time she thought she might fall through the ice.