Chapter Twenty-One
Beckett
When I was a teen, my morning routine was to wake my younger siblings and make sure that they brushed their teeth and put on clean(ish) school uniforms. Mam was long gone to work by the time we woke up, and I liked to let Gran—who was getting up there in age by that point—sleep a little longer.
So, I made it my job to make sure the five of us got to school in one piece. Aoife was old enough to help, and she’d braid Niamh’s hair while I made tea and toast for everyone and checked to make sure the younger ones had put their homework in their school bags.
While my siblings ate their breakfast, I’d assemble five brown-bagged lunches, and we’d set off—Aoife to the girls’ grammar school on the hill, where she had a scholarship, Eoin and Niamh to the local primary school a short walk away, and Callan and I to the comprehensive school we’d have to take two buses to get to after dropping the wee ones off.
The morning routine, I didn’t mind so much. I liked helping Mam and Gran and looking after my siblings. My family were—still are—the world to me, and I’d do anything for them.
But the actual going to school part, I did mind. Very much.
And so, it’s kind of funny that, in adulthood, my morning routine has come full circle with me making myself a lunch and heading off to school every day. This time, as a teacher.
It’s a routine I’m falling into, once again, in Serendipity Springs: leaving my apartment with a bagged lunch of a breakfast roll— sandwich— and an apple and heading straight to Blue Notes to spend my morning teaching guitar lessons.
Today is my first day, and I’m already enjoying every second.
“Good, just like that,” I tell Sammie, whose face is pinched up in concentration as she attempts to hold a G chord with her little fingers. “You’re doing amazing.”
As if on cue, her finger slides out of place, and when she strums her guitar, the sound is flat. Off-key.
“No, I’m not.” She looks up at me, all big brown eyes and wobbly lower lip. “I suck, Beckett.”
It’s nearing the end of her forty-five-minute lesson, and I’m assuming that both her mind and her fingers are tired. So what’s happening right now is understandable.
But I know better than to say that to a six-year-old. Logical explanations are not the way to make Sammie feel better about herself and her abilities—she needs to feel it to believe it.
“Hey.” I set down my own guitar, which I was using to show her finger placement, and hop out of my chair. Walk over and crouch in front of her. “Sammie, can I ask you a question?”
She nods cautiously, lip still wobbling, like she’s unsure she wants to say yes in case she gets the answer wrong.
“Okay.” Her expression is so reminiscent of how I used to feel in school that my stomach twists in empathy for her.
I wasn’t good in school. I found it hard to concentrate and spent a lot of time staring out of windows, zoning out and humming tunes to myself in a way that was—needless to say—not conducive to drumming up popularity. Or making teachers like me.
They figured my behavior was due to laziness. An unwillingness to try.
If I had a penny for how many times I was told to “apply myself”… well, I’d have a good few more euros, at this point.
Or “bucks,” as they say here.
Back then, the only place I could escape to was the music room. Music was the one thing that made me feel like I didn't “suck,” as Sammie just said. And when I enrolled in teaching college, it was with the intention of paying this feeling forward.
So, the fact that I’ve ended up teaching in a private school for the academically gifted—a school that would have never let me through its doors as a student—is an irony that’s not lost on me.
It’s one of the main reasons I took up giving volunteer guitar lessons on the side.
This type of teaching is important to me exactly because of moments like this one. Where I can use music to make a difference to how a kid feels about themself.
“Can you name me three people you love?” I ask Sammie gently.
Her face brightens. “Yes! My mommy, my daddy, and my brother Zachary.”
“Brothers are great. I have two brothers, and I love them very much.”
Sammie smiles in solidarity. “My brother is the best. He’s four.”
“I bet you’re a great big sister to him.” I lift my eyes to meet hers. “Do you ever teach Zachary things?”
“Yup.” Her little chest puffs with pride. “I taught him how to color in the lines! And I help him on his scooter because he can’t balance yet, so I show him how.”
“And is he getting better at balancing on his scooter now, thanks to your help?”
“Mm-hmm.” Sammie grins, her cheeks flushing.
I pause. Drop my voice so it's as gentle as possible. “And when he falls off, do you help him back up and encourage him to try again?”
“Yes, because practice makes perfect, my mommy always says.”
“Your mommy sounds really clever. And hey, what do you think Zachary would say to you if he heard you saying you suck?”
She pouts out that lower lip—no longer wobbling—for a moment, before screwing her nose up. “He’d say I shouldn’t say mean things about myself.”
“And would he encourage you to try again until you get it?”
She sniffs. Looks down at her pink flip-flopped feet. “Yeah.”
“So is that what we should do now, with the G chord?”
“Yeah,” she says again, but this time, she looks up. And when I see the determined set of her chin, the conviction in that one syllable word, I know I’ve won her over.
In the remaining five minutes of the lesson, she completely nails the chord.
“Great job today, Sammie,” I tell her as we finish off with a huge high-five. The grin on her face tells me she believes it, too.
“And my mommy was even here to see me do it!” She points towards the window of the lesson room, and I turn around to give her mom a wave where she’s watching through the glass.
I’m momentarily distracted, though, because Keeley’s standing next to her.
And though I’m expecting her, the sight of her—dressed in an oversized Dolly Parton t-shirt and cutoff jean shorts, a leopard print scrunchie holding back her long black hair—makes my heart jump in my chest.
Like, palpably.
“Oooh, she’s pretty ,” Sammie says from beside me.
“She is,” I agree wholeheartedly, before snapping myself out of it and walking the little girl towards the door.
“Is she your girlfriend?” Sammie asks.
I smile, looking at Keeley through the glass. She smiles back at me, and I notice she’s holding two paper cups. “No, not my girlfriend.”
We’re at the door now, but before Sammie opens it, she levels serious dark brown eyes on me. “Why? Does she think you suck? Because you don’t.”
This makes me snort.
“Thanks for that, Sammie,” I say with a chuckle, patting her head.
“Anytime,” she says, then throws open the door. “Mom! Beckett learned me a G chord today!”
“ Taught you a G chord,” her mom corrects, looking down at her daughter indulgently.
I spend a couple of minutes chatting with Sammie’s mom and reviewing the lesson. As they’re leaving, Sammie shoots me a huge, gap-toothed smile over her shoulder and yells, “Bye, Beckett! See you next week!”
“Looking forward to it,” I call back.
Then, Sammie turns her focus on Keeley. “Bye, Beckett’s friend!”
She grins at the kiddo. “Bye, sweetie.”
“Beckett thinks you’re pretty, by the way!”
Keeley’s mouth falls open.
“Sammie!” the girl’s mother chides, barely hiding her smile.
“She’s not wrong,” I say with a shrug and enjoy the way Keeley’s cheeks flame red.
She waits until the mother-daughter duo exit the hallway before she turns to me. “Um, hi.”
“Hi, yourself.” I’m ridiculously happy to see her even though we just saw each other this morning, when she knocked on my door to confirm we’re still on for this afternoon before going off to work at the library.
Today’s the day we’re going to talk to her grandpa at his retirement community. And while I’m not sure what to expect, not sure how much Douglas will be able to tell us about my gran, I’m glad Keeley wanted me to come with her.
Not only because I’m beyond curious to know his side of the story and learn more about my Gran and her past, but also because Keeley wants to introduce me to someone so important to her.
I get the feeling that she doesn’t allow people into her inner circle very often. It’s an honor I don’t take lightly.
“You didn’t tell me you were excellent with kids,” Keeley says in an almost accusing tone that makes me laugh.
“It didn’t really come up in conversation,” I reply with a grin.
“Well, I was bringing you coffee to recharge after back-to-back-to-back forty-five-minute sessions with six-year-olds.” She holds out a steaming paper cup towards me. “But you look more energized and recharged than I’ve seen you yet.”
“Oh, I could definitely use that caffeine, so thank you,” I say as I accept the cup from her. I’ve turned into quite the coffee drinker since coming here. “But I do like kids, and I like teaching kids. Especially kids who love music and want to learn it.”
“I can tell.” She shakes her head. “I love my nephew, but after spending forty-five minutes with him, I often feel like I’ve aged forty-five years.”
“Ah, but the good news is, you don’t look a day over forty,” I tease.
“Rude!” She glowers at me playfully as she reaches out to whack my arm, but my reflexes are quicker, and I intercept her weak hit easily, wrapping her outstretched hand in mine.
The sensation of her small, warm hand against mine sends an immediate tingly feeling down my arm, and we both still, our hands mid-air, entwined.
After a moment, I drop my grip, and Keeley shoves her hand in her pocket. Looks down at her Converse.
Meanwhile, I rub the back of my neck, trying to play it like I didn’t just feel a million sparks travel through me.
Sparks just like I felt a couple nights ago, when we sat out on the fire escape.
For a long, loaded moment, I had the almost insatiable urge to kiss her. That heavy, almost intoxicating feeling of desire hit me out of the blue. I haven’t felt sparks like that—raw want like that—in a very long time. Maybe ever, if I’m being honest.
And it felt like she wanted me to kiss her, too…
But then, that car alarm went off, and she jumped back like a scalded cat. I couldn’t see her expression in the dark, leaving me to wonder if I’d very much misread the moment.
“Should we go?” I ask, all casual-like.
“Sure,” she says quickly. Almost too quickly.
Like she feels the same sparks I do when we touch.