Chapter 19
NINETEEN
Sara
I can hear Led Zeppelin’s “Black Dog” blaring down the hall as soon as I step from the elevator, and I already know who’s to blame.
Dad.
The muffled music blasts straight into my eardrums when I open the door, where I find him untangling a wad of thick cords. Ah. He’s setting up his amp. Somehow he senses I’m standing in the threshold, because he grins as I drop my shoulder bag onto the floor.
“Hey, honey, check it out.” He brandishes an arm toward the side table perched beside the couch. “I fixed my record player!”
“I can tell.” I have to raise my voice in order to be heard over Robert Plant’s Oh yeahs. “Our neighbors are gonna complain if you don’t turn that down.”
He cups an ear. “What?”
My point, ladies and gentlemen.
“Daadddd,” I moan, sauntering closer so he can hear me. “I thought I was free from this music after that thing broke.”
“What are you talking about?” He starts shimmying his shoulders and, because he hasn’t changed out of his professional work attire, it screams midlife crisis. “These are classics. Look, AC/DC”—he shoves an album under my nose—“Queen! Only the best in this household.”
Shaking my head, I step toward the fridge and grab a sparkling water. “It’s too loud, though,” I call over my shoulder. “It disrupts my spirit.”
“I miss the good ol’ days when I’d rock it out on the guitar with ma’ mates,” Dad says, putting on this terrible British accent.
I shut the fridge. “What are you talking about? You can’t play the guitar.”
But when I come back into the living room, I find him with a shiny red Fender strapped across his chest. Even I have to admit it’s impressive looking, and I know zilch about guitars.
“I will now.” He gives the instrument a strum. Dissonant chords scream through the amp. Oh, geez, we’re gonna be evicted if he keeps this up. “Now I can play along to all my favorite tunes. Check it out—I learned the chords to Black Sabbath’s ‘Iron Man.’”
He strums the strings again, except this time the sound comes out bumpy and jumbled. If he realizes it’s out of tune, he doesn’t show it. Just grins at me, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. Oh, bless him. I guess even dads need hobbies. I shouldn’t burst his excitement bubble.
I walk down the hall. “I’ll be in my room.”
“Wait! I set this up so we could have a jam sesh together.”
“I’ve got homework,” I yell over my shoulder, then step into my room and shut my door—which, by the way, does nothing to muffle the whiny sounds emanating from his guitar.
Joy. At least he’s in a good mood, which serves me well, because I’m going to have to tell him tutoring didn’t go as planned.
Sighing, I change out of my uniform and tug an oversized lemon-yellow sweater over my head, following this by pulling on my softest jeans before collapsing belly first on my bed. I check my phone. No new messages. Blergh. I was hoping Rose would text me back.
I’d wandered over to the bulletin board after Oliver bailed on me earlier, because I’d been determined to do something right. Which is why I grabbed Rose’s number from the Newspaper Club sign-up sheet and then texted her to ask if it was too late to submit a sample article.
I wonder if she looked at my text, laughed, and ignored it.
She probably doesn’t think I’d write a good enough article for her club.
Maybe I should have texted Joe’s number instead—it was right there on the bulletin board next to Rose’s.
She did put him in charge of applications, after all, and he seems like the type who’d respond to a text.
But no—I can’t even summon the courage to talk to him over a screen.
Ugh, do I even have time for Newspaper Club right now?
Maybe Subwayboy was right. What are my priorities?
I should text him and apologize. Say we should meet for tutoring tomorrow.
There—math! That’s one priority down. And if I do that, then Dad doesn’t even need to know how spectacularly bad tutoring was today.
I sit up, grab my phone, and type a message to Oliver.
Sara: Hey, sorry about today. Can we meet after school tomorrow?
My message says Delivered. Okay, that wasn’t so hard, was it? In fact, it’s simpler than speaking face-to-face. At least I don’t have to witness him staring at me like my eyebrows have morphed into caterpillars before his very eyes.
Bzzt, bzzt. Another text.
Oliver: Okay
A mysterious boy of few words. Well, great. At least that’s done.
Maybe I shouldn’t join Newspaper Club. I need to be responsible with my time.
If I keep my grades high, it means I have to focus less on scrambling to catch up, which leaves room for me to focus on other things.
Like my first kiss. And Joe, maybe. At the very least, I can continue to work up the courage to get to know him.
That’s it! If Rose texts me back—and she probably won’t—I’ll tell her my excuse. I don’t have time.
I press my cheek against my pillow and close my eyes.
An urge to vent tickles through me, but I have to stop myself from grabbing my laptop and blogging about my day.
Because blogging isn’t a priority, is it?
But it’s a release. I always feel better when I get stuff off my chest and out in the open.
My phone buzzes. Adrenaline shoots up my spine as I pick up my phone, but it’s only Patrick.
Patrick: Yo!!
Patrick: Did you finish my homework?
Ugh. I almost forgot about the double homework. For a second, I got excited because I thought Rose was texting me.
Is that a sign I should join Newspaper Club?
Sara: Sure bruh. Just finished
Patrick: I don’t believe you
Patrick: Do you even know what it is??
Sara: What is it?
Patrick: O___o
Patrick: 300-word essay for English. Topic: my favorite vacation
Sara: lol you want me to make up a random vacation for you?
Patrick: Ha-ha-ha yeah
Sara: My Favorite Vacation: The Time I Took Pearl to the Barbie Museum
Patrick: Oh god
Sara: Don’t act like you hated it!
Patrick: Ha-ha-ha-ha XD
A new notification makes my phone vibrate, the alert appearing at the top of my screen. The message is from a number I don’t recognize. I swear, if this is one of my dad’s friends trying to get hold of him through me again—
Unknown Number: Hi, I heard you’re interested in joining the Newspaper Club
Huh, that’s weird. This isn’t Rose’s number. I’d know, because I saved it to my contacts earlier. But I guess I could see who’s messaging me.
Sara: who diz???
Unknown Number: Sorry, this is Joe Yang from school
I bolt upright. My heart accelerates, a rapid ba-bump, ba-bump rocking in my chest. No, surely I didn’t read that correctly. So I peek at the message again, rereading it. Then I reread it once more just to make sure I’m not hallucinating.
There’s his name. Joe Yang.
Joe Yang from school is texting me, Sara Lin, about Newspaper Club.
What on earth?! What do I do?
This is what my brain sounds like: AHHHHHHHH.
Before I can think of a way to solve this problem, another text arrives.
Unknown Number: Sorry, Rose gave me your number since I’m in charge of applications
Joe Yang has my number because Rose gave it to him! I could run twenty laps around the park right now. Pure elation zips up my spine as I add his name into my contacts, then position my thumbs to reply.
Sara: Oh, hey! No worries!
Sara: Wazap?
I cringe. Wazap? Why the heck did I write that? Why the heck did I send that?
Joe: Just letting you know you can submit your entry to me
Ack, why have I forgotten how to text like a regular, functioning human? What do I write back? Should I send something short, like okay—or is that too cold?
Wait. I’ve got it.
Sara: Okay
Sara: : )
There, a smiley. That’s pleasant.
Joe: Can’t wait to read it!
Joe: Loved your history paper ; )
I gasp. A winky face? From Joe? Joe who loved my paper?!
I might have a heart attack. Actually, I may faint like I’m a woman in a Victorian drama. Because I’ve just had my first conversation with Joe Yang. Sure, it’s over text, but it still counts.
No more excuses. I’m going to write that essay for Newspaper Club, and it’s going to be incredible. Better than anything I’ve written on my blog, that’s for sure. These words will sing. They will move people. They will change lives!
But—oh. What do I write about?
From the living room, Dad strums another chord, the wailing permeating through my door. I laugh. What a goofball. I shouldn’t have been so hard on him earlier. He’s trying something new, just like me.
Maybe if I rock out with him for a bit, an article topic will pop into my brain. Besides, I could use a break before starting homework.
I’m about to toss my phone onto my bed when it buzzes again, but the notification tells me it’s only Patrick. Whatever he wants, it can wait. I need to fill my soul with yacht rock in order to become inspired.
I’ve got an award-winning article to write, after all.