Page 24 of Fake

A couple years ago, I started a weekly guitar class for the foundation kids. I fell in love with teaching, but more importantly, I fell in love with the children. Watching their eyes light up when they nail a song they’ve been struggling with, or their little faces tighten with concentration while we master a new skill has taken my love of music to a new level. These kids, they’ve had hard lives. Broken homes, shitty parents, not enough of anything to go around. Some of them jump in fear every time the door opens unexpectedly. Or flinch when I reach out to shake their hands. Some hide behind their parent’s legs when we first meet, peeking out with distrust baked into eyes too old for such young faces.

Mom always said music can heal, and I see that truth for myself every week. Slowly but surely, these kids learn to trust again. Not just the world at large, but in themselves as well. And that’s what really matters.

Though poor Ricky Valdez has a long way to go on that last one, courtesy of a mom who criticized every move he made, verbally abused his father, then divorced the man when the company he worked for went under and he lost his job.

I check the time. School let out fifteen minutes ago and Ricky has another hour and a half to drive himself crazy before the talent show. I pull up his contact info and call as I walk to my car. He answers after one ring.

“I’m sorry I bothered you, Mr. West,” he says breathlessly, “but I’m seriously freaking out.”

“We can’t have the best guitarist at Oceanview Elementary freaking out. That’s just not right.” I climb into the car, ignite the engine, and crank the AC. Mina was a sweaty mess when she arrived at the restaurant. I assumed it was because she was late, but the weather probably had more to do with it. Punctuality and discipline don’t seem to be high on the list of things that matter to the Hot Mess Express. Nor do privacy and a general sense of right and wrong, given her liberal use of the words “dazzling and spectacular” made it clear she reads Fallon fucking Mae’s bullshit clickbait gossip blog. No wonder Mina expects the worst of me, even though her mood board had me thinking she might see the real me.

That picture of the barbed wire…

How on the nose can you get?

“I shouldn’t have called…” Ricky’s little voice brings me back to the problem at hand. “Dad said not to bother you because you’re very busy doing an important job and I’m just a kid and you probably only gave me your number to be nice and I really shouldn’t take advantage?—”

“Hey now, buddy. If I didn’t want you to call me, I wouldn’t have given you my number. That’s just the way I work. Now. What’s going on?”

Ricky runs down a list of imagined failings, starting with his complete inability to play the song he perfected months ago and ending with a teary rendition of, “They’re all gonna laugh at me.”

The kid is way past freaking out. He’s nearing a full-on panic attack. As much as I need to go back into that restaurant, smooth things over with Mina, and make plans for the evening so we can sell this asinine lie, Ricky needs me more.

When I arrive at Oceanview Elementary Ricky is waiting at the front door, his gig bag strapped to his back as he paces back and forth, his sneakers slapping the pavement as he runs his hands through hair almost as black as Mina’s. When we first met, his clothes were a size too small and the boy himself was rail thin—his father even thinner than that. Now, Ricky’s cheeks are round, his clothes are new, and his little face lights up when he sees me. We find a child-sized table and chairs near the playground. We sit and he plays, frowning deeper with every strum of the strings.

“See?” he says, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head. “I can’t do this.”

“What are you even talking about? I just watched you do it.”

“Yeah, but not good. I suck.”

“Ricky.” I arch a brow.

“I know, I know. Don’t say ‘suck.’”

“Not when it’s not true. Show me C again.”

Ricky arranges his fingers and strums.

“Now G.”

He deftly switches positions and strums again, then frowns. “See? The E string keeps buzzing.”

“I hear no buzzing. And it’s almost like I know enough about guitar to be your teacher or something.”

“Funny.” Ricky’s tight laugh encourages me to crack another joke.

“Don’t forget to tip your waitresses. I’ll be here all week.”

His brows furrow in confusion. “We don’t have waitresses. Unless you mean the lunch ladies?”

One of these days I’ll learn to stop when I’m ahead.

A text comes in and I take a peek. It’s Mina, wondering where I am. It’s a fair question, and I’m sure if I explained she’d understand, but she’s so quick to assume I have villainous intent, I don’t feel like giving her an explanation. I don’t need to justify myself to her.

My God. Is this really who I want to be? What version of Nathan West isn’t willing to offer a simple explanation for his actions? The one that’s spent too much time listening to Dom and his cynical views on the world, that’s who. Is it his influence that made me think this whole pretend girlfriend thing was a good idea in the first place? It was all I could do to keep a straight face when I made the proposition. Mina’s shocked expression was so on point, and me? I worked so hard to play it cool I don’t think I even blinked…

“See!” Ricky grimaces. “I knew I was bothering you.”

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