Page 11 of Shattered Chords

“Yeah, rememberSchool of Rock?”

I shook my head.

“The movie with Jack Black where he assumes the identity of his roommate to train kids for a band competition?”

I sifted through my mind. The film sounded vaguely familiar. “He assumes his roommate’s identity? Isn’t that illegal?”

“Everything is illegal with you, Mom. Talking to people, accepting gifts.”

“When they’re expensive and from strangers, yes.”

“Dante Martinez isn’t a stranger.”

“He’s a stranger.”

“He’s one of the biggest rock guitarists in the world.”

“And he could be a pervert who preys on young girls.”

“But that’s not the point, Mom!” Ally totally dismissed my argument. She switched to selective hearing every time I tried talking about serious things. “Your lack of knowledge is embarrassing. Especially in front of important people.”

There was no malice in her voice. Like most teenagers, she just couldn’t put her thoughts and ideas into the right words. Sometimes, I wondered whether she really wanted a mom or a girlfriend. I tried to be both, but without a father figure around, my parental side always prevailed.

“How am I embarrassing you?” I was pulling her leg now.

“You threatened Dante Martinez with cops and took a picture of his driver’s license. Who the hell does that?”

“Mothers with teenage daughters who have posters of half-naked guys on the walls of their rooms.”

“What if you scared him off and he won’t come to a show?”

“I’m sure he will if his schedule allows it.”

I didn’t really mean it. Or at least, I thought I didn’t. Famous people hardly had the time for local bands made up mainly of high-schoolers, but as a parent, I said a lot of things that weren’t exactly true. I’d learned that skill in my early twenties when Ally started to talk. She asked too many questions a kid her age had no business asking. I lied to her about Santa Claus. I lied to her about her father. I even lied about Harry Potter. She believed he was real and lived in England until some kid at school told her he was just a book character. Ally was devastated. Then she found out Santa wasn’t real either. One after another, the childhood myths were broken. It made me want to wrap my little girl in a blanket and keep her in my room—where she’d be safe from the rest of the world and the cruel people who lived in it—forever.

Sadly, she’d grown up too fast. With each passing day I noted changes in her body. She was becoming a woman and it pained me to think about the day she’d turn eighteen, the day my ability to protect her from all the bad would cease to exist.

“I bet twenty bucks you know this song.” Ally’s voice dragged me back to reality.

The light ahead turned yellow. I hit the brakes and the tires of my 4Runner skidded against the asphalt. This car didn’t like me. I didn’t like it either, but with Ally constantly asking for a ride to a rehearsal or an audition, I needed extra room for her amps. Having a larger vehicle also made it easier to transport dresses. Overall, the Toyota was a decent upgrade from my stuffy Nissan, but even after three months of driving the car, it still felt too big and unruly.

We didn’t fit well.

Ally connected her phone to the stereo and turned up the volume. “No cheating.”

“No cheating. Promise,” I agreed, my gaze trained on the traffic light.

The melody that poured out from the speakers was painfully familiar. I’d heard it before. Multiple times. On the radio. On TV. In my daughter’s room. At a few parties Harper had dragged me to. Even once at a wedding in Ojai.

My tastes were very diverse. Pop, jazz, rock, some hip-hop. Unlike my kid, who didn’t accept anything beyond the realm of screaming hardcore, I didn’t care who wrote the composition as long as the song evoked emotions, be it sadness or happiness. The names and faces of the creators didn’t matter much. At least, not anymore. They seemed unimportant to a woman who was responsible for another human being, a mortgage, and a family business.

Ally was playing an air guitar, head bobbing along with the beat and hair flying in all directions. She was possessed by the music and didn’t care that a snobby-looking older couple in a Lexus stared at her with eyes full of something between fear and judgment.

As a promising designer turned single mother at nineteen, I was used to sideways glares and whispers behind my back. And I didn’t care.

The light flashed green and when the cars in front of us inched forward, I hit the gas. We drove down the street edged by tall bare-trunked palm trees and wide fences that hid expensive houses. The sun was perched high in the cloudless, washed-out sky and the ragged mountain peaks were sprinkled with light snow. Which wasn’t unusual for California. Even in summer.

When the song reached a guitar solo, Ally snapped out of her trance and turned to me. “This is Dante.”

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