Page 29 of His Sound
8Red Heart || Hey Rosetta!
JP
G Major.No, G minor. Wait no, is that even a G?
I tap the same key on my homemade xylophone over and over again, staring down at the page of blank sheet music under my other hand and wondering where to draw the first note.
“Câlice!Okay, fine. I’m calling you a G, my friend.”
I scribble a crooked quarter note onto the bars. It ends up looking like a saggy testicle.
I haven’t used sheet music in years. I was never a fan of it to begin with; it’s way too distracting to focus on all those little lines and dots. You don’t find music on paper; you find music in the air, in your ears, in the faces of the people around you. You find music in yourheart, man.
Yeah, I know. Ace isn’t the only poetic genius in the band.
When I first started taking piano lessons as a kid, the teacher was always screaming at me to pay attention during the theory sessions, but I’d tune her out and draw pictures of superheroes all over my workbook until she’d finally let me sit down at the baby grand and play. I’d listen to her demonstrate a piece once, and almost every time, I could play it right back without even glancing at the sheet music in front of me. My fingers just knew what to do, like they were little mountain climbers and the piano keys were cliffs they’d already scaled a hundred times.
In English they call it ‘playing by ear,’ and it’s what I did through all my years in the high school band. It’s what I still do now that I’m in Sherbrooke Station. Ace will come to us with a new guitar riff and some lyrics, and all I have to do is listen to a few chords before I can hear the accompaniments in my head. That’s how it goes in our band: Ace brings in an idea, and the rest of us flesh it out on our own instruments. It’s our system, and it works.
For the past few weeks, though, I’ve been showing up early to practice sessions in the basement and working on some songs of my own. Don’t get me wrong; I fucking love Sherbrooke Station’s music. I love what the four of us can create together. We’re making alternative rock history, and I don’t ever want that to stop, but sometimes I feel like I have my own sound swirling around inside me. I can’t help wanting to hear it out loud.
The songs are a secret so far. If I told any of the guys, they’d probably laugh. That’s what people do around me: they laugh. I’m the funny one. I’m the one who bounces into rehearsal and starts playing Drake songs on my accordion. EvenIhave to laugh at the idea of me taking something seriously enough to write my own songs. Still, I know if I ever want anyone else to be able to help me play them, I’m going to need to write the music down.
So here I am, trying to figure out where to draw the next saggy testicle on the page.
I forgot my pills this morning, which is making it extra hard to concentrate. Usually I’m good about taking them. When I was a kid, Ihadto be good about taking them; back then, things were so bad I was fucked if I missed just one dose. I got up early today so I could get first dibs on a big garage sale, and I walked out the door without my morning pills. I’m still functioning, but it’s not ideal.
I’ve only got about four bars of the song figured out when I hear the door at the top of the basement staircase open. Matt, Ace, and Cole walk into the room just as I’m tossing the papers into my bag and whipping my phone out. I try to look inconspicuous as I drop into one of the faded armchairs and pretend to read something on the screen.
“You look perplexed,” Matt greets me.
“Stop using big English words,” I shoot back.
“You look like someone just interrupted your jerk-off session,” Cole clarifies.
You can always count on Cole to tell it like it is.
Ace throws his leather jacket down on one of the couches. “You totally were jerking it, weren’t you? Watching anything good?”
He walks over behind my chair and tries to get a look at my phone. I cup my hand over the screen.
“Nosy fucker.”
Not that I wouldn’t be doing the same thing.
“Oh my god, a squirrel!” he suddenly shouts, pointing across the room.
I whip my head in that direction, and while I’m distracted, he lunges for my phone and yanks it out of my hands.
“God, JP. You’re too easy.” He chuckles to himself, and then raises an eyebrow as he stares down at the screen. “Man, thatisperplexing. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone get friend-zoned that hard. No wonder you look like you’ve got blue balls.”
“What are you talking about?” I demand.
“You’re a good guy, grill master. I think this officially makes us friends,” he reads. “I mean, official and everything? Ouch.”
I must have had Molly and I’s conversation open on the screen.
“I’m not friend-zoned,” I protest. “We’refriends.”
