Page 76 of Touch the Sky
I jump when the sharpsnapand squeal of a guitar string breaking echoes into the yard, followed by a shriek.
I’m bolting up the stairs to the hayloft before I even realize I’ve moved at all.
“Shel!” I shout, ripping the door open. “Are you okay?”
I stoop under the low doorframe and then blink hard to get my eyes to adjust to the dimness inside. Dust tickles my nose, along with the sweet smell of hay.
We still need to get our winter order delivered, so the place is barren. Sunlight filters in through the doorway and a couple windows, catching on the dust particles in the air and the loose bits of hay scattered on the bare floorboards. The few bales we have left are stacked along one of the walls.
I spot Shel tucked in among them. Her guitar is lying next to her, one of the strings curling. Shel has her face buried in her hands. Her tiny shoulders are shaking, and after listening for a second, I catch the muffled sounds of her sobs.
“Ma petite!” I say, rushing over with my back hunched to keep from bonking my head on the low rafters. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
She jerks her head up, her teary eyes going wide. Her face is a splotchy red, and the skin under her eyes is all puffy.
As soon as she recovers from her surprise, the tears start flowing again. Her whole face crumples, and she hikes her knees up under her chin so she can wrap her arms around her shins. She looks like a sad little bean, all bundled up in a brown coat that’s a couple sizes too big for her.
I’m not exactly sure what you’re supposed to do with a crying ten year-old. It’s not like she’s a baby I can scoop up in my arms, but she does look like she could use a hug.
I settle for moving her guitar onto the floor and plopping down beside her on the hay bale. She sniffles.
“You don’t have to tell me what it is,” I say. “We can just sit here. Or I can go. It’s okay if you want to be alone. I just wanted to check that you are all right.”
She takes a shuddering breath, her body still rounded into a tiny ball, and stares straight ahead across the loft.
“I broke myfuckingguitar.”
My eyebrows jump up at the force in her voice. I’ve never heard her sound so angry before. I’ve also never heard her swear.
I’m starting to get the feeling this isn’t just about the guitar.
She sniffles again. I fish a crumpled tissue out of my pocket and hold it out to her.
“It is clean,” I say when she gives it a dubious look. “It’s just been in there for a bit.”
She takes the tissue and wipes her nose.
“Thank you,” she says without looking at me. “Can you, uh, not tell my mom I said that? I’m not supposed to say the F word, like, ever.”
I nod at the guitar lying at our feet. “If I broke a string, I’d be saying a lot more than the F word.”
That gets her to look my way.
“You play guitar?”
I shrug. “Now and then. I’m no Jimi Hendrix, but I can play a few songs.”
She loosens her arms, letting them slide to her sides so she can stretch her legs out in front of her.
“Is it always this hard?”
I tap my chin while I think.
“It’s pretty hard,” I tell her, “but it does get easier, especially if you practice on the regular. I was all right when I was a teenager, but now I only play for a few minutes every couple months. I wish I was consistent like you.”
She scoffs and wrinkles her nose. “Like it’s even helping. I still suck.”
“Hey!” I jab my finger at her. “You do not suck,ma belle. You’re learning. Everybody has to learn, and you’re doing it all by yourself. I think that is very cool.”
