Page 15 of Resurrection
He was three years older, way cooler, and, apparently, a huge Limp Bizkit fan. And for some reason, he wanted to be friends with me.
Eventually, his gaze landed on my blue Ibanez that Dad bought off our old neighbor when I was ten. It was on its stand in the corner by the window.
"Wanna hear something?" I asked nervously.
Adri's face broke into a grin.
"Sure," he said, sinking onto the edge of my bed. "Are you any good?"
"I’m decent," I replied like it was no big deal. But his excitement made me feel like I was one of my idols.
I picked up my guitar from the stand and ran my fingers over the strings, enjoying the way his attention focused entirely on me. Then I plugged it into my amp and strummed a few chords, letting the notes fill the room.
"Your parents don’t mind the noise?" Adri asked.
"Mom sometimes gets pissed when I practice for a long time. Dad just says, ‘At least it’s not drugs.’"
He snorted out a laugh but then immediately schooled his features into something more serious. "Alright. Let me see what you’re made of."
I started on a riff I'd been working on. Adri watched, his expression shifting from skeptical to impressed. Gradually, I lost myself in the music. When I looked up, his eyes were bright, and he was nodding his approval.
I stopped because this was as far as I’d gotten with this piece.
"Not bad," Adri said, leaning back on his elbows. His gaze was still on me, weirdly intense. "For a fourteen-year-old."
I played some more, soaking in his reaction. It felt good, like I was doing something right. He seemed genuinely into it, tapping his foot along with the rhythm.
"You in a band?" he asked next.
"Not yet," I said, putting on a mock-serious face. "But someday."
He smirked. "Rockstar in the making?"
"Who knows?"
Despite the age difference, it was easy with him, the way we slipped into conversation like we'd known each other forever.
Adri pointed at the Metallica poster on the wall. "Can you play any of their songs?"
I rolled my eyes in a friendly way. "Who can’t?"
He raised an eyebrow, daring me.
I launched into a medley, my fingers moving across the strings with the kind of confidence only a kid could have. I observed his face from time to time as I played, enjoying the way he followed every note. Back at my old neighborhood, none of my friends cared for my music.
"Impressive," he said, and I could tell he meant it.
"Good audience," I replied, sitting next to him on the bed. The guitar rested across my lap, still warm from playing.
"Yeah, definitely not bad for a fourteen-year-old," he repeated, this time more teasing than before.
"Just wait till I’m older," I said, nudging him with my shoulder.
He shoved back, and laughter spilled out of both of us.
"You really think you’ll be in a band?" he asked.
I shrugged. "That’s the plan. How about you? Gonna be my roadie?"
