Finding the Pure Note

A Graveyard of Splinters and Broken Promises

Seven Years Ago

"Can you play... What's that song? The one I heard your dad singing in the shower this morning?"

I chuckle, grinning at Fletcher. Others might be traumatised after a sleepover hearing my dad's singing, but not Fletcher. He only seemed to relish it, taking delight in its intent, rather than its execution.

As the strap begins to slip from my shoulder, I heave it back up and pat the guitar as if it might have fallen off. I also feel for the zip, just in case the sun warms it up too much if it's allowed to touch the wood's surface. I'm weirdly protective over my—dad's guitar. He says it's mine now, but it will always be his.

"You mean All Along the Watchtower?"

Fletcher shakes his head, stopping by the lights, pressing madly at the button as if that will somehow get us across faster.

"How do you know all this stuff, man?"

I shrug, which proves actually quite difficult with a guitar that's almost as big as you. "Dad's drilled them into me my whole life. Taught me the chords and everything."

"Then what's even the point of these lessons...?"

He puts all his focus on smashing at the button, which draws stares from this girl to our right. When the light does go, he takes off at a sprint, and I have to jog to keep up, giggling. At the other side, he pants as if the distance was miles, and then he does that neck jerk thing he keeps doing. It's not too often, but enough to notice. It weirds me out, but he keeps insisting that it's just some muscle-nerve thing that is heredi... heridary? Hereditary? Something his dad had when he was his age.

"My dad's only taught me..." I stop as I hop over a dead squirrel on the path, but Fletcher grows insanely curious, jumping off the path to grab at a stick. As he begins to poke at it, tipping it over, I finish my sentence. "the 'classics'. I need to... know... other s... Fletcher, come on, dude, that's gross!"

Fletcher jumps back, almost colliding into the girl from before. She gives him a disgusted look, which he doesn't see, or if he did, it's not like he'd care. With a psychotic grin, he licks his lips and whistles.

"I don't know what's so fascinating about dead animals, but I always feel like I've—" His head spasms again, and I bite at my bottom lip, frowning. His eyes flicker, showing a trace of anxiety, but he brushes it away and continues. "Like I've gotta poke them, you know?"

"No, I don't."

"You're boring."

I stick my tongue out and then push him sideways into a nearby bush. He takes a while to fight his way out, like a fly caught in a cobweb, and when he does finally break free, he pulls me into a headlock, expertly manoeuvring my guitar over my head and onto his back. I punch wildly, but hardly any blows connect or even do damage. He lets me go and I straighten myself. I reach wildly for my guitar, but he slaps my hand away.

"You get this back when you behave."

"But Fletcher..."

"No buts!"

"What are you, my mum?"

Fletcher winks, taking off in a jauntily stroll. I keep pace, watching Fletch as he scratches at his chin, locked in deep contemplation. Then his eyes widen, and he has that serious look on his face. I guess he's remembered what he was talking about before the whole dead squirrel incident. I was afraid he'd remember. Talking about the future... I don't tend to think further than what I want for lunch. Today I'm thinking mac and cheese.