The Chord to my Heart

18: Strumming His Pain

                                                                  18: Strumming His Pain

           “So how do I play this thing?” I asked, picking up the guitar. I was in Mase’s room bright and early on a Sunday morning, determined to get my lessons started. He, on the other hand, tried sleeping in to avoid the whole situation. That didn’t stop me from barging in, catching him fast asleep, tangled in his bed sheets wearing only boxers.

           After forcing him in the shower and eating blueberry Pop-Tarts for breakfast, we’d finally made it past the distractions and up to his room. I’d never seen Mase look so uneasy. He was running his hands through his hair every five seconds and tugging at the end of his t-shirt.

           “Hey,” I said, walking up to him, leaving the guitar on the bed. “You okay?” I asked him.

           He blew out a breath, his hand getting lost in his hair again. “I’m not so sure,” he said, his hands leaving his soft, brown hair. He shoved them into the pockets of his dark jeans out of habit.

           “Let’s just try. Tell me what to do first, and we’ll go from there,” I said, smiling as I pressed my palm against his, giving his hand a squeeze.

           Mase’s gaze was locked on mine for a long moment, his eyes contemplating something. I was sure he’d say no to the whole thing and back out. Of course I had a Plan B on how to get Mase back to playing again, but Plan A was a lot easier. Playing an instrument had never been an interest of mine. For Mase, though, I could make it one.

           “Okay, fine. We have to tune it first,” he said, the look of unease hidden in his eyes. His smile wasn’t reaching those melted pools of concrete. But in time, it would. I hoped.

           “I don’t know what that means, but sure,” I said, shrugging. This won me a small smile from him, and I couldn’t help but to match it with one of my own.

           It took a good twenty minutes to tune the guitar. If you asked me, I’d say it was a pain in the ass. And I had no idea what I was doing. But Mase never lost his patience. I flicked my thumb against the string to hear it ring out, turning the tiny knob until he approved of the sound.   

           “Okay, now strum them once more. Just to make sure it’s ready to go,” Mase said, nodding towards the tiny tear-drop shaped pick next to me.

           I picked it up, running it over the strings in one fluid motion. I smiled at myself. I didn’t sound half bad. There was no ringing or shrilling sounds at least.

           “It sounds okay to me. What do you think?” I asked him.

           His lips tilted into a crooked grin, and he slightly shook his head. “What I think is that you’re holding the pick upside down,” he said, nodding towards the little piece of plastic pressed between my thumb and forefinger.

           I rolled my eyes. “Sorry I wasn’t born playing this thing like you were,” I said, lightly elbowing him in the ribs.

           “Hey, just because you’re a girl, doesn’t mean I won’twrestle you if I have to,” he said, raising his eyebrows at me.