Silken Scales - The Chameleon Effect

3 - Idris

I dial Rebecca's number. No answer. Again. I'm about to try for the seventeenth time when Marek pulls his beat-up Toyota into the horseshoe drive outside my house. The engine thrums a solid B-flat.


Pocketing the phone, I pick up a cardboard box filled with Dad's old recording equipment and slip through the side door. Dad revamped his office last April. I practically drooled over his API preamp, Sennheiser headphones and Shure microphone, all of them dumped like yesterday's girlfriends.


Why should I care? I can use his new equipment anytime, right?


Yeah, as long as it's to record speeches. To play music? Forget it. I can't even ask him what the big deal is about me playing, because he switches off the instant I say anything related.

I talked Marek into asking if he could buy the old stuff, instead. I'd pay, as long as Dad didn't find out.


Dad laughed and told Marek he could have the old equipment for free as long as he used it.


Today is pick-up day. We've got the whole thing worked out.


There's no space at Marek's house to set up, but his mom owns a place out on the fringes of the industrial part of town. A real estate agent with an eye for a good deal, she picked up the building at a quick sale a few years back. An old train station house converted into a nightclub called the Thorny Rose.

Rumor has it, the station house was owned by a gangster who was later killed by a car bomb. Marek says the place is like a fortress, so maybe the rumor is true. Though what kind of a gangster would put down roots in Hopper, in the middle of the Adirondack Mountains, is anyone's guess.


Marek pops the trunk and pushes aside empty soda bottles and lunch wrappings going back several months. The box fits into the space he clears, and we hop in the car.


I roll down the passenger side window to let in some fresh air. "So, your mom's okay with this?" 


Marek starts the engine with a gusty roar and puts the car in gear. "Yeah, no problém-o. She likes the idea of someone being around the place over winter. She's worried about frozen pipes. Happened once at my gran's and Ma's been paranoid ever since."


He glances at me after pulling onto the street. "So why didn't you ask your dad for this stuff? I was half expecting he'd hit me with a giant price tag. Then he goes and hands it over for nothing."


I sigh into the cold wind slapping my face through the open window. "I told you, he doesn't like me making music."


Marek shakes his head. "Which I totally don't get because you're actually good." Wow. A compliment from my best friend.


My shoulders arch in a shrug. "Maybe that's why he cares. Music doesn't fit in with his plan for me to join him on the motivational speaking track. Says he wants me to pick up extra speaking engagements this summer."


Marek groans as he takes the next turn. "So I was right. He wants a clone and you're it."


"I guess. But what can I do? I owe him, right?"


My best friend's brow pinches. "Maybe, but not with your whole life."


I slump. "A father-son deal."


Marek laughs. "Chip off the old block. You're pretty convincing too. You sure he's not your real dad?"


I toss him a frown. "I remember them adopting me." Though barely.


"You do?"


"Yeah." I recall the first time I walked into the house — my new home. Stumbling over the threshold, I looked around, wide-eyed. The place seemed huge and echoey. Mom clutched my hand, like she was more nervous than me, and Dad talked, all vibrant and enthusiastic, the way he always does. Except when the talk is about me making music.