Memory: sixteen years old
1987
Though Roger now attended Immaculate Soul Senior High School, he still went dutifully every afternoon back to Sister Cecilia's music room with his guitar in hand.
The senior high school was different. Not every parent wished to continue their child's education at Immaculate Soul, and therefore had the option of enrolling them in a public high school. Therefore, the population of the senior high school dropped to less than half of what it was. The student-teacher ratio was about fifteen to one. Mary Jude bowed out of this option, and chose to keep her grandsons in Immaculate Soul. It was harder for Roger to hide, but it was somewhat easier to make friends. He wasn't exactly popular, but everyone seemed to know him, and he seemed to suddenly know everyone else. It was weird, almost, having people say hello to him in the hallways.
He didn't tell Sister Cecilia much about school. It was the last thing he wanted to talk about when he entered through the doorway of her music room. All he was interested in was playing music.
On the last week of school, Roger headed over to the music room at Immaculate Soul and found it nearly bare. He furrowed his brow. "Sister Cecilia?" he called.
The nun came out from her office, off to the side in a hidden alcove of the music room. "Oh, Roger. You're here," she said cheerfully.
He looked around the room. The chairs and music stands were still set up, but all of the posters and charts that Sister Cecilia had hung up around the room were taken down. The room looked bland.
"What's going on?" he asked her.
"What are you talking about?" she replied with a small smile. "Nothing's going on."
"All your pictures and stuff," Roger remarked. He set down the guitar, shrugged off his Immaculate Soul blazer and draped it over a nearby chair. "Why did you take them down?"
Sister Cecilia sighed and went over to him, "Roger, we need to have a little talk."
"What?" Roger raised an eyebrow. "About what?"
Sister Cecilia played with the little cross on its chain around her neck. "I'm….I won't be returning to Immaculate Soul next semester."
"What? Why?" Roger felt as if he'd been stabbed. His lunges and chest were filling up with blood. He didn't want to open his mouth; he feared the blood would come pouring out.
"I'm going to Guatemala," she said, looking down at her lap. "I…they need volunteers down there and I signed up. It's where I must go. God is taking my hand and leading me there."
"H-how…how could you?" he said, barely above a whisper. "Wh-why…"
"I'm sorry, Roger. But it's what I have to do."
Roger bit the inside of his cheek. He was not going to cry. He went to one of the lower windows of the music room and rested his forehead against the cool glass.
"You have to continue your music," Sister Cecilia urged. "God gave you a beautiful, wonderful gift." She went to stand beside him at the window. She put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "I want you to know Roger; you are one of the most amazing students I have ever had. And I will never forget you."
His cheek bled he was biting down so hard on it. He sniffled back a sob and pulled away from her. He grabbed his blazer and the guitar. Sister Cecilia watched wordlessly. As he went to the door, she followed him. He put his hand on the doorknob; she put his hand on his shoulder again. He looked at her without words, just a cold stare. He left the music room.
That was the last time he ever saw Sister Cecilia.
Mary Jude knew when she took in Carrie's boys that she was going to be in for some trouble down the road. As soon as she laid eyes on her grandsons, she could tell their good looks would be both a benefit and a vice in the long run. Carrie herself was beautiful, so the boys were guaranteed to have at least half of her genes; and Mary Jude figured her daughter would never lie with a man who wasn't attractive—and lo and behold, three handsome boys came forth.
Michael, as he grew older, bore a striking resemblance to a certain teen heartthrob movie star that all of the neighborhood girls swooned for, the type of boy whose picture they would cut out from magazines to hang in their locker or bedroom wall. Michael's hair turned from light blond to sandy light brown, and his blue eyes took on a greenish hue. He was tall, but not gangly, making him a graceful participant on the basketball court.
Over the years, Eddie's looks remained consistent—baby blue eyes, the color of a clear summer sky, and white blond hair that grew in ringlets. His cheeks were perpetually rosy, as if he was always blushing. His build was slight but slender.
But regardless of how good looking the youngest and oldest Davis boys were, it was Roger who was considered the most attractive, the ones that made the girls giggle and twirl their hair if he said so much as a hello to them. His own blond hair was shot through with some brown, and his hazel-green eyes were deep, intense, and sincere and were framed with lashes so long and dark one would think he applied mascara to them every morning. When he smiled (which, admittedly, wasn't often), his whole face lit up. Even the older women of the neighborhood would confide in Mary Jude about Roger.
"Aye, that grandson Roger of yours," twittered the Irish brogue of Tieve O'Hartigan, one of Mary Jude's closest friends. The two women had cleaned houses together as teenagers and young women in the more prominent areas of New York City, particularly on the Upper East and West Sides. "Jesus, he makes me heart jump, he does."
"Only a teenager on the edge of sixteen," Mary Jude nodded sagely, "and he's already got the girls hot for him. I knew he'd be handsome, but I never expected him to be beautiful."
"Ah, but what a blessing to have a beautiful grandson!"
"A blessing or a curse?"
"Bite your tongue, Mary Jude Davis!" gasped Tieve.
The two women peered out the kitchen window at Roger, who was sitting on the stoop, playing Carrie's guitar. His eyes were half-closed has he concentrated on the notes he was producing. "Beautiful boys," Mary Jude said, "cause nothing but trouble. Look, Tieve, how the girls stop and stare at him. Even the Latin and Oriental girls! I swear, some of them walk past here at least once a day! They all want the same thing."
"Aye, and if I were t'irty or forty years younger, I'd want it me-self."
"Tieve O'Hartigan!"
Tieve just laughed. "You've got nothin' t'worry about, Mary Jude. That Roger is shy as a fly—he won't be bringing you much heartache."
Roger was trying to pick out a tune he'd heard on the radio earlier that morning on his guitar. He ignored everything around him—the honking of horns, the calling of parents to children, sounds of kids playing in the street. It was late June and school was out for the summer. As he played, he thought about Sister Cecilia, who'd sent him a postcard from Guatemala. He ripped it in half when he received it, but later he went back to get the torn pieces from the garbage, taped them together, and hid it underneath his mattress. She was the only person who really ever understood him, and now she was gone.
Coming up the block, his hands in his pockets, was Michael. He'd just graduated Immaculate Heart Senior High School earlier that month, and had won himself a scholarship to Georgetown University. He planned to major in English; he'd decided that he wanted to become a teacher. He came up the stairs of the brownstone and ruffled Roger's hair. "Hey, Wild Child."
"Hey, Easy Rider," Roger replied. It was their own inside joke, calling each other by the nicknames their mother gave them to long ago. "Where've you been?"
"Breaking up with Grace," Michael replied, referring to his girlfriend for the passed three years.
"Breaking up with her? Why?" Roger looked up from his guitar.
Michael shrugged, "Because I'm going to Georgetown and she's going to Penn State. It's not going to work, you know? Too bad, huh?"
"Yeah, too bad." Roger went back to his guitar. Michael tugged the guitar out of his hands. "Hey!"
"Guess what else?" Michael said with a smile. "There's a new girl who moved in up by Grace's. A Jewish family, but she's pretty cute. Maybe you should go say hello."
"Maybe." He took back his guitar.
"Hey, Roger," Michael nudged his brother. "You know, a guitar has a hole—but it can only do so much, you know?"
"Mikey! Come on, man!" Roger groaned.
"Look, I'm just trynna help out my baby brother," Michael grabbed Roger into a headlock.
"Ugh! Eddie's the baby, not me!" Roger struggled and released himself from his big brother's grip.
"I know, I know. I'm just gonna miss you."
"You're not leaving so soon."
"Nine weeks," Michael pointed out. "That's not a whole lot of time. We should go out, go to a few parties. Have fun together."
"Alright, fine, fine," Roger muttered. "Whatever. But no more sex jokes about my guitar."
Michael just laughed and went inside. "I'm not promising anything," he said over his shoulder.
