chapter eight

dumb by pretty sick

"Hey, Tate, can I talk to you for a sec?"

Griffin's standing behind me, slinging his guitar cases over his shoulder when I turn my head to look at him. With my bass still hung by my hips, I nod. "What's up?"

"Um," he starts, looking around for Wes and Forest, who are collectively dicking around with some duct tape and old drum sticks. "Can you sing?" he asks, rustling around his pockets and pulling out a few crumpled pieces of paper.

I shrug. "Kinda? I mean, I don't have a great range, but I'm decent where I'm at." I can't hit high notes for my life. I can't really hit low notes either, actually. I reside somewhere in the middle, comfortable and bearable.

He shoves the papers in my hand. "Good. I wrote this song, but I don't think it'd sound good in Forest's voice. He's too grungy." I go to open it up to check out what he's got, but he swats my hand. "Don't look at it in front of me, Jesus! I don't need to see your beady eyes judging my lyrical skills."

I roll my eyes, but it's honestly kind of refreshing to see a hint of uncertainty in the otherwise extremely cock jackass. "Alright, god. I'll check it out tonight."

"Thank you. And, y'know, feel free to throw some bass in there. I wrote down some chord progressions, so, y'know. Just, just don't write anything stupid."

Even when he's asking for my help he can't help but insult me. "I'll try," I tell him, making no promises. I think that I can, in theory, write music. I've written tons of songs before. For music class. Bass solos. Nothing that has to work with anything else. "I'll see you guys later," I call over to Forest and Wes, who snap their heads over at me remembering, oh yeah, other people are here.

Wes raises a hand. He has three drumsticks duct taped to it. "You need a ride home?"

"Nah," I answer, shaking my head. "My dad's driving me.."

"Alright, see ya."

My dad is waiting, like he said he would. Parked on the side of the road, his little red '97 Jeep Cherokee running, sputtering, pumping out gas like a monster. I think I'm past the point of being embarrassed by the fact that my dad still drives me everywhere. Or maybe I'm just that scared of driving. And really, it's not like he drives me everywhere, just where my board can't take me. And my board can't take me anywhere with my bass around my back.

It bounces against me as I walk towards his car, over the grass. My dad really wants me to learn how to drive. He wants me to practice it as much as I practice everything else and I won't do it because everything else I do probably won't end up killing me, like driving will. I practice saying, No, Dad I don't want to drive home today, from when I leave the garage to when I throw my bass in the backseat and get in the front.

"Hey dad," I greet him, easy, casual, slumping down in the seat and plopping my feet on the dashboard, on at a time.

He sighs, lips pursed and eyes on the road, "So listen, Tatum, I wanted to talk to you about college."

My dad always starts conversations like that. When he doesn't really know how to start the discussion up, he does this little cold open of his. Direct, to the point. There's no fluff with him, and I guess I can see why my mother always fought with him. He says things gently, in a soft and considerate tone, but the words he delivers are so to the point, so straightforward.

I just give him a nod. "Alright."

He sighs again, turning the wheel in his hands and I know that this is not going to be a conversation I enjoy. "I want you to start school next year. Touring with a band, I just, I don't think that's the best idea for you."

There's a lot of things I can say in response, a lot of ideas and a lot of arguments to be made but what I settle on is perhaps, the weakest of them all. "Well, I do." I wanna kick myself.

"I know you do," he agrees, and I don't know if it's meant to be validation or not. "But Tatum, you've been working so hard to get into college for so long, and I don't want to see you give up on everything you've worked so hard for. Especially not for a band."

"But I didn't even get into any of the colleges I wanted," I remind him. It seems to be the part everyone else is forgetting. I don't want to go to Washington State, like every other kid from Forks and get some liberal arts degree that every other kid in Forks has and then come back to be a substitute teacher for the middle school like everyone does. I am not everyone else and I can't do what everyone else is doing. "And it's not like I'm giving up, I just need to work harder and reapply next year."

"That's not what I want for you, Tatum," he says, simple, sure.

"What about what I want for me?"

There's a long pause for him, before he says, "If you want to take the year off and tour with a band, then by all means, go ahead. But I won't pay for it."

And I want to say it, I want to say it so goddamn bad. You'd let Embry do it. I can taste the words on my tongue, that petty satisfaction, that brief moment of vindication. But it's not worth it. It's not. I just cross my arms and settle into my seat further, counting all the houses as we drive them by.

When he pulls into the driveway, I rush to disappear. I have plans of loud, purposefully disruptive bass playing and slamming doors and stomping feet. My dad hasn't even gotten out of the car by the time I storm up to the front door and let myself in. I'm mad. Again. I don't like being mad or upset or stressed but holy shit it's like it's the only emotion I can manage.

I slam the front door shut instead of leaving it open for my father, an action that almost instantly makes me feel guilty, and I rush into the living room for my laptop, before I can lock myself away in my room for the rest of the night.

But I am frozen in place the second I step foot in there. Because Embry and Paul and Jared are just sitting there, watching some stupid sport on our stupid TV and all of the sudden they're all just staring at me like they're the ones who live here and I'm the intruder. "Jesus fuck," I mumble to myself, ignoring their stares and reaching for my laptop on the coffee table.

"Hey Tatum," Paul calls to me from his spot in the loveseat, stretched out and lounging. His cherry, upbeat and teasing tone makes me feel sick.

I'm stomping up the stairs to my room. "Fuck off," I tell him through pointed steps. It is the most biting thing I can think of.

And even when I'm safe, locked behind the door of my room like some doomed Disney character, their presence rattles me. Paul's presence rattles me. I can't make sense of the asshole.

I take a few moments, let my breathing calm and my thoughts settle. I push out any reminder or lingering emotion of my conversation with my father, and I force myself to work. Because I don't have to deal with anything unwanted if I'm pouring everything I have into some invented task for myself.

Griffin's music is not written on manuscript paper. It is scribbled, halfheartedly on creased, lined paper that has faded and wilted. It takes me a second to read his handwriting. But I'm glad when I do. The lyrics tell a jaunty tale of the loneliness, the bitterness, the degradation of being a side piece, the other, the secret, and the gutting isolation it brings. It makes me shudder, reading it over. And the effect the words have on me, I'd never let Griffin know how good I thought it was.

But then, those chord progressions, they're too aggressive, too much. Not chilling enough. I imagine it more subdued, complimenting the vocals, with an undercurrent of bass, pulling the story together.

I sing a few lyrics under my breath while I get my bass out of its case, looping lyrics in different pitches, different speeds and try to match it with whatever I end up playing. I do this for a while, write down what I've got, what sounds good, and what doesn't, and then start it up again.

This whole process takes a while. I play the guitar in my head while I go at it. And I wish Wes was here to help me out, loop a beat. Or even Griffin to sit with his guitar and play what I tell him.

I'm sitting there, switching back and forth between writing and playing and eventually I plug in my amp and start playing louder, more confident. And all of the sudden it's like, I was never even mad in the first place, like there was nothing to be mad about. Because I'm up here creating something, something good. I don't care about whoever's downstairs because the bass sounds good, really good under my fingers, mixed with my voice (less good, admittedly) singing these lyrics and I think, yeah, I can do this. I can make music.

And then I get this brilliant idea of just, a crescendo. That subtle, subdued guitar peeking out at the end and becoming loud, aggressive, chaotic, demanding attention.

I have this real piece of shit Squier Stratocasters I keep in the corner of my room. It's old, practically unusable, and the strings have rusted over. I don't play guitar. I mean, I do, but I don't. I haven't picked the thing up in forever. Months, I think. But I'm sitting here, thinking about how good my idea is and how it demands immediate attention. So I swap out my beautiful Yamaha BB435 for that wretched, beast of a thing. And I start improvising. Amp unplugged, uncertain with a pick in between my fingers for the first time in forever. It feels almost wrong.

It takes a minute to get into it. I mean, of course it does. But I have this plan in my head and I'm determined to get there. And when I start playing, I start playing. Determined, harsh, aggressive. And maybe with an old, poorly maintained instrument, that's not the best thing to do. Because when I get into it, like, really, really into it, the E string snaps, and whips me in the face.

Instantly, my hands go to my cheek, and I'm horrified to find it warm and wet. "FUCK!' I screech, seeing my fingers turn red in my peripherals. And the string, it's just bouncing around like whoops, my bad and I think about smashing the entire guitar.

It occurs to me that I have to actually take care of this, instead of just standing still in shock, and I unlock my door, and venture out into the hall.

Paul is, inexplicably, standing at the top of the stairs, frozen in mid-movement, eyes wide. "Are you okay? I heard you scream."

I just glare. My cupped, bleeding cheek should be a good indication that I'm actually not okay. "Where's my dad?"

He doesn't answer my question. He just seems to process the blood leaking between my fingers. "Holy shit," he says under his breath, rushing towards me. Paul tries to reach his hand out towards me but I step back, desperate to avoid it. "What happened?"

"Where's my dad?" I ask again. I don't think I have to go to the hospital but I think my dad is the only person I trust to make that assessment.

Paul steps towards me. "Let me look at it," he demands, gingerly lifting a hand to my face and I realize he is not going to answer my question. The blood has now dripped onto the carpet.

"Dad!" I call, trying to step past Paul but he doesn't move. "Dad!"

There are slow steps up the stairs. "What, Tatum?" he questions, annoyed. But he drops the tone when he reaches the top of the stairs and sees me standing there, corned by Paul and profusely bleeding. "What happened?"

"Guitar string snapped. Will you look at the cut and see if it needs stitches?"

I try to step past Paul but he puts a hand on my shoulder and says to my father. "Let me take them to the hospital, just in case. They gotta see a doctor, like, right now." There's this weird tone of panic in his voice that makes it seem like he might think this is a life or death situation. "Please."

And I can't help but feel a bit touched by the concern.

My father just shakes his head. "C'here, Tate," he says to me, fatherly, gently, and this time, Paul lets my pass. But he hovers behind me, breathing loudly while my father removes my hand from my face, and examines the cut. "Hmm." I can feel his hot breath on my cheek, on the cut. It stings. Stings and burns and it really fucking sucks.

"How is it?" Paul asks, careening his head around, trying to get a better look.

My father just tuts. "Needs stitches," he mumbles, and from behind me, Paul stiffens. "I will take them," he says to Paul, firm, and it's like I'm not even there.