Dewey.

oOo

My fingers hurt. I can't play guitar right now, so don't ask for a demonstration. I sent the kids home, telling them to try and calm down. Don't do anything rash, I said, try not to act out. Tell that to the random dishes I smashed on my kitchen tile. Linoleum, actually. The neighbors knocked on my door, asking if I was okay. I told them it was an accident with that cabinet or something.

...Or something.

Is that what happened to Summer? "Or something"? If someone had asked her where the bruises on her legs came from, would she say "I fell or something?" My brilliant Summer despised using that sentence. It is far too vague, she commanded me as I tried to explain a guitar solo to Zack.

It was more of a debate than an explanation. The boy and I were trying to figure out which chords to slam where. After I said "or something" for the tenth time (she counted.) Summer rolled up a paper napkin and chucked it at my head. Being vague was a pet peeve for her. There were lots of pet peeves for her, now that I think about it. She didn't like being late, she didn't like being ignored, she didn't like Freddy making an ass of himself and she didn't like pineapple on her pizza.

I don't like pineapple on my pizza either, so I can deal with that.

We were thinking of ordering some food last night, since it looked like it was gonna be a late one. Alicia suggested pineapple and ham pizza and we waited for a few seconds for Summer to start her argument. But, she didn't. Summer Hathaway sat still on my couch with straight perfect posture. I hate perfect posture. I had half the urge to go over there and push on her head until she slouched a little.

I am very happy that I did not push on her head. She probably would've attacked me. Not just because of recently discovered circumstances, but for other reasons as well. She never liked someone touching her hair and/or head. That was something Freddy Jones always took advantage of.

Now, the kids like to think that I don't know about all the little political schemes that they have, but I know things. I know, for instance, that Zack has a teensy bit of a crush on a certain bassist some of us know and others of us love. I'm also well aware that Freddy is smitten with Summer, even if they don't realize it. On the slow days, I entertain myself by cooking up ideas to hooking up my little drummer-manager love bird couple.

Most of them involved being trapped in a kitchen. Or locked in a cage full of snarling badger-demons. But I don't know where I would find a cage, so that one was always ruled out. Not that I didn't write down my thoughtful plan, with step by step instructions. I have those papers folded up and stashed under... well, under something.

But, I digress. Summer Hathaway is one of the coolest cats on the corner. She's also a puzzle. A puzzle that no one has found all the pieces for. I think she can surprise everyone, herself the most. During practice breaks, when Marta and Katie fawn over their fashion magazines and Zack and Freddy fawn over their skater magazines, Summer would sit quietly at my kitchen table with a soda can.

She just sat there, watching people. I think she envies them all, for having something she doesn't. They fit in with each other, because they had the burning urge to change. Summer, I think, was happy with what she was. And that is worth more than any rebellion. She knew who she was, and she knew what she wanted.

I have a feeling that isn't quite so true anymore. Summer's been hit hard. I've been through a lot and I know people who have been through a lot. Alcoholism, drug addiction, money problems... but never rape. My pre-School of Rock days were rape free. Sure, it was on the news and in the papers, but I never knew the names they mentioned. When I heard about those stories, I bowed my head a little and had a private moment of silence. Because rape is sad and it is scary.

I want to do more than bow my head. I want more than just a moment of silence. I don't want my Summer to go through something sad and scary. She doesn't deserve that. She deserves better, like a full college scholarship to Harvard and Yale. She deserves a loving husband and a stable life. She deserves more than just a rock band.

That's why I'm doing what she told me not to do. I'm picking up my phone and I'm dialing her number. Because her parents need to know about this. They deserve to know that their daughter went through something terrible and that she needs their help. She deserves their help.

Even so, I'm still nervous while the phone rings and rings and rings and someone picks up...

"Hello, Hathaway residence, this is Jane Hathaway."