Chapter 7 - Ode to Joy

"Break time's over. Up."

Shawn groaned and stood from where he'd been sitting, wincing. He felt like he'd just sat down. Feeny seemed to be able to go on forever.

"Time's a wasting."

"Okay." He took one last sip of water and went over to finish the weeding.

Feeny hadn't been joking about this being hard work. Shawn felt like he'd been working for twelve hours, at least. It wasn't even lunchtime, so he was pretty sure it had only been about three.

Unless they'd just skipped lunch, and Feeny was starving him as a part of the punishment. Shawn wasn't completely sure whether to put it past the old man.

Shawn knelt down and continued working. He'd thought he was getting off easy—kind of. His dad never would have punished him for being out in the middle of the night, but when he did punish Shawn, it was unpredictable and sometimes extreme. It depended more on his father's mood—not to mention whether he'd been drinking—than on what Shawn had actually done. Meanwhile, Jon was fair and consistent, but he grounded him, sometimes for a week or longer. He'd thought a few hours' punishment was nothing.

It didn't feel like nothing anymore. His muscles were sore, and the sun was starting to sting his skin. Far from lenient, it felt overkill. Shawn had tried apologizing a few times for what he'd done. When he was little, apologizing had sometimes convinced his mom to let him off the hook. It didn't work on Jon, and it definitely didn't work on Feeny.

Shawn buckled down, wiped away the sweat, and kept working. Feeny had been harsh with him, too, even more than at school—actually, a lot more than at school. It might have been worse than being grounded, in a lot of ways, but it was a lot better than the kinds of looks the Matthews would have been giving him in lieu of a real punishment.

He was starving half to death by the time they took a lunch break. Shawn meant to savor the meal slowly, in case Feeny made him continue working after lunch, but he ended up scarfing down the sandwich and fruit in minutes, and he still felt hungry.

"Get enough?"

"Yes sir," Shawn said.

"There's plenty more."

"Uh. I might . . . nibble at it." And Shawn went back to the kitchen to make a second sandwich, which he ate more slowly.

When they'd both finished, Feeny started to put away the ingredients.

"More slave labor?" Shawn asked.

"No, I think you've paid for your mistakes. Mind you, if you repeat them—"

"I won't."

Feeny nodded. "Why don't you take a shower and get changed?"

"To go see Jon?"

"Yes."

Shawn smiled, and he headed up the stairs.

Less than an hour later, they were heading out of the house and on their way to the hospital. Shawn wondered what Cory was up to. He figured he'd spend most of the day tomorrow hanging out with him. He might have time when he got home from the hospital today, but he was pretty tired.

Getting checked in to visit Jon was getting easier each time. This time, the people up front didn't even ask him any questions, just led him back to Jon's room, though they did warn him that Jon was sleeping.

Shawn pulled up a chair to Jon's bedside. It was still painful to see his guardian like this, but the shock was wearing off. Jon's scrapes also didn't look quite as bad as they had the first day. Shawn mustered a smile and slipped his hand into Jon's.

Jon's hand tightened around his, just slightly, and Shawn looked up at his face. His eyes fluttered open.

"Hey!" Shawn sat up straighter.

"Hey." Jon smiled up at him, just barely.

"How are you, man?"

"Better," Jon said, and it took a moment for him to get his next words out. "Feeny . . . treating you well?"

"Yeah. I mean, he made me do a bunch of yard work today."

Jon's eyebrows raised.

"Oh. Uh." Shawn's face felt warm; he hadn't actually confessed what he'd done to Jon. "So, the other night, I sort of . . . might have run off in the middle of the night and gotten picked up by cops."

"Hunter."

"I'm really sorry."

Jon's hand gave Shawn's a little squeeze, but his face was stern.

"I know, I know." His stomach clenched with guilt. "Feeny kicked my butt so you wouldn't have to."

Jon's expression softened a little.

"I really miss you," Shawn said in a small voice.

"Miss you."

Shawn felt his eyes prickling, and he blinked a few times.

There wasn't much to talk about after that. Shawn told Jon about bringing home Little Cory, and about some of the things he was planning to do over the summer, but Jon couldn't respond with more than a couple of words, and he couldn't tell Shawn what his days were like when Shawn wasn't there. His eyelids also drooped within a few minutes, and Shawn knew he shouldn't stay much longer.

He went out to the lobby, where Mr. Feeny was waiting with a magazine. He looked up in surprise when Shawn came out, and Shawn realized it must have been less than ten minutes.

"He's really tired," Shawn explained. "Maybe we can try again tomorrow?"

Feeny stood. "Are you alright, Mr. Hunter?"

Shawn shrugged. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Feeny stared at him for a moment, then sighed, and they both began to walk out to the car.

For some reason, Shawn felt like he was holding back tears for the whole drive. It was stupid; nothing new had happened, and nothing bad. But it all felt so much more real, now that going to visit Jon was just a part of the daily routine.

Feeny was mostly quiet on the way to his house. But when they were close, he asked, "Would you like a piano lesson tonight?"

Shawn breathed in to say he wasn't up for it, but he found himself desperate for something to take his mind off the pain.

"Yeah," Shawn said. "Okay.

George had never taught a piano lesson before. He didn't exactly have a method book to work with, either. He began by showing Shawn how to sit at the piano, how to curve his hand, and finally, how to position his fingers.

"Now, place finger one on the C."

"Why is it called C?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, if it's the first note, why don't we call it A?"

"We're playing in the key of C. In the key of C, we'll start with C, and move up to D, E, F, then G."

"Why don't we start in the key of A?"

"Because the key of A has sharps."

"What are sharps?"

"Well, in this case, you'd have to play the black notes."

"Why can't I play them?"

"You will. But not on your first lesson."

"So if C is the one for beginners, why don't we call it A?"

George sighed heavily. "I'll be sure to give Boethius a call to express your disapproval."

"Who's Boethius?"

"The sixth-century Roman philosopher responsible for the first book on musical notation."

"Oh."

"Now, do you want to play or not?"

Shawn shrugged and played the C, then moved and played the notes in order. "Hey, that sounds pretty good!"

"Well done."

"I can play piano!" He played the notes again.

"Now, let's try having you play the same notes with your left hand. This time, place finger 5 on the C."

"Wait, why finger 5?"

"This time, you'll play fingers 5, 4, 3, 2, then 1."

"Why is it backwards?"

"Anatomy, Mr. Hunter," George said dryly.

Shawn looked down at his two hands as though he was seeing them for the first time.

The lesson progressed at this pace for the next half an hour. George tried his best to be patient, while Shawn put him to the test, but he had to admit the boy was more enthusiastic than he'd ever seen him at school—more enthusiastic than the vast majority of students George taught. It was both one of the most frustrating and most rewarding lessons he'd ever taught.

By the end of it, though, Shawn could play "Ode to Joy" with one hand. He played it over and over again, grinning ear to ear. "I can play piano!" he kept saying.

"Very well done, Shawn." George couldn't help smiling along.

When George could no longer stand to hear the same eight bars played, he went to his own record player and pulled up a Beethoven record. "Would you like to hear the full choir and orchestra?"

"Uh, I guess."

George set the record to play, and he sat down on his own couch, listening quietly and allowing his eyes to close.

Halfway through the piece, he opened his eyes and looked over at Shawn. The boy's eyes were wide, transfixed on the record player.

George smiled to himself and allowed the song to play, only this time, he watched Shawn.

When it drew to a close, Shawn grinned. "It's amazing. Can you teach me how to play that?"

George chuckled. "Perhaps there's a piano arrangement you could work up to."

Shawn sat up straight. "Can I show you a song?"

"Um . . ."

"It's on my Walkman. I have to get it from my room."

George had no interest, but he supposed if he was to share his culture with Shawn, it was only fair to receive Shawn's culture in return, even if it was vastly inferior. "I suppose one song wouldn't hurt."

Shawn ran up to his room.

"Walk."

Shawn flinched. "Right. Sorry."

George almost chuckled despite himself.

The boy was back in less than a minute, and he held out a pair of headphones.

George gave him a look.

"Just put them on. Trust me."

George did, and Shawn hit a button on his Walkman. George almost asked him to turn it down, but it wasn't overwhelming.

It wasn't exactly a masterpiece, and it certainly wasn't classical. But the countermelodies in the introduction caught his ear, and the vocalist's use of varying registers was pleasant to listen to. He found the structure of chords to be unpredictable, almost beautiful, and the way the themes came together at the end . . .

Shawn's grin grew as he watched George. "You like it," he said. "Admit it, Mr. Feeny, you like it!"

George took off the headphones. "Well, I understand why you do."

Shawn wrinkled his nose. "Whatever. You like it." He took his Walkman and headphones, and he headed back up the stairs.