1st Five Pages April Workshop - Wyatt Rev 1

Name: Paige Wyatt

Genre: YA Contemporary

Title: A Broken Sound

Bending wood to my will gives my hands purpose like playing music does. The sound of the saw, the smell of the wood, the rhythmic movements of my hands as I sand the neck of the guitar I’m making serve as the perfect distraction. I can channel my disappointment into controlling the shape of the neck, the grooves of each fret. It keeps my mind still.

But as I wipe sweat from my forehead, I can’t help but count all the other birthdays my parents have missed. You get used to broken promises when your parents are addicts, but Grandpop more than makes up for it. I visualize the next step of the guitar making process as I tie my hair back in a ponytail, but a sigh escapes that almost blends in with the wind in the woods that surround our house in Cold Spring.

Grandpop ambles over to my workstation, his silver hair shining in the afternoon sun that streams through the open garage door. He has the look he wears every time my parents don’t show up for a birthday or holiday: sad eyes but a bright smile. “Janie girl,” he says, his smile unwavering, “I want some cake. Come on.”

I don’t have to glance at the clock to know that I’ve been in here for two hours. “I just want to try it.” I hold the neck as if I’m going to play it to test out the balance. It doesn’t feel the same as Cloine, my gorgeous classical guitar, but I still relish the smooth texture of freshly sanded wood. I place my fingers on the fretboard, feeling more than seeing where my fingers go to pick through an imaginary scale. I can almost hear the notes even though there are no strings on this guitar yet. It whets my appetite for the real thing. As soon as we’re done, I’m going to practice.

But plans of settling down with Cloine disappear with the sound of knocking. I stare at the tiny brown side door. Grandpop does too. He’s as nervous as I am.

The tension eases when it swings open, balloons burst through, and my best friends spill into the workshop. All the shittiness falls away because April and Mateo are here. “Surprise!” they shout in unison.

I set the guitar aside before Mateo tackles me. By the time he gets to where I am, my arms are open in anticipation. His hug wraps me in his familiar smell of Axe and detergent and his too loud shout of “Happy birthday!” makes me laugh. A Mateo hug is the best antidote to any bad mood.

When he finally lets go and his giant fuzzy head of black hair is out of the way, I see her and something inside me relaxes. My girlfriend blushes even though we’ve been together for over a year now. April Zhao is my perfect complement. She’s a painter, so she is visual and I am auditory. She is my strength when I have days when I want to break. Some people might say teenagers don’t know what love is, but our love is real. She sees all the broken parts of who I am and loves me anyway.

Her dark hair trails down her back in waves with light pink streaks, and she’s wearing a t-shirt and jeans, both spattered with neon paint. She smiles, making her freckles dance across her nose, and she hands me a box wrapped in my favorite color: turquoise blue. “Happy birthday,” she says.

I take the gift and wrap her in my arms. I’m taller than her by a head, but she fits perfectly like she always does. We kiss, a peck light on the lips that’s appropriate for Grandpop’s eyes but enough to let me know she loves me. “Thank you,” I say to both of them. “This is amazing.”

“We were about to have some cake!” Grandpop hugs each of them. “I got some ice cream up there, too.”

Mateo leads the charge, dragging the balloons behind him as April and I follow with our hands clasped. We walk up the hill to the main level of our house where our kitchen, living room, and Grandpop’s bedroom is. We live in a three story house that’s built into a hill, and the main entrance is on the bottom floor off the family room.

We sit at the breakfast bar as Grandpop brings the cake out. It’s vanilla with blue icing and “Happy 17th Birthday Janie” is piped on in white. He tops it with sparklers and they sing “Happy Birthday.”

Grandpop’s voice is the loudest, as always. I shake my head and smile at him. No matter how old I am, he always does a ridiculous, high-pitched, off-key version of Happy Birthday to embarrass me, but Mateo and April already know what’s up and they laugh along.

“How’s it feel to be old?” Mateo asks with a mouthful of cake after we cut it.

I toss a balled up napkin at him. “I’m younger than you!”

“I didn’t say I was young.” He points his fork at me. “Wait until you turn eighteen. Then your whole body falls apart.”

Grandpop huffs and shakes his cane at Mateo. “Wait until sixty-eight!”

April’s laugh is a balm, and I squeeze her hand under the counter. She gives me a smile.

“Seventeen isn’t exciting,” I say, keeping my eyes on her. “Eighteen is way bigger.”

“You’re going to love seventeen because this is the year you’ll get accepted into Juilliard,” April replies. “And you’ll leave me forever for New York City.”

I lift her hand to my lips. “You’re coming with me.”

“Me too!” Mateo says. “I’m gonna audition for some shows when we get down there.”

“You’ll be in high demand after all the starring roles you’ll get this school year, Mr. Actor of the Year,” Grandpop says, referencing Mateo’s most recent award. We never miss one of Mateo’s shows.

“We’ll have to get a bigger apartment,” I say. “One with two bathrooms.”

April slaps her palm to her forehead. “Be glad you weren’t subjected to the unholy smells that came out of him on our way over here.”

Grandpop laughs harder than all of us, but I don’t trust the mischief in his eyes. “That’s why Janie has her own bathroom.”

“Grandpop!” I shout, mortified.

My face burns, and April kisses my hand. “Maybe three bathrooms, then.”

“Alright, this conversation has ventured into TMI territory,” Mateo declares as he puts his hands up in surrender. “I’m trying to eat here.”

I shrug. “What can I--” The doorbell interrupts me and I look at Grandpop. “Did you invite anyone else?”

He narrows his eyes and shakes his head. We live out in the woods on a hill, so we don’t get salespeople or anything like that. If someone comes to our door, they mean to be here. He reaches for his cane, but I stand. I don’t like to make him walk up and down the stairs more than he has to. “I got it.”

I bound down the steps, hoping whoever it is goes away quickly so I can go back to my party. But when I open the door and my eyes adjust to the late afternoon sun, all thoughts of presents, cake, and alone time with my girlfriend fall away. Everything inside me tenses as I brace for impact. My parents are here.