Friday, October 5, 1990
BECKETT
While it’s still only the first quarter of my first year at Camelback High School, so far my grades are a steady chord progression of Cs and Ds with an occasional F. When I walk home for lunch and Dad shows me this mid-term report, I call it the sheet music for “House of the Rising Sun.”
Dad gets the joke, but doesn’t think it’s funny. He looks pretty pissed, and it’s making me nervous.
I’d thought I would have time to bring my grades up before first-quarter report cards were sent home, but it turns out the school keeps track of things like this. And lets parents know.
Dad frowns at me as he re-strings his turquoise Rickenbacker bass. Mom hides in their bedroom, but that’s not unusual. She’d been apathetic about most things lately, including my grades.
Lately meaning like a year or more.
Actually . . . that might just be since I noticed.
After third period today, Anthony Lincoln invited me to his family cookout tomorrow afternoon at their house. I’ve known him since we were little, and our families have hung out many times. His family plans to talk on the phone to his brother Mike who’s halfway around the world. I didn’t think going to the cookout would be a big deal, but the mail’s arrived and Dad’s not too keen on letting me go.
“The cookout’s for all of us,” I tell Dad as he balances the bass on one knee. “We’re all invited.”
Dad and Mom have a gig tonight. At the shows, Dad’s hair reflects a rainbow of stage lights: orange, yellow, blue. Right now, the Phoenix sun shining through the living room window in our apartment reveals that his long, light brown hair has strings of gray in it that match the steel strings he guides through the bridge and bridge saddles.
I keep talking, hoping to distract him. “Antho said specifically that his parents want you and Mom to come, too. Ashley’ll be there, and her mom and dad—”
“But those grades, kid,” Dad says, spinning a machine head to wind the E string tight. “You need to spend every extra hour you got on getting those things up.”
Mom walks by right then, from their bedroom to the kitchenette. No—not walks. Shuffles. With bare feet. Her shoulder-length hair is clumpy and spaced as far apart as strings on a harp. She’s got a cup of coffee in her hand but I don’t see any steam. But there’s a new pot bubbling away on the counter, filling our shared space with the aroma of store-brand coffee. The coffee at Antho’s house smells a lot better.
“Of course she can go,” Mom says through half-closed eyes. She’s probably taken one of her pills. “It’s the Lincolns, Rob. It’s fine.”
“This isn’t about the Lincolns, Jennifer, it’s about Beckett’s grades, did you see this note?”
He points to the TV tray beside his chair. Gray fluffy stuffing sticks out the back of the seat. The little pink card with my current grades is from one of the Vice Principals, or at least his office, saying that I’m basically in danger of failing almost everything from Art to English. Even my music class is a C.
I haven’t been going lately.
Mom stops. Stares at nothing. She’s wearing a frayed yellow bathrobe open over loose jeans and a puckered black bra that may be older than me.
To Dad’s question, she has only this response:
“No.”
Then she goes on into the bedroom, shutting the door behind her. Mazzy Star starts up a second later. Red, oh red, the taste of blood . . .
Dad looks at the closed door for longer than a second before blinking and turning back to his instrument. His frown is deeper.
“We don’t know when we can talk to Mike again,” I tell Dad, and sit on our sun-faded brown couch against the wall. I punch the middle of my long blue linen skirt between my knees. “Antho said stuff’s really heating up over there.”
“Bush ran the CIA, he knows not to start a war with Iraq,” Dad says, winding another string. “Mike’ll be fine.”
“Still . . . come on, Dad, please?”
He sighs. “Why the bad grades, kid? What’s going on, huh? You on something? Is there some boy? What?”
I sit back and tap the fingers of my left hand rhythmically against my thumb. The callouses feel like the heel of my foot. Of all people, Mom and Dad should understand why I’m not spending a ton of time on homework. I just want what they have. To be out there, doing it. Making the music. Performing.
Dad isn’t so hip on the idea. Looking around the room, I guess I sort of understand why. Antho’s parents are both lawyers—and he probably will be too—and they have a beautiful house in Scottsdale, with polished hardwood floors and a red brick patio and barbeque. We live in a two-bedroom upstairs apartment with second- and third-hand furniture. The carpet springs curled pigtails of green thread every few feet. I haven’t gotten new clothes since Mom’s mother died a few years ago. Grandma Sue used to come into town once a year and take me shopping as both Christmas and birthday gifts while clucking about Mom and Dad’s “chosen profession.” The three of us shop at Goodwill when we need something.
All of which is fine with me.
And that’s my point. I’m used to it, but this is not what Dad “wants for me.”
Which is kind of hypocritical. He never graduated high school. He’s been gigging since he was like fifteen. Far as I’m concerned, that means I’m ready.
Dad plucks the unplugged bass, tuning it by ear. The E string rings out, tickling the soles of my bare feet.
“It’s just, it’s this one song,” I say. “I’ve been working on it since summer. It’s for Ashley and Antho.”
This gets Dad’s attention. He stops tuning. “A song, huh? What do you got so far? Let’s hear it.”
“I can’t, it’s not ready. It’s barely even chords yet.”
“Got lyrics?”
“They’re like . . . absent words, in my soul, sing to you alone . . . I don’t know.”
Dad resumes tuning the A to the E, “Damn. That voice of yours, kid. Gets me every time, you got that from your mom. Jesus. Okay, sorry, focus: this stuff with your grades. It’s gotta stop, Beck. You gotta bring those things up. Okay?”
Sensing a break, I say, “Yes. I’ll take care of it.”
“All right.” He tunes the A to the D.
I lean forward. “So I can go tomorrow?”
“All right. This time. But I will remember this conversation when your report card comes in.”
I get up and hug him. “Thank you! Are you guys coming?”
“It’s tomorrow night? No, we have a show at the Jar.”
“I’ll them you wanted to.”
Dad tunes the G to the D. “Yeah, do. Haven’t seen the Lincolns in a while.”
That’s true. I see Antho at school every day, but we haven’t gotten all the families together since maybe seventh grade.
I get a glass of water from the tap and go into my room, determined to get a head start on my math homework.
. . . Except instead, I pick up my Gibson Epiphone from its stand beside my window and play along with She Hangs Brightly bleeding through the thin wall from their bedroom. I’ve already figured out most of the chords.
Neither Mom nor Dad says anything about me playing instead of doing homework. I play through lunch.
And fifth period.
Hello and welcome to Beckett’s Last Mixtape!
Beckett was originally going to be a thesis for my MFA. Things happened, as things often do, and now I’m bringing it to life here on this platform as a serial novel instead.
Because I want you to have it.
When I was a kid, I told and wrote stories endlessly. Handwritten…typed on a manual typewriter…acted out in my backyard…recorded as improvised audiobooks.
And then, sometimes, I shared them. With Jennifer at the back of the school bus. With Jene during lunch. With teachers. With Brendan around the corner in my neighboorhood.
With anyone who’d take the time to read or listen.
It was me at my best, and so I want to do it again.
I hope you enjoyed Chapter One. I hope to post twice a month. Let me know what you think at any of the usual socials – pick your fave, leave me a message!
Thanks for being here.
~ Tom
