Don't Let Me Go. J.H. Trumble

on for a while.

      While we waited for the new student, I sat on a bench and tuned the strings and filled Juliet in on how things went at the airport, leaving out the more embarrassing lapses of control. She laughed at the homophobic seatmate. “Was she afraid she might get zapped by some flash discharge when God sent the lightning bolt down on the gay guy?”

      I laughed a little. “Yeah, I guess.”

      “Getting pretty bold, aren’t you?” she said fingering my T-shirt.

      It was a simple black shirt, printed across the front in white letters: Closets are for brooms, not people. “Every crusader needs a slogan.” That’s what Adam had said when he gave it to me that morning before we left his house. I smiled, remembering how he’d helped himself to one last appreciative look as I switched shirts. I shrugged.

      “He dressed you, didn’t he?”

      I pressed my finger just behind the fifth fret on the D string and strummed both the D and the G strings, then tightened the tuning peg until the notes echoed each other.

      Juliet watched me, a grin pulling her lips wide.

      “What?” I said, looking up at her.

      “He’s marking you, you know.”

      “I resemble that remark.” I showed her my Sharpied arm. She shook her head.

      When the door opened a few minutes later, Juliet tweaked my shirt and got up. “Showtime, hot stuff,” she said.

      The name hadn’t registered with her earlier, but her eyes lit up when the new student stepped into the shop and pushed the door closed behind him.

      “Danial Qasimi? I thought that name sounded familiar.” She gave him a good once-over with her eyes. “Whoa. You’ve grown up.”

      “Whoa, yourself,” he said, grinning widely. “Juliet, right?”

      He was tall. Middle Eastern—Pakistani, I found out later. His skin was a rich brown, almost the color of burnt bacon, but beautiful. His hair black. A dimple on the right side gave him a boyish look when he smiled. Juliet explained that they’d been office aides together in seventh grade, back when Danial was a scrawny nerd. Apparently he’d grown up a whole lot since then. He looked like a linebacker.

      I watched with amusement as the two caught up with each other, Juliet animated and brazen as always, Danial more reserved but clearly charmed.

      I glanced at the clock after a bit, sorry that I had to interrupt their little reunion. “You brought your guitar,” I said, nodding at the case he gripped loosely in his left hand.

      “My brother’s. Are you my instructor?”

      “Just a sub.” I reached out to shake his hand and introduced myself. Juliet followed us with her eyes as I showed him to a lesson room. I glanced back at her.

      “Wow,” she mouthed.

      I stifled a laugh.

      “Gary’s your regular instructor,” I said, turning back to Danial, “but he’s running a little late today, so you got me.” I closed the door and sat opposite him in the closetlike space. There was just enough room for the two chairs and a small table with a CD player. On the door, Gary had hung a poster with guitar chords. On the wall behind Danial was my contribution—a poster of Bob Marley in concert. Danial sat down and flipped open the well-worn case, then pulled out a beautiful Taylor guitar.

      “Can I see that?” I asked.

      He handed it over. The back and sides were a rich, finely grained dark brown. “What kind of wood is this?”

      “African mahogany, I think.”

      “Pretty.”

      The fretboard had a beautiful pearl inlay that looked like calla lilies. I strummed the strings, then adjusted the tuning and strummed again, enjoying the rich sound. “Does he still play it?”

      “My brother? No. Not anymore.”

      “So,” I said, handing it back, “show me what you got.”

      Danial knew his way around the guitar and could play some chords. After encouraging him to mess around a bit, I taught him a riff that required only three power chords he was already familiar with and a few single notes. I played along, improvising once he got the hang of it. He stopped periodically to massage his fingertips with his thumb. Before we finished, I wrote out the notes of the riff on a musical staff so he could practice at home. I thought for a moment that it would be nice to have him as a regular student.

      “Where are you from?” I asked as he laid his guitar carefully in the case.

      “Chicago.”

      “I meant, where did your family come from?”

      He laughed. “I know what you meant. My parents were both born in Pakistan. They moved to the States after my brother was born. First Chicago, then Clear Lake, then here.” He snapped the latches closed and stood up. “Nice shirt.”

      I bristled but ignored the comment. I picked up the Takamine and opened the door.

      Danial blew on his fingertips as he stepped out.

      “Sore?”

      “You could say that.”

      “Keep your practices to about ten minutes at a time until your fingers toughen up a bit more.”

      He nodded, then dropped his eyes once again to my shirt and smirked.

      “Is there a problem?” I asked, an edge in my voice.

      He grinned a little and scratched at the back of his head. “No problem.”

      I left him at the counter with Mr. Ratliff so he could pay, thinking maybe I didn’t want him as a regular after all. I replaced the Takamine and found Juliet restocking band lesson books in a wire floor rack. With summer band camps starting in a couple of weeks, there’d been a run on them. Mr. Ratliff had had to restock twice. I picked up the scissors from the floor and sliced the paper tape on a box of books and ripped it open.

      “How did it go?” she asked.

      “Okay.”

      “Okay? That’s it?” She looked past me to get a glimpse of Danial at the counter. “He’s really grown.”

      “Yeah, I know. You already said that.”

      “Shut up.” She gave me a little shove that threw me off balance, and I dropped onto my butt. “I’m telling you, when we were in seventh grade, he was like this little boy computer geek. I mean, he’s a freaking genius on the computer. He was posting articles on Wikipedia before a lot of kids even knew what Wikipedia was. He was always getting into some kind of trouble for it.”

      “Oh yeah? What did he do?”

      “I don’t know. A little creative editing on some religious articles or something. I think he put some school stuff on there that they made him take off.” She grabbed a stack of books from the box and slid them into their respective slots on the wire rack. “You should get him to help you with that blog you want to write.”

      “Maybe.” Maybe not.

      Shortly after Danial left, Mr. Ratliff caught me yawning and checking the time on my phone. “Nate, go home. And do me a favor and take this one with you,” he said, giving Juliet’s hair a playful yank. “Gary will be in shortly; we can handle the store the rest of the day.”

      I was not about to argue, not today, because (1.) I was an emotional wreck, and (2.) Adam had spoken the truth—we hadn’t slept that much.

      Juliet poured us sodas and popped popcorn in the microwave. And then we just stared at each other over the bar. I needed sleep. I needed to go home. She reached over and tapped a kernel of corn in my mouth and watched me chew. I made a pouty face and she made one back, then came around the bar and hugged