for my vlog. I should just forget about this meeting and go. But a part of me wants to know why Quinn didn’t show. He doesn’t seem like the flaky type. And even though a part of me feels disrespected, I can’t help but wonder if he’s okay.
Maybe he slept in. Quinn had acted like his church’s 6 a.m. Bible class made him tired the day I hurt my ankle. But then he got all irritated when I suggested he didn’t have to go. If he wants to stop being tired, he should stop letting his religion jerk him around. It isn’t as if anyone’s twisting his arm.
So what if his parents get angry? At least they care. If I stopped going to church, I doubt my dad would bat an eyelash. More likely he’d send me to another shrink. Apparently, the point of mental health professionals is to take the place of too-busy parents. Maybe Quinn can’t imagine anything worse than having his father yell at him.
Whatever. I’m done walking in circles around this campus. I’m getting in my Jeep and driving to Quinn’s house. He’s about to wake up and face the music.
Quinn lives in one of the more rundown neighborhoods in our school district. The only reason I know this is because I pried it out of John a few days ago.
I pull my Jeep into his driveway and walk up to his porch. The storm door creaks, the tan paint along the frame is peeling off, the knocker is rusted and I can’t exactly ring the bell. It’s been replaced by a bunch of stripped wires. I take a moment to breathe. What am I going to say to him? What if he thinks coming to his house is too aggressive? Ridiculous, he’s the one who stood me up. I shake off my fears and knock on the door.
No one comes. So I knock louder.
Where’s the nice Mormon boy when you need him, huh? I can feel myself fuming, and that’s when I hear it: a xylophone. I know it’s a xylophone because the notes are going up and down in a scale like when John practices the piano, except the resonance is different—more ringy and kind of hollow, like someone is pounding felt sticks against a bunch of hanging wind chimes.
I put my ear against the door, but the sound seems to come from behind the house. As if someone is standing out in the woods back there, playing to the trees. You have got to be kidding me! Stuffing my hands in my pockets, I cut between a white-barked tree and a row of boxwood bushes. My tennis shoes sink into mud as I round the corner and stop in front of a sliding glass door.
The sound stops and the door opens. A gray-haired version of Quinn stands there in tattered jeans, a wrinkled T-shirt and thick-rimmed glasses.
“Can I help you?” he asks with way too much friendliness, flashing a smile that reveals two crooked front teeth. Quinn must have had braces.
“Is Quinn home?” I say, stepping past him into the room.
My father would call this rude, but I’m not one to waste time. I stop short when I see a nerdy boy behind the xylophone. He rubs his eyes as if he thinks I’m a mirage.
“This is Jordan,” Quinn’s dad says from behind me. “He’s a freshman at West Springfield. He also has an audition coming up.” Mr. Walker steps in front of me. “I’m sorry, but I’m right in the middle of a lesson. You’re going to have to wait.”
I look around the room. There’s a filing cabinet, some music stands, a hanging triangle, a drum set and a gong. I don’t see any chairs, though. Not unless I want to sit on a stool behind a bunch of drums.
Mr. Walker seems to know what I’m thinking.
“Wait upstairs,” he says. “You can watch TV. Help yourself to the food in the kitchen. I’ll be up in twenty minutes.”
The man doesn’t even know my name. I could eat him out of house and home, steal his television and run off with his son.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
“Go ahead.” He gestures toward the stairs. How can he be so trusting? This might explain why Quinn refuses to let anyone come to his house, but this is nothing. Quinn should meet my mother.
I take a
Maybe he slept in. Quinn had acted like his church’s 6 a.m. Bible class made him tired the day I hurt my ankle. But then he got all irritated when I suggested he didn’t have to go. If he wants to stop being tired, he should stop letting his religion jerk him around. It isn’t as if anyone’s twisting his arm.
So what if his parents get angry? At least they care. If I stopped going to church, I doubt my dad would bat an eyelash. More likely he’d send me to another shrink. Apparently, the point of mental health professionals is to take the place of too-busy parents. Maybe Quinn can’t imagine anything worse than having his father yell at him.
Whatever. I’m done walking in circles around this campus. I’m getting in my Jeep and driving to Quinn’s house. He’s about to wake up and face the music.
Quinn lives in one of the more rundown neighborhoods in our school district. The only reason I know this is because I pried it out of John a few days ago.
I pull my Jeep into his driveway and walk up to his porch. The storm door creaks, the tan paint along the frame is peeling off, the knocker is rusted and I can’t exactly ring the bell. It’s been replaced by a bunch of stripped wires. I take a moment to breathe. What am I going to say to him? What if he thinks coming to his house is too aggressive? Ridiculous, he’s the one who stood me up. I shake off my fears and knock on the door.
No one comes. So I knock louder.
Where’s the nice Mormon boy when you need him, huh? I can feel myself fuming, and that’s when I hear it: a xylophone. I know it’s a xylophone because the notes are going up and down in a scale like when John practices the piano, except the resonance is different—more ringy and kind of hollow, like someone is pounding felt sticks against a bunch of hanging wind chimes.
I put my ear against the door, but the sound seems to come from behind the house. As if someone is standing out in the woods back there, playing to the trees. You have got to be kidding me! Stuffing my hands in my pockets, I cut between a white-barked tree and a row of boxwood bushes. My tennis shoes sink into mud as I round the corner and stop in front of a sliding glass door.
The sound stops and the door opens. A gray-haired version of Quinn stands there in tattered jeans, a wrinkled T-shirt and thick-rimmed glasses.
“Can I help you?” he asks with way too much friendliness, flashing a smile that reveals two crooked front teeth. Quinn must have had braces.
“Is Quinn home?” I say, stepping past him into the room.
My father would call this rude, but I’m not one to waste time. I stop short when I see a nerdy boy behind the xylophone. He rubs his eyes as if he thinks I’m a mirage.
“This is Jordan,” Quinn’s dad says from behind me. “He’s a freshman at West Springfield. He also has an audition coming up.” Mr. Walker steps in front of me. “I’m sorry, but I’m right in the middle of a lesson. You’re going to have to wait.”
I look around the room. There’s a filing cabinet, some music stands, a hanging triangle, a drum set and a gong. I don’t see any chairs, though. Not unless I want to sit on a stool behind a bunch of drums.
Mr. Walker seems to know what I’m thinking.
“Wait upstairs,” he says. “You can watch TV. Help yourself to the food in the kitchen. I’ll be up in twenty minutes.”
The man doesn’t even know my name. I could eat him out of house and home, steal his television and run off with his son.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
“Go ahead.” He gestures toward the stairs. How can he be so trusting? This might explain why Quinn refuses to let anyone come to his house, but this is nothing. Quinn should meet my mother.
I take a
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