Blowin' My Mind Like a Summer Breeze, page 14
We listen to Led Zeppelin and T-Rex. We listen to The Who and “Helter Skelter” off the Beatles’ White Album. I even play him some songs by Nirvana and Soundgarden and The Breeders that I like.
“I guess they don’t suck too bad,” Walden concedes.
Over the next two weeks, we swim in the lake, eat hot dogs, record my songs, and not much else. It’s the best I’ve felt since I met Juliet. And it’s nice to feel closer to my brother again. I hate when we’re mad at each other because we’re all we have.
Over the past year or so, I’ve occasionally worried that Walden and I don’t like each other as much as we used to. Not that we can’t get along. That we wouldn’t be friends if we met randomly instead of being brother and sister.
But watching him turn knobs and position microphones, watching him put the perfect touches on my songs—he becomes my brother again. My lifelong roommate. The boy who used to read me Matilda and James and the Giant Peach when I had insomnia when I was a little girl. Walden has always been a talented drummer, and he’s become a really good guitar player, but I think he might be a recording genius. I can hardly believe the sounds he’s able to achieve on such basic equipment. A console you could fit in your backpack. Even more so, there’s a tenderness and care he gives to the process. He wants to get it right almost more than I do.
“I think we can do better,” becomes the running joke. Let’s try it one more time.
Aside from that first compliment about “Ordinary Girl,” though, he rarely comments on the quality of the songs themselves. I want to ask him all the time whether he likes them or not, but I’m too afraid of what he’ll say, that he’ll say they aren’t very good. Just teenage crap.
With Walden’s prodding, I agree to add keyboards to half the songs, and acoustic piano to a couple of tracks, “Secret Star” and “A Quiet Place.”
“Rainey, you’re the best piano player I know. You only started playing guitar five minutes ago. It would be truly idiotic not to put any piano on some of these.”
So, we stage clandestine recording sessions at the living room piano while Mom is at work and Dad’s in the studio.
Oh yeah, Mom got a job at T.J. Maxx. She wasn’t kidding. She works four days a week and it makes her even more miserable.
It’s not until we’re recording the last of my nine songs that Walden asks, “What are you going to do with these demos, anyway? Hell, you just made an album, Rainey.”
We’re celebrating in the treehouse with Cokes and a box of Little Debbie Oatmeal Cream Pies. We’re both barefoot in shorts and T-shirts, glossed with sweat from the heat.
“I don’t know,” I confess. And I don’t. The Rolling Stones make albums. And my parents. Bonnie Raitt makes albums. I don’t make albums. Do I?
Walden reaches out his Coke can, and I lightly knock mine against his.
“To The Treehouse Tapes,” he says.
“The Treehouse Tapes?”
“Like The Basement Tapes. Only in a treehouse.”
“I get it. Clever.”
“Until you think of something better.”
The Treehouse Tapes. I say the name a few times in my head. The Treehouse Tapes.
I unwrap another Oatmeal Cream Pie and take a big bite, the marshmallow sweet and chewy between my teeth. I feel utterly content. And yet, I wish Juliet was here. She’d say the perfect thing. Something funny and wise and cool.
Adding the album to my list of first things feels good.
Things I Did for the First Time When I was Fifteen.
Kissed someone.
Pierced my nose.
Wrote my first song.
Got my first tattoo.
Made my first album.
Five things already. Not too bad. Look at me go.
That night, during family meeting, Mom announces that she and Dad talked about it and…drum roll please.
“You can go to school,” Dad says.
“If you still want to go,” Mom says.
“I do.”
“But you know it starts next week, right?”
“Yes,” I say, swallowing. Next week feels really soon. I’d been counting on them saying yes, but it’s not until right now that I allow the reality of it to hit me.
“Then go. I hope it’s everything you want it to be,” Mom says. I try to read her tone and her facial expression, but there’s too many different emotions to sort through. Anger, sadness, fatigue, acceptance.
“What does this mean for the band?” Walden asks.
“What band?” Mom says, then gets up and goes into the kitchen. I hear her start crying softly.
That night as I’m trying to sleep in the stifling heat of the treehouse, beneath the sound of crickets chirping, beneath the steady pulse of my own breath, I hear Dad playing acoustic guitar softly, out there serenading the night. He starts singing and it makes me feel incredibly sad, but I don’t know why. I’m getting what I want, but I feel sad all the same. Me going to school and Dad’s stage fright means that, for the moment anyway, The Cobb Family Band is no more. The storied duo of Luce and Tracy Cobb, who graced the cover of Rolling Stone and had a hit single once upon a time, are no more. Just like that. Somehow it doesn’t feel right that something that took so long to build should be so easy to destroy.
I feel like Dad and I ran for the lifeboats and left my mom and Walden stranded on a sinking ship. Or maybe Dad and I are on the sinking ship and Mom and Walden got the lifeboats. It’s hard to tell who’s on the sinking ship. Is there a sinking ship? Never mind. Maybe it’s a bad analogy.
Who cares what anyone thinks? That’s what Juliet would say. In a letter the other day, she said you can’t let anyone get in the way of what you really want. Your dreams are too important. I wonder if she knows how dumb that really sounds. As if life is just a fortune cookie. And yet, isn’t that exactly what I’m doing? When you hurt other people, even if you don’t want to, does it make you a bad person?
I have the urge to go out there so I can hear Dad better. To be closer to the sadness. To sit at his feet and bathe in it.
I want to ask him, are you okay, Dad? Are you ever going to be okay again? How can we fix you?
Just don’t stop playing. Never stop playing.
Track Five
Are You Joining a Biker Gang?
“Oh my God, what is that noise!”
I can’t see Mom yet, but I can hear her disgruntled, disapproving shout just fine. I click off my stereo, which was blasting Rage Against the Machine, a band Juliet told me about in her last letter. Their music is pretty intense at first, but I kind of love it. Cursing under her breath, I can hear Mom struggling on the rope ladder, the old oak tree creaking as she climbs it, cursing right back.
It’s Sunday. School starts tomorrow. As in, the day after today. As in tomorrow I have to wake up early and go to a real school for the very first time. My euphoria has given way to steadily increasing terror and part of me wants to say I was only kidding, let’s keep things the way they are instead. Ha!
I’m looking at a copy of the new Rolling Stone. Hootie and the Blowfish are on the cover with the headline, “Sex, Golf, and Rock and Roll.” The guys in Hootie look like computer programmers.
“What was that music?” Mom says, stepping in the treehouse, fanning herself from the heat.
“Just some band.”
“You used to have such good taste in music.”
I shrug. Everything with Mom and me lately turns into a fight and I’m not in the mood.
“I have a present for you.”
“A present?”
Reaching into her back pocket, Mom pulls out Blowin’ my Mind Like a Summer Breeze. I feel my eyes open all the way.
“I think you should have this back,” she says and hands me the tape.
“Really?”
“Really.”
I look at Juliet’s handwriting. I think about her pen moving across the paper. The way she cut the palm tree picture just so. How carefully she chose the songs. The love she put into it. All for me and only me.
“Did you listen to it?”
“I did. All of it. A couple of times.”
“And?”
“Well. There’s some songs on there that I’m not thrilled about my fifteen-year-old daughter listening to…”
“But?”
“But I can also admit that I might have overreacted a little bit.”
“A little bit?”
She shakes her head in annoyance. “I’m not trying to fight, Rainey. I’m trying to do something nice. Can’t you see the difference?”
“Sorry. Thanks, Mom.”
Even in the dimly lit treehouse, Mom’s long red hair seems shiny. I can smell her green apple shampoo and a hint of her flowery perfume.
“Growing up happens by degrees, Rainey, not all at once. I know that’s hard, but it’s supposed to be that way. It will get easier.”
No, it won’t.
“Anyway, c’mon, we’re going shopping.”
“Shopping? For what?”
“For school clothes. And supplies. I thought you could use some stuff before your new adventure.”
We drive to the mall. At J.C. Penny, I pick out some black jeans, a black sweatshirt, and black tank tops.
“Are you joining a biker gang that I don’t know about?” Mom says.
We get cups of frozen yogurt, then I pick out some band T-shirts from Spencer Gifts. A new pair of black Chuck Taylors.
“Are you going to get anything that isn’t black?”
“You’re the one that said I could pick out what I wanted.”
“I know, I know. But you should get at least a couple of nice things.” She steers us into the Gap and makes me try on a pair of light brown khakis, a white button-down, and a lime green V-neck sweater that I wouldn’t wear under pain of torture. “For days when you want to look nice.”
Another mother-daughter combo saunters into the Gap. The complete opposite of me and my mom, they both have shining blonde coifs and wear preppy outfits with lots of stripes and interesting colors that are probably named flamingo and avocado.
“Jesus, look at these two,” Mom says, and we share a moment of laughter.
“They look like experimental twins who escaped from a government lab,” I say.
Still, it’s hard not to feel a little jealous as I watch them go around the store together, best friends who laugh at inside jokes and hold clothes up to each other’s bodies.
“Can we afford all this?” I ask at the checkout, watching Mom count out bills from a stack. “I’ve never gotten this many new clothes before.”
“Let me worry about that.”
In addition to working at T.J. Maxx, Mom has also started teaching piano lessons to a string of little kids who come and go from my house as Mom teaches them finger positioning, ear training, treble and bass clef. And my dad has started selling his homemade woodworks on consignment at local stores and from a display at the end of our driveway advertising Luce Cobb Woodworks: Carved Birds, Birdhouses, Bookcases, Commissions.
I know it makes my mom miserable to have to work a regular job, and I want to ask her about it, but I’m afraid it won’t help. That it will just lead to another fight and make her feel bad. So, I don’t. I feel guilty that I’m a big part of why her career is on hold, but I don’t know what to do about that either. I keep thinking about something Juliet said to me one day.
“Rainey, you’re fifteen,” she said.
“I know.”
“No. Listen to me. You’re fifteen. Just, try to remember that. You only get to be a kid once, no matter what your parents say.”
I wasn’t totally sure what she meant, but I think I’m starting to figure it out.
Mom and I drive to an office supply store, and I wander the brightly lit aisles, not knowing what to do. Eventually, I pick out brand new binders, folders, spiral bound notebooks, pencils, pens, erasers, and even a small calculator. For homeschooling, all I’ve ever had is a huge notebook and a plastic folder. Having so many new things feels strange, but I can’t deny I love the smell of them, the newness of them, smooth and unmarked. I picture myself sitting in a line of desks surround by other kids, then reaching into my backpack and pulling out my supplies when I need them. How they’ll look just like the ones the other kids have. How good that will feel.
“Thanks for letting me get all this stuff,” I say, nodding down at my full basket.
“Well, you’re going to need it. And I know how important it is to you to fit in.”
“Not really,” I say, but that’s a total lie.
“I don’t mean it in a bad way,” Mom says. “Fitting in isn’t always a bad thing.”
“You said being ordinary and fitting in was for everybody else, not for us.”
“I know. But people say a lot of things, don’t they? Parenting is a messy business. And so is adolescence, if you hadn’t noticed.”
In the furniture section, we sit down in comfy leather recliners and put our feet up. “Not everything I say is an accusation,” she says. “I just meant it’s going to be a new experience.”
“I know.”
“And it might take a little while to get your feet under you.”
“I know.”
“And make friends.”
“I know.”
“Well, then I guess I’ll stop talking since you already know everything.”
At that moment, the same mother-daughter combo from the Gap walks past us. They must be working the same circuit. They haven’t lost any steam. Still smiling, still pointing. Still best friends. I want to run over and scream in their faces. Or ask them the secret to how they get along so well.
I’m not sure which one.
• • •
That night I sit in the treehouse listening to Juliet’s mix, the flow of the songs as familiar as if I’d heard them yesterday. I keep the Polaroid Juliet took of the wall after she traced our hands in my backpack and take it out while I write her a letter. The color is already starting to fade a little. Looking at it always makes me feel better, those two outlined hands, reaching, nearly touching.
Dear Juliet,
It’s officially my last night as a homeschooled kid.
In the morning, I’m going to school. Those are words I never thought I’d say. Part of me feels excited, but a stronger part of me feels scared. I keep imagining all these moments where I won’t know what to do or say. I know that probably sounds stupid but it’s true. My dad says that when the moments come, I’ll know what to do and what to say. That the right words and instincts are inside of me, ready and waiting. I hope he’s right. My dad and I have gotten closer lately, but my mom and I keep getting further apart.
I don’t know if you know this, but I like to make lists. It’s what I do when I can’t get my
mind to shut up. Here’s one I made earlier today.
Things I Hate About my Mom (lately)
She hates the music I listen to.
She hates that I have a nose ring.
She hates the way I dress.
She hates everything I say.
She hates that I broke up the band.
You know what? I think I have the title wrong. It should actually be Things My Mom
Hates About Me.
We always think about hating our parents. I mean, not hating them forever, but just for a little bit while they adjust to seeing us as real people. But it never occurred to me that they might hate us right back. Do you think they ever do? That would be an interesting plot twist.
Sorry, this is turning into a depressing letter.
I’ll write again soon to let you know how school goes.
Rainey
P.S. My mom gave me your mix back!
P.P.S. You said in your last letter that you were trying to quit smoking for swimming. How’s that going? I’m rooting for you.
Track Six
Lying is Easier
Introducing Rainey Cobb, the newest member of the sophomore class at Green Valley High School.
The crowd goes wild.
Actually, nobody goes wild.
As I walk the hallways, thin blue lockers on all sides and gleaming tile beneath my feet, looking down at the pink paper schedule my guidance counselor gave me, I’m both glad but also kicking myself that I turned down her offer to walk me to my first class. I’d feel like a loser being escorted, but then at least I’d know where I was going.
My backpack sags with the weight of all my new supplies, and I suddenly feel self-conscious of their newness. My stomach is in knots, and I wish I’d taken my dad up on his offer to make me breakfast instead of settling for a banana while mom drove me to school.
Though of course they aren’t, everyone seems to be looking at me, and I definitely hear the words “new kid” and “nose ring” muttered more than once as I pass. But, all the same, no one trips me or puts a “kick me” sign on my back or slaps my books out of my hands and runs away laughing.
The school is nicer than I expected. Well-used, but bright, clean, and spacious. The bathrooms gleam and smell reassuringly of chemicals.
In almost every class, we sit in circles and play awkward, get-to-know-you games designed to ease everyone into the new school year. The most common version of this game involves introducing yourself, then saying what you did over the summer. I soon realize, though, that these games are designed to ease all the normal kids into the new school year. Weirdos and homeschooled kids who grew up on the road be warned—this game is not for you!
In homeroom, when I say, “I was on tour most of the summer,” all I get is blank, confused stares from everyone.
“Oh, that sounds so interesting, on a tour of what?” my homeroom teacher asks, sounding genuinely enthusiastic. He’s an upbeat, clean-shaven guy named Mr. Larson who has shoulder length brown hair and leans way forward like what you’re saying is the most important thing he’s ever heard.
“Just lie,” a girl with short hair and a white Adidas hat says to me in the hallway after homeroom.
