Jesse's Girl
Page 35
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I snort. “And who have you used your so-called precognitive relationship skills on?”
He pauses outside the door to Gibson. “Holly and her husband, Jay. And I just know Uncle Bob has a thing for Mark.”
“Get out! Dr. Salter is gay?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m cool with it; I just had no idea. No one at school knows that.”
“My parents know.” Jesse’s body deflates as he leans against the store’s brick wall. “They reacted badly when they found out. My dad hasn’t spoken to Uncle Bob in almost five years.”
Poor Jesse. And poor Dr. Salter.
But jeez—if anyone at school finds out that Dr. Salter is gay, I bet some closed-minded parents would storm the school carrying torches like in some kind of medieval crusade. I hate that about our town, that a lot of people are so closed-minded.
“My parents and grandparents stopped talking to him when they found out,” Jesse says. “And I told my grandparents I wasn’t coming back for Christmas or Thanksgiving until they let Uncle Bob come, and well, I haven’t been over there in years.”
“Wow,” I say, shaking my head.
“It hasn’t been the same since Pa died anyway.”
“Good for you standing up to your grandparents like that. But it must be hard not being part of their lives.”
Jesse nods. “It’s complicated.”
If his parents are this judgmental, I have no idea why he values their opinion so much. He must really love them if he’s willing to retire from the music business so he can rebuild their relationship. But then again, I stuck with The Fringe for a whole year, even when I didn’t want to play metal. I just wanted to belong, to be a part of something.
“Jesse,” I whisper. “How will I find another band? What if I can’t find people who want to play the same music as me? Should I just settle and play whatever?”
And right there in front of Gibson, on the busiest street in Nashville, he folds me into his arms. A whisper in my ear: “I don’t know what’s right for you, but even after I retire, I’m not gonna stop playing guitar and writing. Because that’s who I am.”
Me too. Even if I have to sing stuff like “When the Saints Go Marching In,” I love performing, so I might rejoin the show choir. And regardless of whether I find another band, I’m gonna sit on my front porch and play awesome covers of eighties songs. Because that’s who I am.
I wrap my arms around his waist and hold on tight. A cacophony of cameras sounds around us as people take pictures with their phones, but I don’t care. Even if he didn’t answer my offer to be friends, I know we are.
“Can we go in Gibson now?” I ask. “I’m dying to see the new Les Paul.”
He pushes the door open, making the little bell on the doorknob jingle. We step inside a music utopia, and I feel crazy lust for the guitars.
A middle-aged man darts up, buttoning his gray suit. “Jesse! It’s a pleasure.” He keeps his hands folded in front of him.
“Nice to see you, Max,” Jesse replies. “Maya, meet Max—he’s the manager here.”
Max gives me a warm smile and a firm handshake. “I didn’t know you were coming or I would’ve closed the store,” Max says to Jesse, swallowing as he looks around at the other customers. Some of them are already staring.
“It’s okay. We’re just looking around.”
Jesse and I head over to the Les Paul section and look up at the new Jimmy Page limited edition electric displayed on the wall.
“Amazing, huh?” I say.
“I like the archtop series myself.”
“Want to try it out?” Max calls from across the room.
“Maya wants to,” Jesse replies.
A minute later, I find myself cradling this heavenly $15,000 guitar. Max even hooks it up to an old-time Fender amp, so I can hear what it truly sounds like. I pull my lucky pick out of my purse. With trembling hands, I play the first few measures of the Eagles’ “Hotel California,” and then I start blistering through the guitar solo—one of the toughest there is—and Max’s eyes grow wider than supper plates. Some of the other customers crowd around us, staring and beaming at me.
“She playing backup for you now?” Max asks.
“She could be,” Jesse replies, taking the Les Paul from my hands. “My turn.” He throws the strap around his neck and adjusts the guitar in front of him, and the other customers scream.
Jesse pays them no attention as he starts playing Bon Jovi’s “Wanted Dead or Alive.” It’s like a little concert in the Gibson store, and everyone cheers and claps when he’s finished.
He pauses outside the door to Gibson. “Holly and her husband, Jay. And I just know Uncle Bob has a thing for Mark.”
“Get out! Dr. Salter is gay?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m cool with it; I just had no idea. No one at school knows that.”
“My parents know.” Jesse’s body deflates as he leans against the store’s brick wall. “They reacted badly when they found out. My dad hasn’t spoken to Uncle Bob in almost five years.”
Poor Jesse. And poor Dr. Salter.
But jeez—if anyone at school finds out that Dr. Salter is gay, I bet some closed-minded parents would storm the school carrying torches like in some kind of medieval crusade. I hate that about our town, that a lot of people are so closed-minded.
“My parents and grandparents stopped talking to him when they found out,” Jesse says. “And I told my grandparents I wasn’t coming back for Christmas or Thanksgiving until they let Uncle Bob come, and well, I haven’t been over there in years.”
“Wow,” I say, shaking my head.
“It hasn’t been the same since Pa died anyway.”
“Good for you standing up to your grandparents like that. But it must be hard not being part of their lives.”
Jesse nods. “It’s complicated.”
If his parents are this judgmental, I have no idea why he values their opinion so much. He must really love them if he’s willing to retire from the music business so he can rebuild their relationship. But then again, I stuck with The Fringe for a whole year, even when I didn’t want to play metal. I just wanted to belong, to be a part of something.
“Jesse,” I whisper. “How will I find another band? What if I can’t find people who want to play the same music as me? Should I just settle and play whatever?”
And right there in front of Gibson, on the busiest street in Nashville, he folds me into his arms. A whisper in my ear: “I don’t know what’s right for you, but even after I retire, I’m not gonna stop playing guitar and writing. Because that’s who I am.”
Me too. Even if I have to sing stuff like “When the Saints Go Marching In,” I love performing, so I might rejoin the show choir. And regardless of whether I find another band, I’m gonna sit on my front porch and play awesome covers of eighties songs. Because that’s who I am.
I wrap my arms around his waist and hold on tight. A cacophony of cameras sounds around us as people take pictures with their phones, but I don’t care. Even if he didn’t answer my offer to be friends, I know we are.
“Can we go in Gibson now?” I ask. “I’m dying to see the new Les Paul.”
He pushes the door open, making the little bell on the doorknob jingle. We step inside a music utopia, and I feel crazy lust for the guitars.
A middle-aged man darts up, buttoning his gray suit. “Jesse! It’s a pleasure.” He keeps his hands folded in front of him.
“Nice to see you, Max,” Jesse replies. “Maya, meet Max—he’s the manager here.”
Max gives me a warm smile and a firm handshake. “I didn’t know you were coming or I would’ve closed the store,” Max says to Jesse, swallowing as he looks around at the other customers. Some of them are already staring.
“It’s okay. We’re just looking around.”
Jesse and I head over to the Les Paul section and look up at the new Jimmy Page limited edition electric displayed on the wall.
“Amazing, huh?” I say.
“I like the archtop series myself.”
“Want to try it out?” Max calls from across the room.
“Maya wants to,” Jesse replies.
A minute later, I find myself cradling this heavenly $15,000 guitar. Max even hooks it up to an old-time Fender amp, so I can hear what it truly sounds like. I pull my lucky pick out of my purse. With trembling hands, I play the first few measures of the Eagles’ “Hotel California,” and then I start blistering through the guitar solo—one of the toughest there is—and Max’s eyes grow wider than supper plates. Some of the other customers crowd around us, staring and beaming at me.
“She playing backup for you now?” Max asks.
“She could be,” Jesse replies, taking the Les Paul from my hands. “My turn.” He throws the strap around his neck and adjusts the guitar in front of him, and the other customers scream.
Jesse pays them no attention as he starts playing Bon Jovi’s “Wanted Dead or Alive.” It’s like a little concert in the Gibson store, and everyone cheers and claps when he’s finished.
