Where You Are. J.H. Trumble

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СКАЧАТЬ I do.”

      “Yeah, well . . .” He shivers. “It’s cold out here. Unlock the door.”

      I do and he climbs in the passenger seat, slamming the door behind him. I roll the window back up.

      “I’m really sorry about your dad, man. Anything I can do?”

      “You want to make out?”

      He grins, then laughs.

      He knows I’m kidding. Luke and I have a history, but mostly a platonic one.

      “You want the wrath of Curtis to fall on your head?” he jokes. “He’s the jealous type, you know.”

      “I do know.”

      I study my good friend. Luke is the head drum major and my former pseudo-boyfriend. Long story. Curtis is a junior at Sam Houston State University. They’re crazy about each other, and I’m crazy with envy. He settles back in the seat, grabs the cuffs of his hoodie, and folds his arms tightly across his chest to warm up, then puts his feet up on the dash and rolls his head to me.

      “So what’s going on with you and Nic?” he asks.

      “Have I ever thanked you for fixing me up with Whore-Hay?”

      “No, I don’t believe you have.”

      “Then I won’t.”

      He laughs. “That good, huh? Well, I never told you this, but remember when I set you two up? It wasn’t exactly the way I told you.”

      “Exactly what way was it?”

      “I told him you liked him and he should ask you out. He said—wait.” He sits up and takes on a prissy air, then says, “ ‘I don’t ask boys out; boys ask me out.’ ”

      His Nic impression is so spot-on, I can’t help but laugh.

      “Listen,” he says, “you should come up to Sam with me one weekend. Curtis has friends. Who knows, you might like one of them.”

      “What’s it like dating an older guy?” I can’t resist asking.

      This slow grin inches its way across his face, and he flicks his eyebrows at me.

      “That’s just cruel,” I say.

      He props his feet back on the dash and breathes a dreamy sigh. “So, um, what’s it like with Nic?”

      “I wouldn’t know.”

      “Really? Ha, ha. You know, one day you’re going to consider that a blessing.”

      I already do. Reluctantly, I check the time on my phone. “I got to get going. I have my music therapy group in fifteen minutes.”

      “You still don’t have all your service hours?” Luke asks, surprised.

      “I just need a couple more.”

      He takes a deep breath and lets it out loudly. I do the same and he smiles. “You call me if you want to talk. Okay? Don’t worry about Curtis. I’ve got him wrapped around my little finger.” He winks and gets out.

      “You sure you’re up to this?” Ms. Momin asks as she closes the front door behind me. She’s the facilitator of the group, an elementary school music teacher who does music therapy with special-needs kids on the side.

      “Yeah. Of course.”

      I wasn’t so sure about working with these kids when Ms. Lincoln first suggested it. I’d completed most of my sixty hours of community service—a graduation requirement—last summer working at the animal shelter, but Ms. Lincoln thought some diversity would look better on my college applications and hooked me up with Ms. Momin’s group. I’m glad she did. It’s the highlight of my week now.

      From the foyer I see Patrick wrestling an ornery chair toward the living room. It tips. He steps back and utters a frustrated “Bah” as the chair falls over on the tile floor.

      “Patrick,” I call out.

      When he sees me, a big goofy grin takes over his face. He lumbers over and gives me an awkward hug.

      “Hey, man. Thanks for starting to set up the chairs. You want some help?”

      He bears down and concentrates hard before exploding with a big “Bah.”

      “All right. Let’s do it.”

      I right the chair and help him maneuver it into the other room, careful not to get ahead of him and pull the chair from his hands. When we position it, he steps back and throws his bent arms out to the side. “Bah.”

      “Good job, man.”

      “Ya. Ya.”

      Patrick makes me smile. He’s fourteen and tall and lanky, with a sprinkling of acne on his forehead. But despite his physical challenges, which play out in exaggerated smiles and frowns and spastic movements, I think he is quite handsome. One in a million in fact, or perhaps one in seven hundred thousand to be more exact—the odds of being struck by lightning in any given year. He was only nine. Sucks to stand out sometimes.

      By the time Sophie and Jo-Jo arrive, the chairs are set. Ms. Momin helps me settle everyone, then straps Jo-Jo into his chair so he won’t slide to the floor, and takes up her usual position behind them all.

      I look at their faces, and I’m really glad I came.

      “Who’s excited about Christmas?” I ask.

      Patrick jumps up from his chair and spazzes a moment, then drops back in his seat. Sophie is staring off at something or nothing over my shoulder. Jo-Jo, the smallest in the group, is laughing. It’s an uncontrollable kind of laugh, but I find it infectious. Jo-Jo is the least physically capable of the three. In addition to some physical challenges I don’t fully understand, Ms. Momin says that, like Sophie, he has some form of autism. He laughs a lot, at nothing, and sometimes he whimpers, and sometimes he breaks down and cries. But he’s laughing right now, and that’s good.

      “Me too, Jo-Jo. Soooo, I have a surprise for you guys. We’re going to learn a new song today. ‘Jingle Bells.’ ”

      There’re a couple of beats of silence, and then Jo-Jo’s face contorts and he starts this snuffling crying.

      “It’s okay, Jo-Jo. Let’s just try it. I think you’ll like it.”

      Patrick looks like someone just farted. Sophie’s expression remains blank. Ms. Momin grins at me, then tries to comfort Jo-Jo.

      “I’ll play it first.”

      I’m hoping once they recognize the Christmas song their attitudes will improve. So far, we’ve only played “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” “Jingle Bells” requires only two additional notes. I mean, after three months I think we’re ready for a new song. And frankly, they aren’t really playing the notes anyway, so learning a new song is no big deal.

      Despite СКАЧАТЬ