The echo of her guitar still rings in my ears long after I've left the auditorium. I shouldn't have been there. I wasn't planning on it. I just took the long hallway because I didn't want to go home yet. And then I heard it. Her sound. Raw, jagged.
It wasn't the kind of music you play for a grade. It was the kind you play when you don't want to scream. And maybe that's why I didn't walk away.
Now I'm standing at the vending machine, pretending to care about whether I want coke or iced tea. I press a random button. The bottle thunks down.
She didn't see me. Or she did and didn't care. Either way, that sound is stuck in me like splinters.
Brando finds me outside ten minutes later. He's got that annoying grin on, the one that says he's about to mess with me. "You look like someone punched your guitar."
I grunt. "What?..".
He gestures with his soda.
"You've got that spaced-out, tortured-artist look. What happend?" "Nothing. Just tired."
We walk together to the bus stop. I could take the metro, but this way I stall a bit longer. The sun's already fading behind the buildings, casting everything in orange.
Home is just a word right now. Not a destination.
My phone buzzes.
Be home by 6. We need to talk.
Dad.
I shove it in my pocket. I know that tone. He doesn't mean 'talk'. He means lecture. Or worse.
"You okay, man?" Brando asks. "Yeah. Just got some crap waiting at home." He nods, doesn't push. That's why I hang out with him. He knows when to shut up.
We split ways two stops later. I drag my feet all the way to our apartment building. Modern, clean, white stone. But the kind of clean that makes you feel like you don't belong in it.
Inside, I hear the hum of the espresso machine. Smell the cologne he always wears. I breathe in.
Then I open the door.