What makes me hesitate on the offer is the getting to know the new Gregory part. Like puppies, I never know what the new addition’s personality is going to be. He could be nice, or he could be a little weirdo who bites. The youngest, Fiona, actually bit me the first day they brought her home.
But I want to go to the concert badly enough that the pros outweigh the cons.
I chug the rest of my milk then agree. “Fine, I’ll go with you as long as you let me go with Dad.”
“Go where with me?” my dad asks as he strolls into the kitchen carrying his guitar case.
I scoot back from the table and stand up. “To the concert.”
My dad drops his guitar case to the floor and lifts his hand for a high five. “See, I told you it’d be better if you asked her.”
My mother’s head whips in his direction, and she scowls at him. “Did you put her up to that?”
He shrugs as I slam my palm against his. “You have a hard time telling her no.”
“So do you.” She narrows her eyes. “You spoil her too much.”
“And vice versa.” He leans down and whispers something in her ear, causing her to giggle and blush.
That is my cue to leave, because in just a few moments, they’ll start making out like they always do. So gross.
I hurry out of the kitchen and up to my bedroom to change out of my pajamas. I select a black tank top and a pair of cut offs then braid my long, blonde hair before applying a dab of eyeliner around my eyes. I then blast some Rise Against and rock out on my drums for a bit. Uncle Ethan actually taught me how to play, but he says I’m a natural since I caught on really quick.
After the drums comes the guitar. I turn on “Buried Myself Alive” by The Used and strum the strings to the tempo until my fingers are numb. Then I crank up some “Lithium” by Evanescence and go mad crazy with the violin while belting out the lyrics. I stop when I’m hoarse and flop down on my bed to draw covers for the albums I have yet to create.
Once my hands ache, I move on to lyrics. Although it’s one of my favorite things to do, I sometimes feel like I lack in the lyrical department. Most of the music I love is angsty, emotional, semi-twisted, and moves the soul. Mine always seem to come out on the exuberant side. I’m hoping with time it will change. I know my dad wrote some of his best lyrics in his late teen years, when he was pining over my mom. He even told me once that the more I experience life, the more emotional my songs will get. Now, if I could just get those experiences like he said, life would be fantastic.
I’m still figuring out how to attain that life, though. For the most part, my life is pretty boring. I have decent, pretty cool parents who support every dream I throw at them, whether it’s proclaiming that I’m going to create my own genre in music, or win a Grammy. I get to do a lot of things I want to do, like go to concerts, art shows, meet semi-famous musicians. I’ve spent a lot of time in my dad’s studio, watching artists record. I have a lot of friends, granted none of them I would consider a best friend, but there are still occasions where I feel lonely.
Bored. Ordinary. That’s what my life is. And ordinary doesn’t make awesome music.
Plus, even if I miraculously became the most killer songwriter ever, I could never sing in front of anyone. Just playing the guitar for my family makes me want to vomit. Singing is much more raw than playing an instrument. Much more real. Exposes the soul so much more. And as blunt as I am, exposing my soul freaks the living shit out of me, because I fear people won’t like what’s in me.
By the time I look up from the notepad again, the sun is setting over the city of San Diego, and the sky is shades of florescent pink and orange.
“Lyric, it’s time!” my mother calls up the stairs as I’m tucking my notepad under my pillow.
Sighing, I slip on my black boots and trot down the stairs.
“How long of a drive does it have to be?” I ask her as I wander into the living room where she’s stacking our entire DVD collection onto the coffee table.
Movie watching is an adoption day tradition. We start off with dinner at the Gregory’s, where everyone gets reacquainted with each other. Then we come over here to watch a movie since we have a massive television in our living room.
“I’m not sure yet.” She stands up straight and gathers lose strands of her red hair out of her face while she scans the room. She has spots of grey and blue paint in her hair and on her cheek, which means she’s been in her studio for most of the day. “I feel like I’m forgetting something.”
“Batteries. You’ve been meaning to change them for like two weeks.” I chuck her the remote that I collect from the armrest.
She catches it. “Yeah, that’s it. What would I do without you?”
“Probably lose your marbles.”
She pats my head as she rushes out of the living room. Minutes later, she returns with the remote and my dad in tow.
“Everyone ready?” she asks as she tosses the remote onto the sofa. “Let’s go.”
“Do I really have to go this time?” I whisper to my dad as we follow my mom out the door and into the dwindling sunlight. “It’s starting to get really old. I mean, I’ll get to see the newbie tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after that.”
My dad swings an arm around me as we step off the front porch. “Lyric, I know you don’t get it now, but one day you’ll see the importance.”
I look up at him. “In what?”
“In the family you have,” he says as we round the picket fence on the line of our property. We hike up the Gregory’s driveway to their two-story home that is very similar to ours. The only noticeable difference on the outside is the shade of the siding—white and grey. “You’re really lucky to have every single one of us. And you should really get to know the new kid. He’s your age, and I’m sure he could use a friend with … some of the stuff he’s been through. You could be that friend for him. Do something good.”
I wonder what he means by stuff.
“I know I’m lucky, and I was planning on getting to know him.” Sort of. “And I do good stuff all the time. I go with Mom and Lila to the shelter every year on Thanksgiving and help out. I give my clothes away sometimes. I even befriended Maggie McMellford last year, despite the fact that no one was nice to her and she didn’t know who Nirvana was until I let her listen to them.”
“Really? She didn't know who Nirvana was?”