ball sparkled. Everything was so nice and sparkly.
“Some of those people,” Devon continued. “They can’t even carry a tune. Even I can carry a tune. So I’m thinking, they’re going to have new tryouts this summer. I know I won’t win. But if I make the first round?” He clapped his hands, then pumped his fists. “Free trip to Hollywood, right?”
“Why would you need my help?”
“The longer I can stay in the game, the longer I get to stay in Hollywood. You could give me a few lessons—”
I waved him off. “I don’t sing anymore, Dev.”
“I’ll pay you.”
“It isn’t about money. I haven’t sung in a long time.”
“Not even in the shower?”
I hummed sometimes. I sang under my breath. And in the car, windows rolled up and the radio blaring, I’d give my lungs a workout. But it wasn’t the same. “Listen, Dev. It’s stupid, but I made a promise a long time ago that I wouldn’t sing anymore. I wouldn’t make a very good teacher.”
“Come on. It’ll be like Master Jedi and apprentice. You can show me the ways of the force.”
“I’m no master.”
Devon cupped his hands over his mouth and spoke in a deep voice while breathing heavy, impersonating Darth Vader. “Ridley, you are my vocal teacher.”
I laughed. He would never outgrow his Star Wars obsession. It was good to see some things hadn’t changed.
He dropped his hands from his face. “Will you do it?”
I let my laughter peter out. “I’m sorry, I can’t.”
“You’re serious?”
“Trust me,” I said, “there are dozens of listings in the Yellow Pages for voice teachers that will do a damn good job.”
“Whatever, man.” He stood and tossed the napkin with my number onto the table. “If I’d wanted some random person out of the phonebook, I wouldn’t have come to you.”
“Ridley,” Sheila shouted from the bar. “Could use a little help.”
I acknowledged her with a wave and turned back to ask Devon if we could meet up at a later time.
He had already left.
Lakeland Cemetery, a well-groomed rolling pasture of green that would make most golfers envious if it weren’t for all the tombstones, sits at the heart of Hawthorne. My parents were buried on the west side of the cemetery, and while their every living moment had revolved around flamboyance, in death they had settled down to simplicity—two inconspicuous grave stones, side-by-side and flush with the ground.
I stood by their graves, looking down at the marble rectangles imbedded in the grass. My wet eyes felt cold in the night breeze, and the skin around my eyes sticky. I barely felt the tingle in my arm from where I’d picked out the few pieces of glass.
Technically the cemetery was closed, but a hundred dollar bill could get you into almost anywhere if passed to the right hand. One of the advantages of being a millionaire was that you never seemed to run out of those hundred dollar bills.
Something I was still trying to get used to.
I crouched, plucked away some grass that had started encroaching on my mother’s stone. I brushed dirt off the surface. I traced her carved name with the tips of my fingers.
“This is the part where I start talking to you like you’re here,” I said. “Only you’re not here. You can’t hear me, and no matter how many times I say I’m sorry, it’s too damn late.”
A blacktopped road snaked through the cemetery. Light posts that cast a surprisingly sharp light, more on par with a parking lot than a cemetery, lined the road. My parents sat close enough to the road for the light to reach me, but while I stood on my mother’s side, my body cast a shadow on their graves.
I straightened and strolled over to my father’s side, circling the space where I imagined they lay, never crossing over.
I bent, plucked a weed that wasn’t really in the way, and touched his cold gravestone.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
I brushed my palm over the grass, the tips of each blade tickling my skin
“Some of those people,” Devon continued. “They can’t even carry a tune. Even I can carry a tune. So I’m thinking, they’re going to have new tryouts this summer. I know I won’t win. But if I make the first round?” He clapped his hands, then pumped his fists. “Free trip to Hollywood, right?”
“Why would you need my help?”
“The longer I can stay in the game, the longer I get to stay in Hollywood. You could give me a few lessons—”
I waved him off. “I don’t sing anymore, Dev.”
“I’ll pay you.”
“It isn’t about money. I haven’t sung in a long time.”
“Not even in the shower?”
I hummed sometimes. I sang under my breath. And in the car, windows rolled up and the radio blaring, I’d give my lungs a workout. But it wasn’t the same. “Listen, Dev. It’s stupid, but I made a promise a long time ago that I wouldn’t sing anymore. I wouldn’t make a very good teacher.”
“Come on. It’ll be like Master Jedi and apprentice. You can show me the ways of the force.”
“I’m no master.”
Devon cupped his hands over his mouth and spoke in a deep voice while breathing heavy, impersonating Darth Vader. “Ridley, you are my vocal teacher.”
I laughed. He would never outgrow his Star Wars obsession. It was good to see some things hadn’t changed.
He dropped his hands from his face. “Will you do it?”
I let my laughter peter out. “I’m sorry, I can’t.”
“You’re serious?”
“Trust me,” I said, “there are dozens of listings in the Yellow Pages for voice teachers that will do a damn good job.”
“Whatever, man.” He stood and tossed the napkin with my number onto the table. “If I’d wanted some random person out of the phonebook, I wouldn’t have come to you.”
“Ridley,” Sheila shouted from the bar. “Could use a little help.”
I acknowledged her with a wave and turned back to ask Devon if we could meet up at a later time.
He had already left.
Lakeland Cemetery, a well-groomed rolling pasture of green that would make most golfers envious if it weren’t for all the tombstones, sits at the heart of Hawthorne. My parents were buried on the west side of the cemetery, and while their every living moment had revolved around flamboyance, in death they had settled down to simplicity—two inconspicuous grave stones, side-by-side and flush with the ground.
I stood by their graves, looking down at the marble rectangles imbedded in the grass. My wet eyes felt cold in the night breeze, and the skin around my eyes sticky. I barely felt the tingle in my arm from where I’d picked out the few pieces of glass.
Technically the cemetery was closed, but a hundred dollar bill could get you into almost anywhere if passed to the right hand. One of the advantages of being a millionaire was that you never seemed to run out of those hundred dollar bills.
Something I was still trying to get used to.
I crouched, plucked away some grass that had started encroaching on my mother’s stone. I brushed dirt off the surface. I traced her carved name with the tips of my fingers.
“This is the part where I start talking to you like you’re here,” I said. “Only you’re not here. You can’t hear me, and no matter how many times I say I’m sorry, it’s too damn late.”
A blacktopped road snaked through the cemetery. Light posts that cast a surprisingly sharp light, more on par with a parking lot than a cemetery, lined the road. My parents sat close enough to the road for the light to reach me, but while I stood on my mother’s side, my body cast a shadow on their graves.
I straightened and strolled over to my father’s side, circling the space where I imagined they lay, never crossing over.
I bent, plucked a weed that wasn’t really in the way, and touched his cold gravestone.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
I brushed my palm over the grass, the tips of each blade tickling my skin
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