Free Guitar Notes by Mary Amato

closes. A thought emerges:
I wish it had been Mom instead of Dad
. As soon as he thinks it, he fears lightning will strike. It’s horrible, but true.
    As he coasts down a hill, he sees a young deer in thegrassy area between the picnic tables and small parking lot, her head bent, nibbling the grass.
    Tripp holds his breath and starts to brake. Farther beyond the deer, he sees an approaching car on the road. The deer raises her head, the patch of fur at her neck so white, and she looks right at Tripp. Her ears twitch. “Please don’t be spooked,” Tripp whispers.
    The deer bolts away from Tripp and leaps onto the road. The car screeches and swerves. Tripp sees the flash of the deer’s tail as she makes it to the other side and disappears into the shadows of someone’s backyard. The car passes by, and the road is quiet again.
    Tripp’s heart is pounding. He stands for a long minute, straddling his bike, feeling like he is the one who just escaped being hit. He wants to call Lyla and tell her what just happened, talk to her about how sad it is when you see a deer in such a crowded area because they have no place to go. He has this feeling that she would understand, but what if she thought it was strange that he called out of the blue? He rides on and, when he gets to the stoplight, turns onto the busy street. The pawnshop is just five blocks up; the guitar he noticed the last time he passed is still in the window, propped against an ugly green chair. After he locks up his bike, he walks in and asks the big bald guy behind the counter if he can see the guitar.
    “You just want to play it or are you actually interested in buying?” the guy asks, without moving.
    “I’m interested in buying,” Tripp says.
    The guy gets it for him, and Tripp plays until the guy says it’s closing time already and he gets kicked out.

 OCTOBER 18. SATURDAY.
B ANK OF A MERICA ; 10:01 A.M .
    Tripp walks into the Bank of America and looks around. He has been to the bank only two or three times his entire life, and he’s not entirely sure how it works. Four people are waiting in line to see one of the three women who are sitting behind windows. Tripp joins the line, pulling out the black book that has his account number and deposit and withdrawal forms. While he waits for his turn, his phone buzzes and he grins.
    Lyla/ Hey what’s up?
    Lyla texting out of the blue. Nice surprise indeed.
    Tripp/ I’m at the bank.
    Lyla/ Robbing it?
    Tripp/ taking out money I saved. gonna buy a guitar.
    Lyla/ Cool! Hey how did you learn to play if you don’t have one?
    Tripp/ I have one but my mom confiscated it.
    Lyla/ harsh
    Tripp/ she locked it in a closet at her store.
    Lyla/ steal it back
    Tripp/ honking lock on it.
    Lyla/ wait. won’t your mom be mad if you buy one?
    Tripp/ beds are meant to hide things under
    Lyla/ Good luck with that. I gotta go. I’m on a break at MYO rehearsal.
    Tripp/ What’s MYO? The Merry Yogurt Organization?
    Lyla/ Metz Youth Orchestra. Bye.
    “Next,” the woman on the end says.
    He steps up, slips the form under the glass partition, and smiles.
    “Photo ID,” the teller says.
    Tripp wasn’t expecting that. He pulls his school ID out of his pocket while she looks at the form and taps something into the computer. After a moment, she slips the form back to him. “Sorry, I can’t process this. It’s a minor account and the custodian”—she checks the screen—“Terry Broody, has essentially placed a freeze on it.”
    “A freeze?”
    “You can’t withdraw funds without her signature.”
    “She can’t do that. It’s my money.”
    “The way the account is set up, she can. Sorry.” She gives him a fake smile. She isn’t sorry at all.
    He leaves and rides back home.
    Depressed, he opens up the desk drawer in the kitchen and slips his black book back in. Her checkbook catches his eye. He takes it and hides it in the back of the freezer, underneath a bag of frozen lima beans. If she can freeze his account, he can