Free Far From You by Lisa Schroeder

getting personal
    Homework
    was conquered
    and destroyed,
    so as a reward,
    Claire and I made plans
    to get together.
    Thursday after school,
    I went to her house,
    guitar in hand,
    thinking we’d practice
    our music.
    The basement belongs to Claire.
    One corner has
    a table,
    a sewing machine,
    and a mannequin.
    The other corner has
    a piano
    and a sofa,
    where we sit
    and play music.
    I strummed on my guitar,
    showing her
    what I’d been working on.
    She shook her head.
    “What?” I asked.
    “What’s wrong?”
    She looked at me.
    Her eyes were like blocks of ice.
    Cold and hard.
    “You just keep writing the same sad stuff, Ali.”
    I shrugged. “So?”
    “Mom says the people at church are talking.”
    “Talking?”
    “They want to celebrate God.
    They want to love Him and thank Him.
    They want something different.
    And to be honest, so do I.”
    “What are you saying?”
    “It’s too sad.
    You’ve been writing this sad crap for long enough.
    It’s time to move on.”
    I felt like my best friend
    had just pushed me
    down
    the
    s
    t
    a
    i
    r
    s
    “Sad crap?
    Is that what you think of my music?”
    “Come on, you know I don’t mean it like that.
    But we need to take a break.
    I’ve already told them at church.
    It’s done.”
    Then she stood up
    and went to the piano.
    Her fingers danced
    across the keys,
    light and airy,
    like nothing
    was even wrong.
    I thought of Mom.
    How could I stop playing?
    It was the one place
    that hadn’t changed.
    The one place where
    I felt her with me
    no matter what.
    “They’ve found someone else to play,” she continued.
    “For a while.”
    “Claire, what the hell?”
    She shrugged.
    “I want to focus on my clothing designs anyway.”
    I was so pissed,
    I almost threw
    my precious guitar
    across the room,
    smashing
    the mannequin
    to pieces.
    But I didn’t.
    I just squeezed it,
    looking at the girl
    I thought I knew.
    When she said, “You need to let God in, Ali,”
    it felt like she was rubbing
    sandpaper
    up
    and
    down
    my
    skin.
    “What does that mean?” I asked.
    “Come on. You know.
    Write about something else.
    Write about the good stuff!”
    As if sadness
    can be thrown,
    like a small stone,
    into a raging river
    and quickly
    forgotten.
    I can’t help it
    if Mom is there,
    in my music.
    She brought me to it
    in the first place.
    I squeezed my fists
    tightly around the guitar neck.
    I squeezed so hard,
    the strings
    cut into
    my hands.
    There was nothing
    I could think of to say,
    because she’d probably
    never understand.
    And so
    I just
    left.

not a solo artist
    When I got home,
    I called Blaze
    and we talked.
    Well, I talked, shouted, and screamed.
    He listened.
    When I finally
    shut up for a minute,
    he said,
    “You can play your music for me anytime.
    You don’t need that church messing with your mind
    anyway.”
    “Blaze, please don’t.”
    “What? It’s the truth.
    I swear, that place is like a cult.”
    And here
    was the damn splinter,
    getting deeper,
    hurting more and more.
    I’ve learned
    the best thing to do
    is change the subject.
    “I know I can still play my music,” I told him.
    “It’s just not the same without Claire.
    But how can we ever play again?
    She called my music crap.”
    “I’m sorry, baby.
    I’m sure she’ll get over it,
    and you’ll be doing your thing together again soon.”
    Blaze is right
    about a lot of things.
    But I was pretty sure
    he wouldn’t be right
    about that.

not hungry
    Friday at school
    was weird.
    Weird like
    mashed potatoes
    without gravy
    or
    a hot dog
    without mustard.
    It wasn’t
    how it was supposed to be.
    I couldn’t figure out
    if Claire and I
    were fighting
    or fine
    or what?
    I went to the library
    at lunch
    and worked on
    a science project,
    while hoping
    I wouldn’t be gravyless
    for long.

foul
    When Dad got home from work,
    he yelled at me
    because I had forgotten to pick up
    his dry cleaning
    on my way home
    from school.
    His green eyes,
    with big, dark bags
    underneath