Free My Tiki Girl by Jennifer McMahon

wish I could tell my dad all this. I want to open my mouth and tell him everything I long for, right now at this moment: to do something great; to make some kind of difference in this sorry-ass world. But the thing I long for most is to turn back time to the night of the accident, only this time around, I’d remember the dog.
    And while we’re on the subject of longing (and since this is a total fantasy), I’d also tell him the truth about my best friend, Dahlia Wainwright. How she’s invaded my every thought; how little pieces of her have made their way into each cell of my body like some crazy disease, leaving me achy and feverish. I’d tell him about the way I catch myself staring at her mouth, wondering what her lipstick would taste like.
    But I can’t say that, can I? So I’ll play it safe and stick to music, which is pretty much all my dad and I talk about these days.
    I’ve been asking him all about Artie Shaw, about jazz. My dad has kind of an encyclopedic mind when it comes to jazz, and he’s been telling me all about Shaw’s career. Last night he told me Artie Shaw played with Billie Holiday, and they toured together throughout the South. Today at school Dahlia said she’d never heard Billie Holiday, and when I described her voice, said that she had died of a heroin overdose, Dahlia begged me to bring one of my dad’s CDs over. Who’d have thought I’d be borrowing my dad’s music?
    Tonight he’s explaining improvisation.
    “It’s all about letting go,” he says. “Letting the music take over, just flow through you.”
    “I’ll never learn how,” I tell him.
    “It’s not something you can learn,” he says. “It’s something you feel. Like falling in love.” He smiles at me, his eyes watery behind the thick glasses.
    My face burns a little.
    “Go get your clarinet,” he says.
    I push aside the TV tray, go to my room, and when I come back, my dad is sitting at the piano. He stares at the keys a minute, blinks real hard like he can’t make sense of what he’s seeing, then puts his fingers down and starts to play.
    My dad is actually playing the piano, and I’m so startled, I forget all about Dahlia and how freaked out I am about the way she makes me feel. I even forget the accident. I watch as my father’s whole body changes. He looks loose, like a puppet man. He’s playing “I Got Rhythm,” and he nods at me to join him. I lick my lips, pick up the clarinet, and start to play. It’s like that girl on TV said, you can’t think about the whole journey. I’m just going step by step, note by note. I’m following along the best I can, and my dad’s hammering at the piano, shouting, “That’s it, let it flow, Mags! Let the music take over!” And I relax a little until the music really is just pouring out of me. I’ve got magic fingers. I feel like I’ve just heard a secret that someone promised never to tell, and when I look over at my dad, he’s smiling like he’s heard it, too.

9
    Dahlia Wainwright is my best friend and will be forever. The tea leaves told her so. Dahlia and I brew pots of green tea that Leah buys at an Asian market in West Hartford. We drink the tea in cracked thrift-store cups and when we’re through, Dahlia reads the leaves left on the bottom.
    Leah keeps a shelf in one of the kitchen cupboards full of loose teas and jars stuffed with Chinese herbs: roots and powders that are supposed to give you strength, stamina, and vitality.
    “What’s my fortune today?” I ask Dahlia, pushing my cup her way across the table in her kitchen.
    It’s the day before Halloween, and Dahlia and I are sitting at her kitchen table with the teacups and a bag of licorice allsorts. The GUITARIST WANTED flyers have been up all week, and if anyone other than Troy has approached her about joining our band, she hasn’t mentioned it. This afternoon we’re supposed to be working on our science project, but she’s reading our fortunes instead. She’s wearing a hippie skirt