Harmonic Feedback Read online

Grandma took care of him for twelve years—changing diapers, spoon feeding, bathing, and everything else in between. He died of pneumonia five years ago, and she still hadn’t forgiven herself.

  “Was that Naomi Quinn I saw here earlier?” Grandma asked, picking up a crumb that had fallen off her plate. I didn’t even know how she could find it on a table painted with gold glitter. Between the Tiffany lamps, TV with bunny ears, and earthy color scheme, this house was stuck in the dinosaur age.

  “Yeah, she helped us move all our stuff. Sweet girl,” Mom said, poking at the cabbage with her fork.

  My stomach growled for In-N-Out Burger. Their fries had the right amount of crispness on the outside.

  Grandma shook her head, frowning. “Her father is never home. And every time I look out my window, she’s out there smoking. With boys.” Her hazel eyes widened at Mom.

  Mom chuckled into her cup of water. “Oh, no. Boys.”

  Grandma got up and rinsed her plate in the sink. “You should stay clear of her, Andrea. She’s trouble.”

  Mom rolled her eyes. “Drea is about as interested in boys as you are. I don’t see her bringing one home anytime soon.” She winked at me. “But it would be nice.” If I’d learned anything from her, it was that boys were to be avoided. I certainly didn’t want the roof over my head to be dependent on one.

  “Good, she should be spending time on her schoolwork.” Grandma wrung out a sponge. “Not running around with boys like you did.”

  “That hasn’t changed,” I said.

  Mom nudged my shoulder before joining Grandma at the sink. “I’ll take care of the dishes. Go relax.”

  “Just give them to me.” Grandma yanked the plate from Mom’s grasp and returned to scrubbing a saucepan.

  I got up to put my plate in the sink, but Grandma snatched it before I could. “It’s terrible the way you both waste food. Just terrible.”

  “Then make better food,” I said.

  She dropped the sponge and gaped at me openmouthed. I didn’t see what the big deal was; she said blunt crap all the time.

  “Drea!” Mom’s dark eyes tore into mine before she turned to Grandma. “It’s been a really long day, and she didn’t take her medication.”

  “I’m so sick of you saying that to everyone. Are little blue pills the only way I can be taken seriously?”

  “Calm down, baby. I’m just saying—” Mom reached for me, but I pulled away.

  “I’m not a migraine you can cure with one of your pain pills.” I left the kitchen before she could say anything else.

  Between Mom’s kaleidoscope of boyfriends and the dozens of head doctors she forced me to see, I could write a book about psychological disorders. The doctors always threw around the term social awareness, basically saying I needed more of it. They pinned me with ADHD, a.k.a. Attention Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder, when I was in kindergarten, mostly because I preferred coloring and banging on a xylophone to story time and the stupid games the teacher made me play. As if anyone liked being forced to do something. How was that abnormal?

  One time I told the doctors about Mom stomping around and cussing whenever she had a big bill to pay and asked them if she had ADHD too. Mom didn’t like that much. She made me promise not to say anything like that again. I asked her why for a month straight, but she never gave me a real answer.

  It wasn’t until junior high, the third day of seventh grade to be exact, that one doctor suspected Asperger’s syndrome. Mom wasn’t convinced, so she got a second opinion—that doctor didn’t agree. He said I had bipolar disorder. Mom didn’t agree with that either. She made me take ridiculous tests and got seven more opinions, the last one from a doctor in San Francisco a teacher recommended. In the fall of my freshman year, that doctor also labeled me with Asperger’s syndrome, but he said I displayed only mild symptoms and I’d “learned to cope well,” whatever that meant.

  Asperger’s is an autism spectrum disorder, which makes most people think of the guy in that Rain Man movie. But I’m nothing like him. I don’t go ballistic in airports, and I know better than to tell anyone I’m an excellent driver. After all, I’ve failed six driving tests.

  All I know is I make sense to me—it’s other people who seem complicated.

  I WOKE UP the next morning to the sound of raised voices upstairs. It was like Mom and Grandma never left the kitchen. The sun streamed through the narrow window above my bed, telling me it was still rising and therefore too early. My body felt heavy and achy—the way it always did when I skipped a day of meds. It would be nice to go a day without needing to give in. But the withdrawal effects were unbearable, especially the little electrical zaps in my head.

  I stretched and climbed the stairs, tuning in to their conversation.

  “Give them to me!” Grandma hollered.

  “Why are you putting them in a margarine bottle?”

  “So they’re all in one place and they can’t get any air.”

  “Oh. Okay,” Mom said. There was a rustle of bags.

  “Not in the garbage!”

  “Why are you saving them, Mom? It’s not healthy.”

  “I don’t want them to escape,” Grandma said as I rounded the corner.

  Mom stood in the kitchen with a grin and a yellow bottle in her hand. “They’re not going to escape if you flush them down the toilet. They can’t.”

  “What’s going on?” I asked, wiping the crusties from my eyes.

  Mom shook her head and tossed the bottle in the garbage. “Grandma kills ants in very creative ways.”

  “All this yelling for ants?” I rolled my eyes. “And I’m the one who needs medication.”

  I tried to spend the day unpacking and getting started on the wah pedal I was building for my guitar. If it was good enough, I could start selling them on eBay and hopefully avoid working in retail. I got fired from the one and only job I’d ever had—one of those budget movie theaters with stale hot dogs, relish that smells like formaldehyde, and flat soda. This guy insisted I put more butter on his popcorn after ten squirts in the middle and eight on top. He threw a fit when I asked him if he’d like me to dump the entire metal container on it.

  I did okay buying cheap clothes at thrift stores, dolling them up, and selling them on eBay. It was amazing what people would pay for a unique skirt. But it wouldn’t be enough to get us out of Grandma’s, and I didn’t want Mom to depend on yet another guy. Some of her boyfriends were nice—one even bought me a guitar, but others thought money gave them the right to control our lives. One jerk offered to send me across the country to a “special school.”

  Unfortunately, Grandma made concentrating on anything difficult. Her heels clanged down the stairs just as I was in the delicate process of soldering.

  “What on earth are you doing? It looks like you’re running a repair shop down here,” she said.

  “Not exactly.” I tightened my grip on the iron.

  Grandma cocked her head, her thin lips stretching to form the words of whatever she was thinking. Her eyes traveled from the iron in my hand to the shells of old pedals on my desk and back to my face. “George used to fix TVs down here. I never thought I’d miss the smell.” Her face softened as she scanned the walls. “Well—don’t electrocute yourself.”

  She straightened her back and headed up the stairs, nearly running into Naomi at the top. Naomi gave her an apology, but Grandma shook her head and kept walking.

  Naomi jogged down the stairs, her purple pigtails bouncing. She wore a fitted tee that read trix are for kids. “Hey, your mom let me in. I thought you were going to come over.”

  “I wasn’t sure if you actually wanted me to.”

  She walked in front of me, her brow crinkling. “I invited you, didn’t I?”

  “Sometimes people say things they don’t mean. And I don’t really know you, so—”

  “Well, I meant it.” She reached for the board on my desk. “What’s that?”

  I blocked her hand. “It’s the PCB for the wah pedal I’m working
on. Don’t touch it.”

  “Is that like a circuit board?”

  “Obviously.”

  “You make your own effect pedals too?” She raised her eyebrows. “God, you’re like the coolest girl I’ve ever met.”

  I shrugged. “My mom says I should’ve been born with a penis.”

  “No kidding. I’d totally jump your bones!” She laughed.

  “Um, okay.” I turned off the iron and set it in the holder, my cheeks feeling hot.

  “So I got us a ride from this guy, Scott. I met him at the mall a few weeks ago, and he’s hot, like, whoa. And he’s bringing a friend.”

  My back stiffened. The last thing I wanted to do was get a ride from a couple of strange guys. “I thought it was just going to be me and you.”

  Her grin narrowed a bit. “Well, my dad is out of town for the weekend, and he took the car.” She grabbed my arm. “Come on. Scott is leaving in a half hour, and I wanna show you my kit.”

  I yanked my arm out of her clutches. “I don’t know—”

  “Please?” She stuck her lower lip out and widened her eyes.

  This was my chance to have a friend. An actual, real-life friend. A chance to be one of the girls I used to watch at school. Sometimes it looked like they were having fun, but I never really got why. I still wanted to be part of it though. To feel normal—for even a day.

  “Let me grab my box,” I said, but a sick feeling had settled in my stomach.

  Grandma would have a heart attack if she saw the inside of Naomi’s house. If they had carpeting or a kitchen counter, I couldn’t find them. Papers, clothing covered in animal hair, and dirty dishes were strewn throughout the living room and kitchen. As we headed upstairs, I nearly tripped over a tuxedo cat with green eyes and a hoarse meow.

  “Hi, Lizzie Wizzie!” Naomi picked up the cat like a baby and rubbed its head. She led me down a stuffy hallway to another set of stairs. “It’s in the attic.”

  The attic was like a closet with a pointed ceiling. A black drum set made the centerpiece, and the walls were lined with various band posters. One poster was The Cure, a band I really liked, but most featured new and mainstream rock bands—the kind with autotuned vocals and overly compressed, superloud mixes. The high frequencies and distortion rattled me from the inside.

  “You really need better taste in music, Naomi.” I sighed. Every guy on her wall had a forced pose, shaggy hair, and a pout. Why was the world so obsessed with sameness?

  “I know, right? We get shit for radio stations up here. Hopefully, you can introduce me to some cool stuff.”

  “I’ve got about eighty gigs of music in almost every genre. I’ll make you some CDs.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “Whoa, you rock. Thanks!”

  Naomi’s excitement was strange. Nobody liked hearing that their music taste sucked, and just about everyone thought I was a dork—hence nobody ever got to know me at previous schools.

  Naomi sat behind the drums, and Lizzie the cat made a beeline for me. She plopped on my feet and looked up, rolling on her back. I expected her to claw me or do something sinister.

  “Wow, she likes you. She never pays attention to anyone but me,” Naomi said. “You can pick her up, you know. She doesn’t bite.”

  I peered down at the purring creature nudging its body into the toes of my black boots. “Um, I’ve never really held a cat.”

  “Now, that’s just weird.” Naomi shook her head and tested a couple of the drums with her sticks. “Ready?”

  When I nodded, she started pounding out a solo. Her rhythm was a little shaky, and she went a bit overboard a couple times, but I was impressed. She had a really creative approach to the drums, often going into little tangents here and there; it made my head spin—but in a good way. Lizzie appeared to be completely detached from the whole thing. I’d think most cats would run out of the room in terror, but she stared up at me like she was floating on a cloud. I bent down to pick her up, praying I didn’t hurt her in some way. She wiggled in my arms for a second before nuzzling her head under my chin, her entire body vibrating.

  Naomi tossed her drumsticks on the floor and wiped her brow. “What do you think?”

  “It was a little rough, but you’re really good.” Lizzie hopped out of my arms.

  “I actually trust that coming from you. I know you won’t bullshit me.”

  She gave Lizzie some food and water before we went out on the porch to wait for Scott. The temperature was on the warm side, but the cool breeze on my cheeks made it perfect.

  Naomi plopped next to me and held out a pack of cigarettes. “Want one?” She pressed the end of her cigarette into the flame of one of those flippy-top lighters.

  I shook my head. “Does your dad know you smoke?”

  She shrugged, making an O shape with her lips. Ringlike bands of smoke floated around her face. “One more day until school starts—ugh. You’re going to Samish, right?”

  “I think that’s the name Mom said.” Now I had to ask her something. Small talk was like a game of Ping-Pong. People got offended if I didn’t keep hitting the ball back. “What year are you?”

  “Junior.” She held the cigarette over her shoulder and tapped the edge. “You?”

  “The same.”

  A breeze blew her pigtail away from her neck, revealing a couple of fading hickeys. She probably wanted me to talk about guys with her and get all giggly and excited, like the girls at school and my mom. But I’d never even kissed a boy, much less met a nice one—at least one who was nice to me. Not in person, anyway. She’d probably think that was weird too.

  I stretched my lips into a smile and pointed at her neck. “Did Scott give you those?”

  “Yeah. He’s kind of into the rough stuff.”

  “Rough stuff?”

  “You know—he likes to bite and stuff. But I’m a total masochist, so it’s all good.”

  “Masochist” was the title of one of my favorite songs. I looked up the meaning once, and it baffled me. Why would someone enjoy pain? “Oh… I’m not.”

  A toothy grin erased her dim expression. “I bet you have to fight guys off with a stick. You’re so pretty. Like a little pixie or something.”

  I shrugged, running my fingers across the rough cement beneath us. “I thought I looked like a skinny frog.”

  Naomi punched my shoulder. “Whatever. I could only dream of having an ass as small as yours.”

  “You don’t have a big ass,” I said. “I’d tell you if you did.”

  She laughed. “I know you would.”

  A black mustang roared up the street, and the sinking feeling in my chest told me it was Scott. Sure enough, the car skidded in front of her house, tires squealing and all. I didn’t like show-offs.

  Naomi squeezed my arm. “They’re here!”

  The driver climbed out first, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He had shaggy blond hair and wore jeans a size too large. His friend tumbled out after him, laughing about something. He was dressed just like the driver, but was a bit shorter and had darker hair.

  “What’s up?” The driver nodded at us. “Who’s she?” His light blue eyes fell from my face to my chest.

  Naomi stood up to greet him, but I hovered behind her. “That’s Drea. I told you already.” She slapped his chest. “Drea, this is Scott.”

  “Hey.” Scott nodded at me, his eyes still combing my body.

  “Hi.” I looked at the ground, the sick feeling in my stomach almost unbearable.

  “And I’m Roger.” His friend walked up to me and held out his hand. “Do you know the secret handshake?”

  I backed away, keeping my eyes on the ground. “No.”

  “That’s too bad. You can’t come with us until you know the secret shake.” Roger laughed.

  “Don’t be a putz, Roger,” Scott said.

  After Roger got into the car, Naomi mouthed “sorry” to me. I wanted to run back into the safety of my house.

  Scott’s car reeked of stale cigarettes and somethin
g like burnt coffee. The sweltering leather seat gripped the backs of my thighs. Roger spread his legs apart until his knee was touching mine, making my muscles tense. I moved away, wishing I’d worn pants instead of the white skirt I’d made with safety pins and lace.

  Scott wrapped his arm behind Naomi’s chair and jutted his chin at me. “So, you need to get paint or something?”

  I turned away from his intense gaze. “Yeah. Home Depot is fine.”

  “’Kay, I gotta make a stop first.”

  Scott turned up a rap song, drowning out whatever Naomi said to him. I could see her frown in the passenger-side mirror. Scott shrugged in response and stomped on the accelerator. He seemed to enjoy gunning it every time we hit a green light or rounded a corner. My head was spinning by the time we merged onto the I-5 freeway.

  Roger put one end of a green metal pipe between his lips and ran a lighter over the other end. His face turned red as he inhaled the smoke and held it in his lungs. I’d never watched a person get stoned before, unless movies counted.

  He caught my eye and leaned into me. “You want some?” His hot breath on my ear made my palms sweat.

  I shook my head and scooted closer to the window just as Scott exited the freeway.

  “Put that shit away!” Scott glared at him in the rearview mirror. “There’s cops all over here.”

  “You’re paranoid!” Roger yelled over the repetitive beat. Their shouting combined with the blaring rapper’s voice made me cover my ears.

  Scott shot him the middle finger and sped up. His excessive speed was going to attract the police more than anything.

  “I’ll be right back,” Scott said when we’d finally pulled up to a destination. We were in a dolled-up neighborhood with newer houses. The house Scott went into had a fancy glass design on the door and a yard full of rosebushes.

  “Is this where he lives?” I asked.

  Roger laughed. “Yeah, right.” He squinted at me with bloodshot eyes and a smirk. “You got a boyfriend?”

  Before I could open my mouth, Naomi turned around and answered for me. “Yeah, and he’s the jealous type too.”

  “Then why’d you tell Scott to bring a friend?”