Elegy - Chapter 4

Healing my relationship with my mom has been a top priority lately, so I’ve been swinging by her place more often, trying to squeeze in some quality time. She worked so hard, jumping between her two jobs, that I decided to surprise her with a dinner better than boxed mac and cheese or ramen. I was expecting to grab something from Weaver Square, a plaza with a bunch of restaurants and fast food places that mostly catered to cars on the highway headed between Ashville and Virginia. Chef had other plans, handing me a bag with a couple of burgers and fries to go, which Vinney had made while I was training.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I told Chef, genuinely touched by his gesture, as he handed me the bag.

“Your mother works too hard to eat some nasty fast food. This is better. Go, or you’re going to be late. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

I knew better than to argue, so I just nodded, gave him a bow, and said, “Thanks.”

When I got to Mom’s trailer, her car was already parked outside. I bounded up the steps and swung open the door, finding her at the stove, about to tear into a package of ramen, with steam swirling up from the pot.

“Hey, I told you I was bringing food,” I playfully scolded.

“I know. I was just thinking I could make some ramen too, just in case.”

“Well don’t. I have the food right here. Chef made you a burger just the way you like it, with the avocado on it and everything. How you eat that I’ll never know. He also sent fries and they’re still hot.”

“Umm, sure. Okay,” she agreed, but there was something off in her voice.

“Everything okay?” I asked, concern creeping in.

As she turned, I caught a glimpse of her red, puffy eyes; it looked like she’d been crying.

“I’m fine. Let’s eat,” she said, sniffling and grabbing the bag of food from me.

“Are you sure?” I pressed, not convinced.

“Yes. Get some glasses of tea for us. I just made a jug of it last night.”

I grabbed the old milk jug she used for the tea and a couple of glasses, setting them on the table. She made this great sweet tea with cinnamon sticks and enough sugar to put a dentist’s kids through college. It was a guilty pleasure of mine, despite Hanna nearly choking on it the one time I shared it with her.

“How was your week?” she asked, likely trying to keep me from asking her anything else.

“Good. We had baseball tryouts, and I did pretty well. I think I’ll make varsity again this year.”

“That’s great, honey. I’m glad you’re doing baseball again. I know you get a lot of exercise with Chef, but participating in a team sport is really good for you.”

She continued asking questions about school, Sydney, and the band, but her questions felt robotic. Her mind wasn’t on our conversation, and it was obvious she was upset about something. I noticed that she was gripping her hands tightly, almost pulling on her fingers, a telltale sign of her nerves.

I took a bite of my burger and tried a different approach.

“Do you remember that time I tried to make fries in the Winnebago?” I picked up a fry, holding it out as an example.

Despite her mood, her eyes sparkled as a laugh escaped. “Oh God, yes. You thought you could just cut a potato into strips and put them in that little microwave.”

“It had those preset buttons for popcorn, potatoes, water, and stuff. I thought, hey, this is a potato.”

“Yeah, but that was for baking a potato. Your little strips turned into mush. Half of them got mashed into the tray when you were trying to pull them out.”

“I was so confused why they didn’t turn into fries.”

“I think you missed the reason they’re called fries,” she chuckled softly.

“I was seven. What did I know?”

“True. Man, your father was so mad. I remember he …” Her voice trailed off as she looked down at her burger. “That was a long time ago.”

I’d forgotten how that story ended. Dad had been furious when he got back and started to beat the crap out of me. Mom had intervened, and he’d beaten her up instead. I’d only tried it because I was starving. Dad had gone out to get us dinner but ended up at a bar drinking. Mom had left to see if she could get something from the convenience store down the street with the few bucks Dad had missed when he’d left. The potato was all shriveled, a leftover from the last groceries we’d gotten weeks before. I’d found it pushed to the back of a cupboard.

“Mom, what’s wrong? Don’t tell me you’re fine, because it’s obvious you’re not.”

“It’s nothing, Charlie. You have school, your show tonight, and your baseball to worry about. You don’t need to deal with any of this.”

“Mom, we’ve talked about this. We can’t make this work if you’re trying to protect me and take on everything by yourself. When we decided to fix things between us, I said the one thing I didn’t want was for you to keep sweeping everything under the rug. We’re going to do this as a team, or it isn’t going to work.”

Her eyes misted up as she said, “You’ve grown up into a good man, Charlie. I’m really proud of you.”

I couldn’t help but feel a lump in my throat, but I also knew she was dodging the subject.

“I appreciate that, but you’re changing the subject. Something clearly happened since we talked last night. What’s going on?”

She wiped a tear from her eye and said, “It’s just hard sometimes, you know?”

“I do, which is why we have to lean on each other, and not try to take on the world by ourselves. What’s going on?”

She hesitated, opening and closing her mouth a few times, struggling to find the words. I didn’t keep pressing. It had to be something about Dad. He was the only one who could affect her like this. With everyone else, she was usually so strong and independent.

After a few minutes, I gently said, “Mom. Just tell me. Let’s do this together.”

“Your father called from jail.”

My heart sank. I’d expected something like that, but it still hit me like a punch in the gut.

“What did he say?”

“He wants help with bail. He’s tried the bail bondsmen in town, but he doesn’t own anything he can put up as collateral. He swears if I get him out, he’ll take off and we won’t see him again. He just really can’t take it in there.”

“You know that’s a lie, right? When he gets out, the first place he’s going to go to is here. He’s going to demand more and more, just like he always does. Getting him out of our lives has cost us almost everything. Don’t open the door for him to come back in.”

“I know you’re right. I just feel so guilty.”

“Don’t. He did this to himself. You already served him with divorce papers. You don’t owe him anything else. You just need to stay strong. Besides, his being in prison makes this easier on you. He isn’t here constantly pressuring you, trying to talk you into a second, or I guess fourth, chance. We want him in jail.”

“I know. I know. I just hate feeling this way.”

“Have you looked into those support groups at the church we talked about?”

“No, but I will.”

“You need to talk to other people in your situation. From everything I’ve read, what you’re going through is common. A lot of people in relationships like this apparently feel the same way. I know it doesn’t mean much coming from me, but the people at those meetings have been through the same thing. They’ll be able to help you get through to the other side. You need to go.”

“Okay. I’ll see if there’s something this weekend.”

“Good. I love you, Mom. Even though I know you won’t, if you need to talk, I’m here.”

“I know. Thank you, baby,” she said, patting my hand.

She finally picked up her burger and started eating, so I let the subject drop. I shouldn’t have been surprised that, even in jail, Dad found a way to make her miserable. I just wished he would disappear and never bother us again.

***

The one downside of practicing in a garage in January was it got pretty damn cold. We huddled in our coats and sweaters while two space heaters hummed on either side, yet I couldn’t shake the chill from my bones. Rubbing my hands together for warmth, I prepared to start playing.

“All right, let’s get started,” I said, blowing into my hands one last time.

“We’re doing Little Things, right?” Lyla asked.

“Yeah. Anyone have anything for it?”

Working with Mr. French on composing and translating the music into sheet music had been a learning curve for me. Most guitar players I’d met preferred tab sheets over sheet music, but Mr. French insisted on proper scoring. Marco could read sheet music, but Seth and Lyla were just getting the hang of it.

After playing Little Things for them last week, I’d written up the tabs, lyrics, and drum notation. They were supposed to review the lyrics and build their parts, as I wasn’t skilled enough yet to write for instruments I didn’t play.

“I like the chorus, but it needs harmonies,” Lyla said. “The key change isn’t enough to give it the punch the song needs. How about we do a two-part harmony on lines two, four, and six? My range meshes well with yours, and Marco and Seth have a similar range. On each ‘little things’ line, they’ll come in. It’ll punch up the chorus and make the main part of the song stand out.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I agreed.

This was what I loved about these guys. Writing music could feel like I was spinning my wheels, trapped in my own thoughts. Hearing their perspectives was invaluable, especially when they understood my thought process and our end goal. Lyla’s suggestion was something I hadn’t even considered.

We started playing, but halted as soon as we hit the first four-part harmony.

“Nope,” Seth declared.

“Yeah. Thirds?” I suggested.

There were a lot of ways to harmonize. Unison, where we all sang the same note, octaves, which is what Lyla and I were doing, where we sang the same notes, but at two different octaves. There were also thirds, fifths, sixths, and sevenths, which were just descriptions of how far apart the notes each person sang. We’d tried unison, with Lyla an octave up, which was where all of our ranges were naturally, but it only drowned her out and muddled the chorus.

Several attempts later, we settled on Lyla and I maintaining our harmony throughout, while Seth and Marco chimed in on the ‘little things’ lines, creating a chord inversion. It took some practice, but it meshed well with my guitar playing and added a rich depth to the chorus.

“Nice,” Lyla commented as we nailed the chord inversion.

“I know, right?” I agreed.

“Don’t you think the ‘little things’ is too repetitive?” Marco asked. “Like, we get it. It’s such an easy way out, it keeps the song from really saying anything. I mean, if you’re just going for a catchy tune that no one really listens to, I guess that’s alright. I just thought we were trying to do more than that.”

“So what do you suggest we do?” I asked, bracing myself for his response.

“Rewrite it.”

“We’re not doing that, Marco. I’m open to suggestions, or you can sit this song out. Your choice,” I said firmly.

“Whatever,” he muttered, dropping the issue for now.

“Okay,” Lyla said, steering us back on track. “I like the harmonies, but the second verse feels too rigid. We need to shake up its structure, make it more dynamic. Slow it down, then return to the original tempo after the chorus. It’ll take the audience on a journey.”

“Do you have ideas for the lyrics?” I asked.

Lyla pulled out a sheet of paper with new lyrics, having clearly thought about this for a while. Her changes made the second verse about the absence of little things, suggesting tempo adjustments and a new bridge into the chorus. She also tweaked the third verse, addressing the importance of holding onto what we still had.

“Do you think this bridge will be jarring? The tempo already picks up between the verses and chorus,” I said.

“That’s the part I couldn’t figure out. You’ll have to carry it, so I hoped you’d have some ideas. We need more dynamics, as Marco keeps pointing out.”

I wasn’t sure if Lyla was teasing Marco or trying to include him, but his expression suggested he took it as a jab.

“Okay, let’s give it a shot,” I said.

After several tries, everything clicked, and the song started to really come together. Now we just needed a dozen more like it and we’d be set.

***

Monday, I was sitting in class, bent over an English assignment, when the door creaked open. We all looked up, most of us happy to stop thinking about Shakespeare for even a few seconds, and saw Vice Principal Packer and Officer Peck, the school resource officer, walk in. I felt my stomach drop. Maybe it was the smirk on Mr. Packer’s face or the way he looked at me as soon as they came through the door, but I knew he was here to screw with me again.

“Charlie Nelson,” Mr. Packer said in that fake polite tone he used when he thought he had to be professional. “Would you mind stepping out into the hall for a moment?”

I hesitated, glancing around the room. I’d become the distraction, something more entertaining than A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and everyone was staring at me. I could feel my cheeks heating up.

Trying to sound casual, I said, “Uhh, sure.”

Knowing this wasn’t a simple, friendly visit, I grabbed my backpack and stuffed my book and worksheet into it before flinging it over my shoulder and standing to follow him out.

The hallway was eerily quiet. Mr. Packer and Officer Peck exchanged a glance, and  Officer Peck took a step back, I guess leaving this to Mr. Packer to deal with. He was rocking on his heels slightly, a barely suppressed grin on his lips, his disdain for me and his joy at the thought of whatever stupidity he was about to put me through practically radiating off of him.

“We conducted random locker searches this morning, and yours was among the lockers we checked, where we found this bag of marijuana. You need to come to the office. I know you’ve made it so we can’t contact your parents about this, but this is illegal in this state, and we’ve already called Sheriff Gibbs.”

I felt my stomach drop. It was planted, that much I was absolutely positive about. After growing up with my father and knowing addiction ran in my family, I avoided all drugs, no matter how benign, and as far as I knew, none of my friends brought anything like this to school, so there was no way something like this would accidentally slip into my locker.

My first thought was Harry. He was almost certainly still pissed about what happened at last week’s tryouts, and I wouldn’t put it past him to do something like this. I just couldn’t see how he could manage it. Our lockers didn’t have vents or anything like that, so he couldn’t slip anything into them. Mr. Packer hated me, but I couldn’t see him working with a student to frame me for something. It wasn’t that it was above him or anything, but I doubted he’d let someone like Harry know he’d helped do something like this since Harry could then use it against him.

“That’s impossible. I don’t do drugs, and I absolutely didn’t bring anything to school.”

“Save it,” Mr. Packer said, stopping me before I could say anything else, his lip curling into a cruel smile. “You’re in enough trouble as it is.”

I felt a wave of anger wash over me. Even if he hadn’t helped Harry do this, he was going to take advantage of it, and he was going to enjoy doing it. Of course, even he didn’t know how perfect a setup this was. While I doubted a bag of weed was jail time, I’d had myself declared an adult, which meant whatever the penalty did end up being, it would be worse than if I was still in my parents’ care.

On top of that, this could screw up things with my record label. They had a morality clause in the contract that could be used as grounds for dropping me from the label. Normally, I wouldn’t be worried about that. A little pot wasn’t even a blip on the radar as far as most musicians were concerned, but I was already on rocky ground with them because of everything that had happened with my dad. I got the impression from Kent that several of the higher-ups, all of whom knew my name and not in a positive way, would be happy to have an excuse to part ways with me. While Dad had annoyed them, nothing he’d done would have triggered any of the exit clauses in my contract, so they couldn’t just drop me because they were annoyed. It’s why I’d talked to Warren about getting us out there more, so we could make more money and show that we were valuable to the label, which would make it harder for them to drop us. As long as we were small potatoes, we didn’t have enough pull to counteract annoyance.

“I swear, this isn’t mine,” I said, my voice shaking with a mixture of fear and fury. “I have no idea how something like that would get into my locker.”

Mr. Packer just smirked and folded his arms across his chest. “Well, I guess we’ll just have to wait for Sheriff Gibbs to get here and see what he has to say, won’t we? Come with us to the office.”

As I followed him down the hall, I caught a glimpse of kids in a few classrooms, peeking through the door windows, watching us with curious glances, no doubt wondering what I’d done. I’d already been the source of school gossip more than once, so no doubt they all had preconceived notions about what I was in trouble for this time.

Officer Peck sat me in a chair in the front office waiting area and left me in Mrs. Morgan’s care, heading back out to do whatever it was he did during the day. Mr. Packer quietly said something to her and then disappeared into the back part of the office.

It felt like an eternity to me, sitting there in the office, listening to the occasional ringing phone or clacking of a keyboard, waiting for Sheriff Gibbs. There was nothing to do but just sit there, looking at the wall, ignoring the stare from the occasional student who came by the office.

When he finally showed up, he didn’t say anything to me directly, but he did give me a look of disappointment as he passed my chair and stopped in front of Mrs. Morgan. My stomach twisted in knots. I knew I was innocent, but I also had had enough experience with Mr. Packer, Aaron’s dad, and my own father to know that innocence meant very little. After a quick glance over his shoulder, he leaned in close and spoke softly to her, so I couldn’t hear what they were saying. She picked up the phone and said something into it, and then nodded for the sheriff to go into the back office.

No one said anything to me, although he did shoot me one more glance as he walked back, once again leaving me sitting there. I watched him disappear around the corner, and then I waited. After about five minutes, Mrs. Morgan’s phone rang.

After saying a few words, she looked up at me and said, “Charlie, you can go back to Mr. Packer’s office.”

We both were aware I knew the way to get there, so she just sent me into the back office.

The door to his office was open, and as I got close I could hear Mr. Packer say, “… don’t need to talk to him. I have the evidence right here.”

“I get that, but I still need to at least interview him before I can haul him out. It’ll only take a few minutes,” the sheriff replied back, at least having the decency to sound concerned about the situation instead of eager like Mr. Packer.

I knocked on the door frame, causing both of them to turn and look at me.

“Fine,” Mr. Packer spat. “Ask him to explain it. He can’t because it’s his. He’s guilty.”

“Charlie, do you have anything to say about this? Is this your marijuana?”

“Of course not. You know me. I don’t drink. I don’t smoke and I don’t do drugs.”

“Who are you going to believe, a troublemaker who keeps getting into fights, or your own eyes?” Mr. Packer chimed in, a smug look on his face. “The evidence is right here. We found this bag of marijuana in Charlie’s locker. And before he goes spinning a story about someone planting it on him, our lockers don’t have grills or vents for another student to put it in there. Unless he’s given his combination to someone, he’s the only one to have access to it. This is his.”

He dangled a small bag of evidence in front of us, and I immediately knew how the weed had gotten into my locker. I recognized the bag, or rather I recognized the sticker on the front of the bag. It was the same symbol that was on the empty one I’d seen in the hallway, one of the ones he’d confiscated from Austin and Bryce. Since he was right about students not being able to put anything in my locker and he had the full bags he’d taken off them, it had to be him. He’d either put it in there or just opened my locker and pulled it out of his pocket, claiming he’d found it in there.

I was positive it was him. What I couldn’t figure out was why. I knew he hated me, and I’d given him more reason to hate me after the whole scandal involving copied, supposedly anonymous SALT tests. I knew he was looking for a reason to expel me. There was still quite a bit of distance between that and actually planting evidence to incriminate me. Since he’d called the sheriff, and possession was a crime in North Carolina, then his planting it there and framing me had to be a crime too. That was a lot of risk to just get at one student you disliked.

“I take it back,” I said, my voice steady. “I have seen that before.”

“See,” Mr. Packer gloated, a pleased look on his face. “He admits it.”

“You recognize these,” the sheriff asked, smelling a rat.

He knew me well enough by now to recognize my tone of voice. He might have disliked me, and he definitely disliked me dating his daughter, but everything I’d seen said he was good at his job. The instant my tone shifted, he gave me a look that said he’d noticed it. Mr. Packer, ever sanctimonious, was still supremely confident in his little plan, positive he’d gotten one over on me.

“You’ve seen this before?” he asked, indicating the plastic bag in Mr. Packer’s hand. “Where?”

“I don’t know them personally, but I heard Bryce Young and Austin Hooper had several of these in school last week. The description of that sticker was what made me think of it since it’s pretty distinctive. The weird thing is that I heard they got caught with it after school by Mr. Packer, who confiscated everything they had.”

I swear Mr. Packer could be a cartoon character if he wanted to. The way his face dropped as soon as I said their names would have been comical if it wasn’t for the fact he was trying to get me arrested. The sheriff saw it too.

“Vice Principal Packer,” the Sheriff said, turning to him. “Did you confiscate bags like this from other students last week? I didn’t get a notice we needed to pick up any illegal materials for destruction, so I assume you still have the confiscated material here. Could I see it?”

“Is it possible to fingerprint the bags? If it was mine, it would have my fingerprints, right? If you found Austin or Bryce’s fingerprints, and Mr. Packer’s, since he’s holding it now, that would prove I never had it, right?”

It was a risky move. There was always a chance Mr. Packer wiped them down, but I doubted it. The guy who got caught with the SALT tests and then tried to fire or expel anyone who called him out on it wasn’t the kind of guy to take precautions like that. The only thing that matched his confidence was how poorly he executed his little schemes.

The way the color drained out of his face told me I was right. I could have sworn the sheriff saw it too, but for whatever reason, he didn’t want to call Mr. Packer out on it.

“Charlie, that’s not helping,” the sheriff said.

Mr. Packer hesitated a second, his mind clearly racing as he tried to find a way out of his web of lies.

Finally, with a clenched jaw, he said, “Now that he mentioned it, I might have seen that bag. Maybe it came out of one of those boys’ lockers. I think they’re in the same section of the hall as Mr. Nelson’s. It is possible we labeled it with his locker number by mistake.”

He practically had to drag the words out of his mouth one at a time. He looked shell-shocked. A startling change from the triumphant expression he’d had a moment before. His entire plan had gone up in smoke, just as he thought he tasted victory.

“So you’re sure these aren’t Charlie’s? I could go get my fingerprint case if you want to be sure. I know he’s been a problem, but I don’t think we want to be accusing students incorrectly. Maybe we should double-check.”

“No,” Mr. Packer said hastily. “No. The more I think about it, the more I realize our mistake. I’m sorry we wasted your time, Sheriff.”

“Hey, no problem,” Sheriff Gibbs said, shaking Mr. Packer’s hand. “I’m always happy to help.”

With a brief wave, the sheriff left, giving me an inscrutable look on his way out. I watched him go, then turned to face Mr. Packer, who looked like he’d just eaten something rotten.

“Go to class,” he said, making it sound more like a curse than an instruction.