Page 33 of A Duet of Darkness and Dreams

His voice stops me in my tracks. A light turns on in the corner of our dusty living room to reveal my father, his shirt unbuttoned and tie gone, sitting in his recliner. I swallow hard against the sudden lump in my throat.

“At Sam’s.”

“Playing that goddamn music again?” he asks. It’s not really a question. He knows the answer, so I keep quiet and wait for the real purpose behind this conversation. “Got an interesting call from the guidance counselor at your school today,” he says, and it’s as if I can feel the blood drain from my face. “She told me that my son—my only child—won’t be graduating.”

“Dad, I—”

He holds up one finger, and I know by now to shut up and wait.

“I always knew you were stupid, Dave,” he says, gazing out the dark window into the night. “A dumb kid—even as a baby—late to learn how to talk and walk . . . couldn’t even recognize the letters of the alphabet for years. Always mixing them up.”

The blood rushes back, my face burning with shame and anger.

“But even though I knew that, I never thought you were stupid enough to fail high school.” He laughs. “But I guess I’ve been wrong about a lot of things, haven’t I?”

He pushes himself out of the recliner, and every muscle in my body tenses as he stalks toward me. In the dark shadows of our living room, it’s as if I’m an injured gazelle being stalked by a lion. I can’t help my lip from trembling as he stops in front of me and takes a long inhale.

“Thought your mother was a decent woman,” he whispers. “But she abandoned me with you. Did she see what I do now? Was it because she knew what a deadbeat her son would become?”

My body is shaking, my fist clenched around the soda can.

“Wish she had told me that’s why she was leaving. I would’ve left with her and dumped you off to become someone else’s problem.”

“Stop it,” I spit through clenched teeth.

But there’s a maniacal gleam in his eye now as he continues on. “I had your mother and she was perfect. We were so happy before you. Then you came along and it all just . . . ran out. It was like you ate it all up and left none for anyone else.”

My heart is beating so hard it might just give out. I can’t take it anymore.

“Now you’ve got that nice girl. God knows what she sees inyou. But I know how that’ll end. You’ll ruin her life too. Just like your mother’s. Just like mine.”

“Shut up!” I scream.

In one swift motion, he grabs me by the collar of my shirt and slams me up against the wall. “Don’t you raise your voice at me,” he yells in my face, spit flying everywhere. “Or you’ll find your sorry ass sleeping in that piece of shit car.”

I want to tell him I’d rather sleep in my car than under his roof. That living with him for eighteen years has been nothing short of torture. That I already blamed myself every day for Mom leaving and that he didn’t need to tell me he blamed me too.

“All right, Dad,” I whisper through sharp, frightened breaths.

His grip finally relinquishes on my collar, my skin aching, but I’ll continue this little game. I can’t afford to try to live on my own yet, because every dollar I’ve ever earned has gone into equipment, drumsticks, and saving for studio time. I’m so close now to the band being legit that if I blow this free ride with my dad, I’ll never make my dreams come true.

He scoffs. “You’re lucky I even let you stay.”

Before I can say anything else, he turns and passes me up the stairs, the bedroom door slamming shut behind him. There’s an immediate release of tension. Not all of it, but the most painful kind when your body is still deciding what to do—fight, flee, or freeze. I take a long, deep breath and turn toward the stairs. But there’s a letter for me on the entryway table. From the recording studio in Cleveland?

I tear at the paper envelope, my eyes nearly glazing over as a smile creeps its way back onto my face.

Dear Mr. Noblar,

Your request for studio recording time has been approved. Please choose a date from the list below.

“Holy shit,” I whisper, and my knees give out from under me as I sink down to the floor.

Maybe my dad’s right about one thing. Maybe I am lucky . . . just not for the things he and Emily think are important.

CHAPTER 12

Rock the Night

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