What We Take Away

Chapter 4 | Zac

"Hey, I'm Zac," I say. "I live down the hall."

"Hi," she replies.

My mind blanks. What do I say to her? I spot her guitar case by a chair near the bunk beds and suddenly get an idea.

"Uh... Can I try playing your guitar?" I ask.

"Sure."

I step over to her guitar and unzip it carefully from its case. She turns back to her work, unperturbed by my presence. Sitting in the extra chair by her mini fridge, I put the instrument in my lap and pluck the strings. I've never held or played a guitar before, but she doesn't need to know that.

"You're up pretty late most nights, aren't you?" I venture. "You know, since your room is across the guys' bathroom and all," I explain hurriedly. "It's just that I've seen your light on late some nights when I wake up to pee."

That was probably too much information. Reel it in, Zac. But to my surprise, she laughs.

"I guess." When she smiles, her whole face lights up.

"I'm planning to go to medical school," she goes on to say. "Sometimes I stay up late to read ahead for class."

So... she's pretty, talented, and driven. By contrast, I think about pole vaulting and what I'm going to eat more than I think about anything else. And I have no idea what I want to do with my life beyond college.

"I heard you playing Jack Johnson the other night," I say, fiddling with one of the guitar strings. "I love his music. I bought his new record over the summer and listen to it a lot. Have you ever heard of Dispatch?"

"No."

"Wait, seriously? They're amazing!" I say enthusiastically. "It's three guys, and they just jam. They're one of my favorite bands. You should check them out."

I attempt to pluck a chord but whatever comes out sounds awful. She watches me for a moment before setting her pencil down.

"Do you even know how to play guitar?" she asks, narrowing her eyes.

I shake my head sheepishly. "I know you do though," I grin. "And everyone keeps talking about your performance at the talent show the other night, but I missed it."

"You didn't miss much," she chuckles.

"Somehow, I doubt it."

She rolls her chair away from the desk and motions with her hand. "Here," she says.

I pass her the instrument and watch as she swings it into her lap, holding it steady.

"Watch my fingers."

I comply and study the way her fingers move over the neck of the guitar, pressing down a few strings.

"This is D major," she says, striking a chord. Her fingers reconfigure themselves and she strums again. "And this is G." She passes the guitar back to me. "You try."

"You mean like this?" I clutch the guitar awkwardly and grip the strings.

She's amused at my incompetence, but I don't mind. Rising from her chair, she strides over to me and corrects my hand position. Her hands are small and warm.

"Try again," she encourages. I get a whiff of something vanilla and citrus when she leans close. She smells like summer.

Determined to play a chord, I press my fingers hard on the strings and strum. A muted, twangy sound comes out of the guitar, but it's the closest thing to a chord I've ever played. I smile proudly and do it again.