Harmonic Feedback

“Music is something I’ve always done alone. And we don’t even know each other.”

“What—you don’t think I can play anything?”

I turned to face her. “If I thought that, I’d say that.”

“You just look at me like I’m stupid or something. But it’s fine. Whatever.” She grinned, making it impossible to tell if she was serious or not.

What was with people and their obsession with looks? Sometimes I was in a bad mood. It wasn’t personal.

I unpacked my didgeridoo and laid it across the mattress.

She came up behind me. “What the hell is that? It looks like a funky telescope.”

“A didgeridoo. My mom brought it back for me when she went to Australia with her last boyfriend.”

Naomi picked it up and stroked the tribal etchings. “How do I play it?”

“Just blow into it, but keep your lips relaxed.”

She pulled it to her mouth and snickered. “This would make a great bong.”

“Okay.” Being a loner most of my life, I wasn’t too up on the party scene. Sure, there were drugs on every campus and the girls who got stoned and popped little pills in the bathroom, but I never talked to them. The last real friend I had was a boy named Adam in the fourth grade. We’d reenact our favorite movie, The Terminator, on the monkey bars every morning at recess. He wanted to be Sarah Connor, and I preferred being the Terminator, so it worked out.

“I bet you got the good shit in California.” She blew into the mouthpiece, but the only sound was her breath.

“Pretend you’re doing a raspberry.”

Her second attempt was even worse. “Oh, man, I think more spit than air came out that time.” She shoved the didgeridoo at me. “Show me how it’s done.”

“I think I’ll wait till it dries first.” I put it back on the mattress, taking note to clean it later. I was the messiest person on earth, but saliva, snot, and other bodily fluids made me want to bathe in sanitizer.

“Drea!” Mom called from upstairs. “Dinner’s ready.”

Naomi looked in the direction of Mom’s voice and smiled. “Your mom is really pretty. You look a lot like her.”

This was news to me. We were both about five-two, but that was where our physical likeness ended. My curly hair was the color of a penny—too orange in my opinion, and my freckles were a little too dark on my pale skin. Nothing like Mom’s golden complexion. With oversized green eyes, I got called names like frog girl and leprechaun. Nobody ever called Mom that.

“Well”—I looked away—“I guess I have to eat dinner now.” Grandma embarrassed me enough without an audience. I didn’t want the first potential friend I’d made in years to hear all about my “behavior problems” over whatever monstrosity Grandma had cooked up. And even if Grandma didn’t bring it up, Mom would. She loved to tell everyone about my issues.

Naomi raised her eyebrows at me, smirking. “It’s cool. You don’t have to invite me. Your grandma kinda scares me anyway.” She headed up the stairs. “You should come by my house one of these days. I can show you my drum kit.”

“Where can I get green paint?”

Naomi stopped on the second to top step and spun around. “What?”

“I want to paint the basement this weekend. Is there any place in town that—”

“Drea,” she interrupted, “we might be close, but we aren’t in the North Pole. There are stores here, like Home Depot. Come by tomorrow and I’ll take you.” She waved and left.

I stared at the empty doorway, wondering why this near stranger was being so helpful. Did she really want me to drop by tomorrow? Or was it like saying call me without meaning it? A therapist told me that people said these things to be polite but their invitation wasn’t always sincere, which made no sense. Why invite someone if you didn’t want that person to show up?

Like the first day of seventh grade. I’d never forget that. These two girls asked me to eat lunch with them, and I felt this surge of excitement run through my body. I couldn’t stop laughing or smiling, even after they kept asking what was funny. But I’d calmed down after a few minutes, and we had what I thought was a good conversation. I started telling them all about my favorite car, the McLaren F1—how it was the fastest in the world. And they seemed interested enough.

I sat with them every day that week, but they talked to me less and less. Finally, one girl rolled her eyes. “God, Drea, can’t you take a hint?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

She exchanged this glance with her friend, and they giggled. “Why do you keep sitting here?”

I remember my stomach tightening up in these knots. “You invited me.…”

“Yeah, once. We didn’t know you’d be such a clingy freak.”

My face felt hot, and my breath quickened. A response didn’t come to me, not words anyway. I just wanted to stop them—their shrill laughs and wide, amused eyes. I grabbed a handful of red Jell-O off my plate and hurled it at their laughing faces. This got me cleanup duty and a note sent home for Mom to sign.

Mom didn’t yell, though—her eyes looked sad. She hugged me and said it was never good to seem too anxious for friends. Neediness scared people. That an invitation wasn’t always an offer for friendship, and I’d