Dirty Little Secret by Jennifer Echols Read Free Book Online

meant all afternoon to make a chord joke to Sam. My attempt had come out at the wrong time. Sheepishly I asked Mr. Hardiman, “Where does the major G go?”
    He nodded smugly. “You see? You’ve gotten too big for your britches. All that talent doesn’t mean shit if you won’t shut up long enough to listen to instructions so you can play with the group.”
    That stung. Everything bad that adults said about me stung, because all of it was true.
    But the pain didn’t have time to settle before Sam stepped in to draw the fire. “Dad!” he called, letting his guitar hang from his neck by the strap so his hands were free to wave between us. “Over here.”
    Mr. Hardiman glared at Sam, then at me, then down at his guitar, tuning his E string like I was dismissed.
    Sam leaned toward me behind his father’s back. “Sorry,” he mouthed.
    I tried to smile a little, to show him I appreciated him sticking up for me, but my lips couldn’t make it.
    I played “Old Joe Clark” perfunctorily. The fun was gone for me now, and Sam looked as grim as I felt. Despite our lack of enthusiasm, we gathered another crowd, because we were more interesting to listen to than the Muzak that the mall piped in over theloudspeakers. We played a few more Johnny Cash tunes, and then Mr. Hardiman said, “Last one. ‘Folsom Prison Blues.’ ”
    This was another song with a breakneck pace and Cash’s signature freight-train beat. Whenever I stole a glance at Sam, his smile was creeping back, which made me try a little harder when my solo came around. He took his solo, Mr. Hardiman took his and sang the last few verses, and I thought the song would end.
    As we were wrapping it up, Mr. Hardiman called over the music, “Not again. Don’t do that, son. I’m warning you.”
    I watched them, puzzling through what they were talking about. I couldn’t see that Sam was doing anything unusual, and then I heard it. Under Sam’s pick, the freight-train beat on a major one chord morphed into a slightly different but equally driving rhythm. Confused, I followed along, retracing the one chord with my fiddle, until something developed. I finally recognized the song a measure before Sam started singing it: “Shake Your Body” by the Jacksons.
    Mr. Hardiman’s face was beet red by now, but he played along with Sam’s funky beat. He had no choice. Professional musicians didn’t stop in the middle of a song.
    I was more intrigued by Sam. I was finally hearing his voice. And it was good . Strong. Soulful. White boy was singing the hell out of some Michael Jackson.
    I wasn’t sure what part I was supposed to be playing. For a while I just backed up the chords and doubled the bass line. Then I remembered this was a disco song with violins, so I played the soaring part from memory. That was the right answer, apparently. Sam had stopped singing, anticipating that I would know what to do in the bridge. He flashed me his biggest grin yet and melted my heart.
    He picked up singing again in the next verse. His voice was deeper and fuller than Michael’s, but he wasn’t afraid to imitatethe wails that made Jackson famous. The crowd loved him, and not just the tweens this time. Shoppers stood three deep around us, gazing at him with their mouths open. Mr. Hardiman could do a mean Johnny Cash, but there was no question who was the star of this show.
    The song as I remembered it was drawing to a close, assuming it didn’t morph again into something equally bizarre for a Johnny Cash tribute band like a Bach fugue or a Gregorian chant. Mr. Hardiman watched Sam, presumably for the cutoff. I did, too. As our last notes rang around the vast room and the crowd burst into applause, I finally smiled. My face and my whole body felt light for the first time in a long, dark year. I turned to Sam to tell him so.
    But he was looking at his father. And his father lasered him with a glare that made the one they’d given each other when we first met look like a smiley