Imaginary Enemy by Julie Gonzalez Read Free Book Online

spring break,” I protested. “I’m sleeping late.” I never went in for that “early bird gets the worm” thing. Who’d want a worm anyhow?
    “Nine a.m. And you will be required to practice every day.”
    “Dad,” I whined.
    “That’s all. Please go feed Banjo, Jane.”

    Dear Bubba,
    Guitar lessons? Please! Who would design an instrument with six strings when hands only have five fingers? There is no mathematical logic to it.
    Do re mi,
Gabriel

    “This is a really bad idea. I’m far too lazy to play an instrument,” I told Elliot.
    He laughed. “I’ve got four lazy kids, and they can all play at least one instrument.”
    “But I’m
much
lazier than any of them,” I said proudly. I saw Chord and Sharp lingering in the doorway. “Right, guys?”
    “She’s probably too dumb to catch on,” Chord said.
    “Yeah,” agreed Sharp. “She’s pretty thick. I bet she’ll never learn to read music. She can barely read our science book.”
    “I am not dumb, and I can too read the stupid science book,” I snapped. I turned to Elliot. “Let’s do it.”
    “Take off, boys,” Elliot said, and I thought I saw him wink at them. He picked up an amber-colored guitar with a rosewood neck. “Now, this is called the body, and this is the sound hole,” he told me, and continued identifying all of the parts of the instrument. Then he named the strings.
    “It’s easy to remember their names. E-B-G-D-A-E. Every Bunny Gets Drunk At Easter.”
    I laughed. “Maybe this won’t be so awful after all.”

    “I’m going out to the country to set up some equipment,” Elliot said. Chord, Sharp, Zander, Jazz, and I were shooting hoops in his driveway, and Elliot was shoving some recording stuff into the back of his van. “I’m going to need your help, boys,” he told his sons. Then he looked at Zander and me. “If you two want to come along, check with your parents.”
    A few minutes later we were driving down the highway. “So where exactly are we going, Dad?” Chord asked.
    “Stanfield’s blueberry farm out near Deerfoot Landing.”
    “To pick blueberries?”
    “Maybe. If we have time. I’m wiring the beehives for sound.”
    “You’re what?” I asked, astonished.
    “I’m recording the symphonies of the bees,” said Elliot, smiling.
    “But what if you get stung?” I asked.
    “Forget that! What if
we
get stung?” asked Chord. “No wonder you wouldn’t reveal our mission until you had successfully kidnapped us.”
    Elliot laughed. “We probably won’t get stung. The farmers know how to handle the bees. They’re quite friendly, actually.”
    “The farmers?” asked Jazz.
    “I meant the bees, but the farmers are friendly, too.”
    “Yeah, right,” said Chord.
    I elbowed Sharp in the ribs. “Your dad’s way over the edge,” I whispered.
    Sharp laughed. “He’s still a long way from the edge, Jane,” he said, and then I remembered Sharp telling me about sitting beneath the sprinkler to compare real rain to artificial rain, and I decided Sharp didn’t even know where the edge was.
    Chord, Zander, and I watched from afar as Elliot, the farmers, Sharp, and Jazz did that Watergate thing to the beehives. Chord stubbornly refused to get near the hives, and Elliot barred Zander and me from helping (not that I would have anyway) because he didn’t want to be responsible if we got mixed up with any angry honeybees. Zander kept making annoying buzzing sounds while Chord poked me with sticks, pretending they were stingers. “You two are getting on my last nerve,” I warned, but they only laughed. We returned home hours later, laden with blueberries and honey, and, in Sharp’s case, three bee stings.

    Elliot told me to practice guitar every day, saying that was the only way to master a musical instrument. The first week, I did. My fingertips got sore.
    The next week I decided that holding the guitar counted as practice. I did strum it some but found that reading the notes slowed me down, so I