Zipless by Diane Dooley Read Free Book Online Page A

wasn’t. It was about losing a mother. Being left alone. The feeling of fear and confusion. Chris closed his eyes. He’d known those emotions. Back in South Carolina, the third foster home, his social worker with tears in her eyes, telling him that Mom had died. Liver failure due to chronic Hepatitis C. Fifteen years old and he’d finally understood why his mother had dropped him at the local children’s home nine months earlier. Why she’d been crying, telling him it was better this way. She’d loved him; he’d always known she loved him. In her way. Not more than the smack, though. Never more than that.
    The final line of the song registered, and then it was into a full-blown screaming wave of agony disguised as a guitar solo. Chris didn’t even try to play, just listened. Until the headphones were wrenched away.
    “Zippy, you okay?” Lou’s voice was soft and sweet. “You’re crying,” she said, as she collected the solitary tear that was making its way down his face.
    One single tear, he thought. The first he’d shed for Mom in so many years. He shook his head. “Sorry. It’s just…” He remembered the final line—having to stay strong for the younger brother who was falling apart. One of the Marzarolis had written the song. And he was sure it was the one sitting in front of him. What she’d said earlier about people dying from cancer who’d so badly wanted to live. He took a deep breath. “My momma died when I was fifteen.”
    She didn’t speak. Just nodded like she knew exactly how he was feeling. “The song made you cry?”
    “Yeah.” He shifted uncomfortably. “You sure you wanna do this one on the show? I mean, it’s a great song. No doubt. But it’s kind of a downer.” He sniffed, trying to do it unobtrusively.
    “I suppose it is,” she said.
    “What’s the newest song? Would you consider that one?”
    “Um. The band hasn’t recorded it yet. But they’ve played it live a few times and it went down well.” She picked up the iPod. “I’ll let you hear it and you can tell me what you think.” She put the headphones back on him, then walked away. He started to listen, aware that she hadn’t walked far, and that she was watching him.
    It wasn’t the band playing, just a single guitarist. The song started out with a few simple chords and a little nimble finger picking. Was it Bluto playing? Or maybe the brother, Paolo? Whichever one it was, he got a nice full sound out of his guitar. But when the first verse started, it certainly wasn’t either one of them singing. It was a woman. And it was a fine strong voice, clear and pure, with an aching beauty. No vibrato, no runs, just straight melody. No strain on the high notes, perfect pitch, almost effortless. There was a noticeable accent; the singer was making no effort to sound American or at least transatlantic.
    He turned and glanced at Lou, who immediately turned away and pretended to be going through her bag. It was her singing. He was sure of it. Such a lovely voice, accompanied by excellent guitar playing. The song was good. Very good. It had the feel of something old that had been modernized. The lyrics were about never giving up on something, never surrendering. It sounded like her. “Who wrote it?” he said over the music, then pointed a finger at her.
    She blushed, nodded.
    “Paolo or Bluto on guitar?”
    She shook her head.
    The tempo of the song was building, the guitar playing intensified. “You?” he asked.
    She nodded, then turned in the direction of the door as Bluto came crashing through it, half-carrying another man. They both fell to the ground. Over the sound of the music he could hear Lou shrieking. He pulled off the headphones.
    * * * *
    “Chiz, you drunken bampot! Are you incapable of staying sober?” Lou rushed over as Bluto climbed to his feet. “Let’s get him on the couch.” Don’t kill him, don’t kill him, repeated in her head.
    Lou stared down at Chiz’s grinning mug, as she, Bluto, and