Jump A Little Lighter: Chapter 5

Read from the beginning here

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“I could teach you to play guitar.”

“Well, it’s probably too late for me.” The camera pans out to both of them laughing, and the host speaks directly to the crowd to ask, “What about you guys, though?” and, of course, they cheer.

“Yeah. We can do that. Sabby, can you bring out my guitar? OK it doesn’t fit in the chair…. Hang on… “

It’s a set piece. Scripted, like every scheduled breath The Host takes. Rosie is handed a guitar by the face we don’t know but who is likely there, week after week. Of course Rosie calls her by her name. She kicks off her shoes and walks to the front of the stage, eliciting applause and one excited howl from the studio audience.

She sits, just like they surely practised that afternoon, but as soon as the strap is around her neck she gets that reverence of the instrument I’ve seen before, fondling the neck as she makes the shape of some chords to flex her fingers, tapping it tambour to loosen her body. I’ve seen her do that on the side of a stage before walking out; I think it reminds her that this is all a craft she’s carefully honed. Maybe it’s just a routine to alleviate loneliness, though – I don’t know for sure.

She pauses before strumming.

“What shall I play?”

“Well,” says the host, “there’s only one answer to that. Rosalita Jacobs, can you give us the kind of tutorial you learned from, but for your own single?”

The crowd cheers again, right on cue. Do they still have light-up ‘applause now’ panels? Is somebody behind the cameraman holding up a sign?

Rosie holds her hand up to the camera, saying to make a shape like this, and counts the frets to make it easy for any non-players watching. After she teaches us the chorus – “very nice!” she giggles, eyes right on somebody we can’t see – she strums, seemingly absent-mindedly. It’s her own guitar, it used to sit in her room at home. Even after her parents bought a good one she played this.

Her playing looks aimless at first, until she begins to hum the harmonica part of Thunder Road.

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Chapter 5: June 2017

There’s something up with Rosie. She doesn’t stop fidgeting for the whole of lunch, even when it’s clear she knows that I know something’s up cause of the look I give her. We’re all just discussing Britney’s strategy of picking up an extra fruit cup or carton of milk daily to lure Swim Team Elijah over to finish her ‘leftovers’. Personally I think this is expensive, but Britney says her grandma has always said food is the most wholesome thing a man wants.

“Yeah but hon she meant you baking her poundcake recipe to show you’d be good wifey material.”

“This man be sporty, so health foods are better. Plus, am I about to bring a poundcake into school? That would not make me wifey material, it would make me good mental ward material.”

“What if you brought in lunch from home, like me? You could bring in a slice at a time.”

“Doesn’t your mom get up at like 6 to make you lunch? Wifey material does not have eyebags at 16.”

“Check your teeth for lipgloss, boy is coming over.”

We’re being drip-fed our grades at this point. Spanish went great for Rosalita and she practically dances to her place after school. She tries in that class, tries to keep the accent in her voice and peppers her speech with the odd word, since people assume she’s Hispanic anyway. Rosalita is not Hispanic: her dark eyebrows are drawn on and her full figure is a combination of genetic predisposition and Midwestern cooking. Her parents are huge Bruce Springsteen fans, the kind that go to his shows every night when he’s in state and who go to Madison Square Gardens on holiday and named their kids after his songs. Rosalita’s a pretty name, and the song suits her because her dream was always to escape; once she learns some Spanish she won’t even have to correct the assumptions anymore. She’s definitely got it much better than her brother, Robert Eugene. He’s given in to his destiny and plays saxophone in his college’s jazz band.

There are fresh snickerdoodles at Rosie’s house. I pick up a plate (with a heartfelt thankyou shouted through to the living room) to take to Rosie’s room with us. I park in the place I always sit, cross-legged on the edge of her bed, playing with the faux chiffon drapes Rosie stapled to the ceiling when she went through her Stevie-Nicks-boho phase at 12. She sits on the ottoman, and already has her guitar in her hands by the time I’m settled and confident I won’t get crumbs in her bed.

She still hasn’t said shit to me, and the thing that breaks the silence is her asking me if I know Tyler Miller.

“Yeah, he sits in front of me in World Civ, why?”

“He plays drums in marching band, I wanted to know if he was good.”

“That I cannot tell you.”

“Do you know what his curfew is?”

“Rosie, I have spoken to this boy maybe twice outside of class.”

“Well, I need a drummer, and I don’t know where to get one.”

“You’ve lasted all this time without a drummer, why do you need one now?”

“The Lied Center has asked me to headline their September welcome event.”

“Are you serious? That must be like a thousand people!”

And then I get nothing else. I am staring open-mouthed at my friend, who just booked a gig bigger than anything anybody from this town has ever done, and she is poised with half a breath drawn to tell me more when she stops.

“Bobby, stop hiding behind the door.”

“Are you gonna let me in there?”

She stands up, grabs a cookie from my plate, and wordlessly opens the door. Her back is immediately turned to her brother and her hands back on the guitar. Bobby picks up Rosie’s other acoustic – the newer one, the one she only plays at gigs – and starts playing. Rosie picks up the tune, and they somehow communicate with each other telepathically to get their voices in harmony and know who sings what part. I’ve heard this song before, from Rosie’s computer, I think it’s some kind of English gospel? I can see Rosie’s mannerisms mirrored in Bobby – the way a strand of his too-long hair falls into his eyes, the way he smiles and looks up at me as he tucks it back. Rosalita is magnetic as a frontwoman but right now her eyes are closed for her private communion with music, and I can’t help but watch her brother. They’re still playing rhythmically together when Bobby finally speaks.

“I heard what you said, Rosie, and there’s no way mom and dad will let you stay that late to parade around on a college campus.”

“Then they shouldn’t have named me after somebody who sneaks out at night.”

It dawns on me that my best friend isn’t messing about, and I’m suddenly in something really serious, and I am not equipped at all: things like this generally do not happen to people with the kind of demeanour that has them carrying cookie crumbs around the edges of their mouths.

“It’s over 2000 people. Can you ask Tyler if he’ll audition for me?”

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PLAYLIST OF SONGS

• [Bruce Springsteen, Rosalita (Come Out Tonight)]
• [Bruce Springsteen, Bobby Jean]
• [Bruce Springsteen, The Rising]
• [Fleetwood Mac, Rhiannon]
• [Sabrina Carpenter, Tornado Warnings]
• [George Harrison, My Sweet Lord]