Struts & Frets Read Free

fine,” I said. “A ton of really great bands hate their lead singer. It’s almost like a tradition, really. All the classic bands, like Jane’s Addiction, the Pixies, Soul Coughing, had asshole lead singers.”
    â€œBut none of those bands are around anymore, are they?”
    â€œIf we cut an album as sick as
Nothing’s Shocking
or
Doolittle
, I’d be just fine with stopping after three or four,” I said.
    â€œThen what would you do with the rest of your life?”
    â€œHuh?” I said. Then I heard the front door open and close. “Gotta go. My mom’s home.”
    â€œForget it.” Jen5 sighed. “See you in art class.”
    â€œIf you’re lucky,” I said.
    â€œHa,” I heard her say just before I hung up.
    Three, two, one . . .
    â€œSamuel!” my mom yelled from downstairs. “Were you on the phone just now?”
    â€œYeah,” I yelled back. The stupid phone downstairs lit up some big green light anytime someone was using it. I think she bought it just for that feature.
    â€œDon’t you have homework to do, young man?” she yelled up to me.
    â€œI was asking Jen5 a history question.” This was plausible. Jen5 was much better at history than I was. And better a half-truth, just in case she’d seen the caller ID.
    â€œAll I’m saying,” she called, “is that I better not see any C’s on the report card.”
    â€œOkay,” I called back. “No C’s.”
    D’s and F’s, maybe . . .
    If she had come up to my room at that moment, I would have been completely screwed, because it would have been clear that I was doing just about everything
except
my homework. Guitar strings, my guitar, my songbook, and apile of CD jewel cases all circled me like some kind of punk rock Stonehenge. But I knew she wouldn’t check in for another half hour or so. My mom was a therapist, and I guess it was pretty rough having to listen to other people’s problems all day, because when she came home she refused to do anything until she’d sat down and had a glass of white wine.
    Still, I couldn’t play my guitar and sing anymore, obviously. So I quietly restrung my guitar without tuning it, then cracked open my history books and began pretending to care.
    â€œSam?” Her voice was softer and thicker after a couple glasses of wine.
    â€œYeah, Mom?”
    â€œTake a break from history for a minute,” she said.
    Like a dutiful son, I closed the textbook from which I had been reading the same paragraph over and over again because I just couldn’t seem to pay attention to it.
    â€œTalk to me,” she said.
    I turned away from my desk and looked at her.
    For the most part, my mom was pretty cool. If she didn’t understand me, it wasn’t because she didn’t try. My major complaint about my mom was that all of my friends, at some point, had to confess to me that they thought shewas hot. Why couldn’t they just keep it to themselves? Even Rick once said, “I mean, she’s not my type or anything, but you have to admit, your mom is a total MILF!” I told him I would admit no such thing.
    When we were first starting the band, Joe hadn’t hooked up the Parks and Rec room yet. Rick, TJ, and I were hanging out one night, trying to think of places we could rehearse. TJ suggested my place. When I asked why, he said something about my mom maybe bringing us lemonade every once in a while. Well, I told him that one thing I was damn sure of, Joe would
never
meet my mom. TJ agreed that this was probably for the best.
    â€œHello?” my mom said. “Earth to Sam?”
    â€œSorry, Mom,” I said.
    â€œHow was school?” she asked.
    â€œBoring,” I said.
    â€œA few more details would be nice,” she said.
    â€œHistory is dumb. Spanish is hard. Math is pointless.”
    â€œWhat about English?”
    â€œIt’s okay,” I said.