Tara Kelly - Harmonic Feedback

I yanked the lightbulb cord so we didn’t trip over anything. The basement reeked of mildew, but it was roomy and dark. Just the way I liked it. “My grandma thinks liver and mustard sandwiches with boiled milk make a tasty dinner.”

Naomi wrinkled her nose at me. “Boiled milk, for real?”

I set my guitar case and box of effect pedals on the floor. “Yeah, it gets this layer on top that looks like crusty skin and—”

“Stop!” She winced. “Where do I put this?”

I motioned for her to put it next to the stuff I set down and tried to imagine how the basement would look once I made it mine. Lime-green walls, purple Christmas lights strung around like ivy, and my small collection of instruments circling the bed. Sure, Grandma would have a fit—but it would be after the fact. Sometimes it paid off to be a night owl.

Naomi chewed on her thumbnail. Bits of turquoise nail polish flaked off into her mouth. “My brother left me his old drum set when he took off last year. I’ve been dying for someone to jam with. We should start a band or something.” She pulled a strip of polish from her tongue.

“Do they have edible nail polish now?” I asked. The thought of playing with other people terrified me. It was hard enough collaborating with other people online where we just sent files back and forth.

Naomi peered down at her frayed shoes, cramming her hands in the pockets of her gray cords. “I kinda forgot I had it on, but it’s no biggie. I’ve ingested worse.”

“Like what? Paint thinner?”

She let out a laugh and looked up at me. “You don’t screw around, do you? Most girls are all fake and shady.”

“People are fake in general.” I headed back up the stairs and Naomi followed.

“I guess you’d know better than me. I’ve never lived anywhere but Bellingham. Did you grow up in San Francisco?”

I held open the front door and waved her outside. “No, we just lived there for the last two years—which is a record. We’ve covered every major city in California, plus Vegas, Denver, Salt Lake City, and—”

“Bellingham must be a big change.” She nibbled on her ring fingernail this time.

“You have no idea.”

In my sixteen years on earth, we’d never lived more than a thirty-minute drive from a big city. Urban chaos was intense stimulation for a mind that didn’t have an off switch—jarring sirens, drunk people fighting with their lovers on cell phones, six-inch robo-heels chasing the bus, and the scent of piss on newspaper. Watching humans on any downtown street corner was no different than watching a group of sea lions fight over that perfect spot at SeaWorld.

Naomi stuck around and helped us with the rest of the furniture and boxes. Luckily, we had learned early on that the less we kept, the easier the moves got. Mom sold her bed back in San Francisco because she knew Grandma would insist she use the bed in the guest room.

After we shoved my mattress down the stairs, Naomi leaned against a wooden beam and watched as I opened my guitar cases and put the guitars on their rightful stands.

“So you never answered my question about starting a band.…”

“Music is something I’ve always done alone. And we don’t even know each other.”

“What—you don’t think I can play anything?”

I turned to face her. “If I thought that, I’d say that.”

“You just look at me like I’m stupid or something. But it’s fine. Whatever.” She grinned, making it impossible to tell if she was serious or not.

What was with people and their obsession with looks ? Sometimes I was in a bad mood. It wasn’t personal.

I unpacked my didgeridoo and laid it across the mattress.

She came up behind me. “What the hell is that? It looks like a funky telescope.”

“A didgeridoo. My mom brought it back for me when she went to Australia with her last boyfriend.”

Naomi picked it up and stroked the tribal etchings. “How do I play it?”

“Just blow into it, but keep your lips relaxed.”

She pulled it to her mouth and snickered. “This would make a great bong.”

“Okay.” Being a loner most of my life, I wasn’t too up on the party scene. Sure, there were drugs on every campus and the girls who got stoned and popped little pills in the bathroom, but I never talked to them. The last real friend I had was a boy named Adam in the fourth grade. We’d reenact our favorite movie, The Terminator , on the monkey bars every morning at recess. He wanted to be Sarah Connor, and I preferred being the Terminator, so it worked out.

“I bet you got the good shit in California.” She blew into the mouthpiece, but the only sound was her breath.

“Pretend you’re doing a raspberry.”

Her second attempt was even worse. “Oh, man, I think more spit than air came out that time.” She shoved the didgeridoo at me. “Show me how it’s done.”

“I think I’ll wait till it dries first.” I put it back on the mattress, taking note to clean it later. I was the messiest person on earth, but saliva, snot, and other bodily fluids made me want to bathe in sanitizer.

“Drea!” Mom called from upstairs. “Dinner’s ready.”

Naomi looked in the direction of Mom’s voice and smiled. “Your mom is really pretty. You look a lot like her.”

This was news to me. We were both about five-two, but that was where our physical likeness ended. My curly hair was the color of a penny—too orange in my opinion, and my freckles were a little too dark on my pale skin. Nothing like Mom’s golden complexion. With oversized green eyes, I got called names like frog girl and leprechaun. Nobody ever called Mom that.

“Well”—I looked away—“I guess I have to eat dinner now.” Grandma embarrassed me enough without an audience. I didn’t want the first potential friend I’d made in years to hear all about my “behavior problems” over whatever monstrosity Grandma had cooked up. And even if Grandma didn’t bring it up, Mom would. She loved to tell everyone about my issues .

Naomi raised her eyebrows at me, smirking. “It’s cool. You don’t have to invite me. Your grandma kinda scares me anyway.” She headed up the stairs. “You should come by my house one of these days. I can show you my drum kit.”

“Where can I get green paint?”

Naomi stopped on the second to top step and spun around. “What?”

“I want to paint the basement this weekend. Is there any place in town that—”

“Drea,” she interrupted, “we might be close, but we aren’t in the North Pole. There are stores here, like Home Depot. Come by tomorrow and I’ll take you.” She waved and left.

I stared at the empty doorway, wondering why this near stranger was being so helpful. Did she really want me to drop by tomorrow? Or was it like saying call me without meaning it? A therapist told me that people said these things to be polite but their invitation wasn’t always sincere, which made no sense. Why invite someone if you didn’t want that person to show up?

Like the first day of seventh grade. I’d never forget that. These two girls asked me to eat lunch with them, and I felt this surge of excitement run through my body. I couldn’t stop laughing or smiling, even after they kept asking what was funny. But I’d calmed down after a few minutes, and we had what I thought was a good conversation. I started telling them all about my favorite car, the McLaren F1—how it was the fastest in the world. And they seemed interested enough.

I sat with them every day that week, but they talked to me less and less. Finally, one girl rolled her eyes. “God, Drea, can’t you take a hint?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

She exchanged this glance with her friend, and they giggled. “Why do you keep sitting here?”