Newbie Nick Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Biography

  Newbie Nick

  Lisa McManus

  Lycaon Press

  Calgary, Alberta

  www.lycaonpress.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or

  persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Newbie Nick

  Copyright © 2014 Lisa McManus

  ISBN: 978-1-77101-274-4

  Cover Artist: Victoria Miller

  Editor: Kristen Pavka

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations

  embodied in reviews.

  Lycaon Press

  www.lycaonpress.com

  Thanks to Richard, Mitchell and Matthew, Mom, Dad, Teresa, and Suzanne for always cheering me on. Special thanks to Laura Langston for nudging me in the right direction.

  Chapter One

  “Whatcha doin’?”

  I stopped playing and looked up. Even though I was wearing sunglasses, I had to shield my eyes against the sun.

  It was that little girl again.

  “I’m playing the guitar.” I wasn’t trying to be a rude jerk or anything, but I didn’t have much time for her. She was too shy to talk when she hung around me yesterday. Her dad, or uncle, or whoever from the shop next to me kept a watchful eye on her, peeking out the store door every few minutes.

  I figured if I ignored her, she would go away. Traffic wasn’t busy on the street, which meant less noise, and thankfully the sidewalks were busy with tourists and shoppers. If I was gonna make some decent cash today, I needed to keep playing. Being distracted by a little kid wasn’t gonna help me.

  I had just started strumming, remembering how my grandpa taught me to place my fingers, when she spoke again.

  “Why are you playing?” she sing-songed. Her whiny voice bugged me.

  How do you explain being a street busker to a kid who looks like a kindergartener?

  As she picked her nose, some guy threw a dollar into my guitar case.

  “Thank you!” I called out.

  Some might laugh at getting only a dollar. I figure every little bit counts and I had big plans for the money I was making. I was saving up for a sleek guitar for me, and a necklace for my mom. I didn’t consider what I had been doing all summer as charity. She always worked hard for us, taking nothing for herself, so I wanted to do something nice for her and was determined to do it all on my own.. I worked for every dime I got. My mom always says money doesn’t matter when you have people in your life that care as much as they do. Whatever. Money makes the world go ‘round, I say.

  I looked at the little girl, stalling to think about how to answer.

  “Jessica, are you okay?” Her father, or uncle, or whoever called from the store.

  “I’m fine, Daddy!”

  Oh, so that’s her dad. When I first started coming downtown at the beginning of summer, he would scowl at me from the store’s doorway. I was afraid he would call the police; lucky for me he never had. Yet. I always try to move spots, but there are only so many sidewalks I can use. Being seen and heard is a must for any guitarist playing for money, yet I have to be careful to not be seen by anyone I know.

  Her dad went back inside. Jessica was still waiting, so I gave the easiest answer. “I want to buy a guitar and one day play like my grandpa.”

  “Whyyyy?” This time she sat down on the sidewalk beside me.

  I strummed a few chords. The people passing by ignored us. Every second chatting with the little girl meant lost business for me. People wouldn’t take me seriously if I was distracted and chatting with some kid. If I could just get my story out quick, maybe she would leave. I knew she wouldn’t care and probably wouldn’t tell anyone. And besides, a little twerp like her wouldn’t understand, anyways.

  Sweat dribbled down my back, and I knew the peanut butter and jam sandwich in my backpack would be warm and soggy.

  I looked at her again. “Because he was the best guitarist ever. He was a music teacher and taught me how to play when I was a little kid like you.” Before I knew it, I was babbling on. “If I want play like him, to be like him, I need my own guitar.”

  I barely registered that someone had thrown in a few coins in my case as I kept talking. “Someone stole his old guitar from my grandma’s house, and I haven’t been able to play unless I borrow a guitar from school. So I want my own.” I stopped. Why had I gone on and on like that?

  “Doesn’t he play the guitar anymore?” she asked, as if I hadn’t rambled on about any of the other stuff.

  “He died a while ago.” And I miss him so much, I wanted to add, but didn’t. I didn’t want to sound like a freak, even if only to a stupid little kid.

  “Is he in heaven?” She looked fearful for a second.

  “Yes, he is,” I said, and she sagged in relief, as if worried he wasn’t.

  She picked at a worn edge of the guitar case, looked at the money inside, and then said, “Why don’t you work at a store to get money? If you have a store like my daddy, you could make lots of money!”

  She was really starting to get on my nerves. I couldn’t blame her for my frustrations – it wasn’t her fault I needed to keep working.

  I strummed again. After being without a guitar for a year, not only had I gotten rusty and lost my touch, but I had forgotten how playing made any mixed-up feelings disappear.

  Missing my grandpa that had me wanting to play again. My grade nine music teacher, Shark, had loaned me a guitar for practicing on the weekends. He knew my mom couldn’t afford to rent one. As kind as it was of Shark to do that, borrowing a guitar wasn’t enough for me. I wanted my own. I hated not having something to play during the week, and I hated feeling like a charity case and borrowing one.

  So when summer came, Shark secretly loaned me the guitar for the summer. The school wouldn’t approve if they knew. Even though having a guitar with Mattheson High School in black ink down the side of it wasn’t exactly cool, at least I could play. If Shark knew what I had really been using the guitar for, I don’t think he would exactly approve, either.

  Jessica still watched me. Waiting.

  I gave in. “I can’t get a job because I’m fourteen, almost fifteen,” I was quick to add. “Maybe next year I can get a real job. But for now, my mom won’t let me. She says school is too important.” Just thinking about it was starting to irritate me. I had to get rid of the kid somehow.

  In a nice, fake, happy voice I said, “Hey, I think your dad is calling you. I think you better go now.”

  At the mention of her dad, her eyes widened and she jumped up. She stared at me for a moment, and then skipped away. Thank God.

  A leaf fell at my feet, reminding me I didn’t have much time left. Soon the crappy autumn rains would start, and my days of busking downtown would be over, along with days of making money. If I wanted to play, if I wanted a guitar of my own, I had to make money. I had already put down $50 toward the perfect guitar I had on layaway at Mike’s Music store - I still had a long way to go before owning it. It was a vicious circle—playing a guitar to make money to play a guitar. It sounded stupid thinking about it that way, but it was true.

  Suddenly, none of that m
attered right then.

  Because as I looked up, I saw him. My sweat from the summer sun turned to ice.

  It was that stupid jerk, Beau, from school.

  ***

  Lugging a guitar on the back of my bike isn’t easy. A few bungee cords and an old rat trap I rigged to the back of my mountain bike, and I somehow got it to work. The trick was to make sure the guitar didn’t fall off as I rode. I got home and after locking my bike at the side of our basement suite, I carried the guitar inside.

  I was still shaking, and not just from almost being seen by Beau. I had to watch from where I was hidden as Beau eyed the money in my case as he walked by.

  When first I saw him, I grabbed the guitar and ducked behind the building beside me. I kept one eye on him and one eye on my money just a few feet away. Everyone else passing by had the decency to leave it alone, even the street people who shuffled by. Of course not Beau.

  As he came closer, I held my breath. I couldn’t let him see me. As he approached my case, he had the freaking nerve to actually lean over and reach for the money. He jumped when he saw someone coming, pulled his hand back, and walked on.

  It was a sign to get out of there, so I did as fast and as stealthily as I could. Plus I knew my time was up. The story I had told my mom about me attending summer guitar lessons with Mrs. Brown could only work for so many hours on a Saturday.

  When I got in the house later, Mom was already home and lying on the couch.

  “Hi, hon, how was your practice?” She propped herself up on one elbow.

  I felt bad. I hated lying to her. I kinda figured it was for her own good, though. And a little of mine, of course.

  I tried to act as normal as a street busker possibly could.

  “Oh fine, Mrs. Brown says I’m really coming along.” I hated myself at that moment. “She wants to extend my practices by half an hour, still free of charge, of course.” The lies kept on building. “Then I rode over to Josh’s after practice and we went for Slurpees.” I had been gone for four hours, much longer than the average guitar lesson.

  I had fabricated a story of having guitar lessons with a “Mrs. Brown,” telling my mom they had been arranged by my music teacher and paid for by the school. It was the only excuse I could come up with so I could get out of the house and head downtown every Saturday for the summer. As far as I knew, none of my friends had seen me all summer, and except for my close call that day, I felt that my secret was safe.

  “Sounds like you had a great day, hon.” My mom leaned back on the couch and rubbed the sides of her forehead as if fending off a headache.

  “It was, thanks.” I felt like crap lying to her. My money was burning a hole in my pocket, and I felt even worse knowing it was there. I just wanted to get it stashed in my room.

  Just as I turned to go, she said, “Grandma brought over some tuna casserole for us. You can put some on a plate and nuke it if you’re hungry later.”

  “Thanks.” I glanced at her as I made my way to my room. She was already half asleep. Working a nine-hour shift does that to ya, I guess.

  I went straight to my closet. In the back were boots and runners we had never gotten around to sorting through. Underneath was my treasured ammunitions case my grandpa bought me at a garage sale when I was younger. It was dark and compact. No one in their right mind would be crazy enough to plow through old runners and boots to find it.

  Every bit of cash I had was in there. I pulled it all out and counted. With today’s earnings, I only had another $50 to go for my mom’s necklace, and another $100 for the guitar. I didn’t’ want to put it all the bank and risk my mom finding out Sure, she might wonder where I got all the money when I eventually gave her the necklace: that was something I would figure that out later.

  Even though I hated feeling like a charity case, I wanted to earn the money for the guitar and locket on my own. And if is this was what I had to do, then fine, I’d do it.

  I stashed it away, and just as I was piling all the shoes and boots back over it, I heard a voice.

  “Nick? What are you doing?”

  I crawled backward out of the closet, my hands shaking and my face reddening and going numb.

  “Um, nothing?” What a stupid thing to say.

  She paused and gave me a strange look as if trying to figure me out. Then, with a shake of her head as if giving up, she continued as if nothing happened. “Well, um, I just wanted to tell you how proud I am of you for taking up the guitar and practicing like you have been.” She stopped as if to find the right words. “Grandpa would be so proud of you.” She paused again. I wondered if she was trying not to cry. When she spoke again, her voice wobbled. “Remember to always do something with your heart – because you love it.”

  She gave me a smile then turned to leave. She stopped at the door, looked from the closet to me, and then seemed to change her mind and left.

  Two close calls in one day. Not good.

  Chapter Two

  The first full week of school was chaos as usual. Josh and I had already been at the high school for a year, so it was no big deal for us. On the second day, we pushed our way along the hallway. The sea of confused kids made walking with a guitar next to impossible.

  “Do you have guitar class this year?” Josh practically yelled in my ear over the noise.

  “Ya, duh, of course. How about you?” I kept my eyes on my timetable, ignoring the pushing and shoving going on around me. Someone pushed past me twisting around my guitar case, nearly ripping my arm out. I had a death grip on that thing and wasn’t about to let it go. It got me this far, I wasn’t about to let anything happen to it.

  “Ya, and I can’t wait to see who else is in our guitar class.” I looked up at him as he waggled his eyebrows.

  “What do you mean?” I asked. “I’m pretty sure Shark is teaching again this year.” Josh played guitar, but only because his parents made him. He didn’t have the artistic passion for it like I did.

  “Not Shark, dummy.” He rolled his eyes. “I mean the girrrrls.” Again, his eyebrows moved.

  This time I rolled my eyes. “You know I don’t care about that stuff. You know I have a plan, Josh, and some girl is the last thing I need to screw things up. I will own that guitar, and soon.” I tried to stare him down to prove my point, to remind him of my goal.

  I guess he got the hint of how serious I was as he stopped and looked at me. There was no more eye-rolling or eyebrow wiggling. He knew how tight we were for money and how desperately I wanted that guitar. He also knew my secret—that I had been busking downtown. He stared at me for another beat then continued, “I know, but aren’t you afraid of someone finding out? I mean, how uncool would it be for someone to see you?”

  Despite his attention to girls, he was smart. I hated it when he was right. When I didn’t say anything, he continued. “And if the school ever found out you were using school property sitting on the streets of…”

  “Shut up,” I hissed. We were almost at the music room.

  Being in grade ten meant a lot of things for many guys. Many have jobs, and some are old enough to get their learner’s license. I wouldn’t be fifteen until December which meant I was the youngest in our whole grade – too young to be thinking about driving, never mind getting a real job.

  “Josh.” I clenched my teeth in frustration and tried not to growl at him as I explained my situation for the zillionth time. “Anyone under fifteen has to get their parents to sign a permission form if they want to get a job. I know my mom won’t sign anything like that. She’ll say I should enjoy being young.” I stopped, then went on. “Her big thing is that she wants me to focus on school and make something of my life.” I could almost hear her voice in my head as I recounted her words.

  I forced myself to calm down, then glared at my best friend. “And you don’t have to keep reminding me about getting caught. I kept my sunglasses on.” My mom once told me I looked much older in sunglasses, and it obviously was true because the police or whoever never on
ce stopped and bugged me about my age and playing a guitar on the streets.

  “You were lucky, man.” He pulled open the door for me, and I lugged the guitar into the music room.

  We found two chairs side by side, and I got busy pulling out my guitar to make sure it was all right. Josh, of course, immediately started talking to the girl beside him. Girls tend to love him. He’s good looking – for a guy, that is – is funny and sure isn’t shy.

  Josh and his girls were furthest from my mind right then. I had bigger things to worry about.

  One of my strings was broken.

  Damn.

  That meant I would have to pay for it. I hoped that Shark wouldn’t think I didn’t take care of it properly over the summer. If he thought that, then I might not still be allowed free use of the guitar over the weekends like last year.

  After a few kids stumbled into class at the last minute, the bell rang, and Shark came in.

  Everyone’s chatter was silenced at Shark’s shrill whistle – the kind I spent every day last spring break trying to master and never could. With Shark standing in front of me, I quickly shut the case, hiding the broken guitar string.

  “All right you guys, listen up.” Shark was, despite his name and scary looks, a real teddy bear at heart. He was the kind of guy everyone respected and liked. Because of his work with youth in a detention center, where he himself spent some time as a teen, he understood all kids. He didn’t judge anyone, no matter where they came from or what they did. He didn’t care whether you were rich or poor, smart or dumb. He told us stories about his past that maybe he shouldn’t have, like how he got his tattoos and scars. Everyone thought he was the greatest, and always excelled in his classes.

  “Since I see some new faces this year, I’m gonna call out names. Just answer ‘here’ like a normal, civilized human being.” His comment was met with a few giggles. He smirked, and everyone kept quiet.

  As he started calling out names, my sweat began to pour. A last name like Zinsky meant I would be called last, drawing me unwanted attention.