Page 21 of Christmas Trees & Weak Knees

I Ain’t Waitin’ Around for You

Paisley

November 2

Mom and Dad are thrilled that Exit 12S Records has reserved the Hideaway for the rest of the year. They’re even more excited when they find out that Barry’s asked me to help our guest, Murray, with his demo.

“It’ll be good to have another musician your age around,” Mom says as she dishes a helping of mashed potatoes onto her plate. “You’ve been spending too much time on the farm. You should be spending time with your peers and focusing on your songwriting again.”

I can’t help but bristle. If my peers weren’t such jerks, maybe I’d want to spend time with them. But not a single one of my so-called friends showed up to support me when I won the Songwriter of the Year Award, and they sure as hell didn’t offer me much consolation after my disastrous stage debut. Most of the ones who’ve stuck around town continue to share and tag me in those stupid videos Seth’s been making, and who wants to spend time with people like that?

When I look back at most of the interactions I had with my classmates over the years, I realize I always gave more than I got.

Study groups? I was always invited so people could copy my notes.

Pool parties? Sleepovers? Friday night movies? Not so much.

It was all about what I could do for them. And now I have to do what’s best for me.

“I’m not sure he even wants my help,” I say, taking the mashed potatoes from Mom. I scoop some out and plop them on my plate.

Dad glances over at me. “Who wouldn’t want your help?”

“Right?” Mom says. “You’re a fantastic writer.”

While I appreciate their support, they’re my parents and they love me unconditionally. I don’t think they have the ability to give anything I do honest criticism. I mean, they still rave about the first song I wrote when I was five. It was about mushrooms. And I don’t even like mushrooms.

“Yeah, well, he missed our first session today—”

“That wasn’t his fault,” Mom says, cutting me off. “The state police had I-24 closed for hours. I had no idea lithium-ion batteries could cause such trouble.”

“Okay, fine,” I concede. “But he also hasn’t shown up to introduce himself.”

“Maybe he’s shy,” Dad says.

“Maybe he’s tired,” Mom says.

“Maybe he’s seen the videos.”

Mom and Dad share a “here we go again” look. I know they think I should just get over it. I’m trying. It’s just not so easy. None of their epic failures have been recorded and shared and immortalized on the internet. When they were my age, they could mess up and move on. When they share the stories of their youth, they get to control the narrative. It’s not the same for me.

We sit in awkward silence for a few minutes, forks scraping against our plates.

“So, there’s this new riding mower I’ve had my eye on,” Dad says, and I have never been more grateful to John Deere in my life.

I’ve just finished loading the dishwasher when the phone rings.

“Hidden—” I start to say, but an unfamiliar male voice cuts me off before I can finish the greeting.

“Yeah, I’m looking for reception.”

What?

“Uh…”

“Look,” the guy says on the other end of the line, his tone grumbly. “The sheet on the counter here says that if I need anything, I’m supposed to press the reception button on the phone. And that’s what I did.”

Oh, now it all makes sense. Murray’s calling from the Hideaway. See, this is a great example of why we need caller ID.