The Sound of Letting Go Read Online Free PDF Page A

played
    and heard.
    It’s not just so I can be an easy source of pride
    for my parents.
    It’s not just because a tiny part of me still believes
    Mom’s long-abandoned pile
    of medical journal clippings
    about music freeing the autistic mind.
    It’s not even just that I can’t imagine stopping
    because I know, like Miles Davis
    halfway through
Kind of Blue
,
    that I haven’t reached the end, an end . . .
     
    If they mean why I’m writing this application,
    it’s because I need to know that, someday,
    I might be able to escape from my house.
    I need to do something besides practice and help, cower
    and wait.
     
    Summer is far away,
    but I think I can survive at home that long.
    Then I need to get into Overton. Or go
somewhere
.
    Can I write that?
     
    I open another window on the computer,
    search for “summer teen music programs.”
    There’s one in California that I recognize,
    several at colleges here in New England.
    Some look too expensive; others have application fees
    I’ll find a way to manage.
    I start a list with Overton at the top.
    Then six more places.
     
    Enough.
    I close the search window,
    refocus my mind on the essay.
    Mom has yoga tonight,
    and I can only stay a few more minutes.
    There’d be little risk of my parents catching me writing
    the application essays at home.
    They’re so busy taking care of Steven
    and avoiding being in charge of Steven
    and holding on to some kind of life around Steven
    that sometimes it feels they’ve half forgotten
    I’m even living there.
    Still, I feel safer doing it here at school.
     
    “Musical inspirations, huh?”
    Dave’s hand rests casually on my shoulder as he reads the screen.
     
    I shiver at his touch,
    thrilled yet instantly on guard
    against my summer plans
    becoming part of the unspoken yet known lore of Jasper,
    picturing Andy Bouchard offhandedly asking Dad,
    “Has Daisy heard from Overton yet?”
    as he hands him a cup of strong, black French roast.
    I stand up, turn to block Dave’s view of the monitor.
    “Don’t see much of you in the library.”
     
    “Then you haven’t been looking hard enough,
    Daisy-brains.
    I come by most Monday afternoons at some point.
    Like to read in that chair.”
    Dave points to the egg-shaped, plastic-and-pleather
    chair that forms a weird centerpiece
    between rows of fiction.
     
    I often steal the occasional half hour in the library
    on Monday afternoons.
    Wouldn’t I have remembered
    seeing Dave lounging in egg leather?
    I look at my watch. It’s almost five o’clock.
     
    “Shit! I’m gonna be late for—
    It’s my mom’s yoga night and—”
     
    I save the document onto my flash drive, shut down,
    cram the application, list, textbooks,
    papers into my backpack.
    Run for the parking lot.
     

29
     
     
    “Where were you?
    I texted four times!”
    Mom accuses, before adding,
    “I was worried.”
     
    “I was in the library studying.
    I lost track of the time.
    Just go to yoga now. It’s fine.”
     
    But Steven has noticed Mom’s frantic, angry tone;
    picked up something about the sweat on my upper lip,
    my rushed footsteps.
    His hands start to twist, eyes roll upward,
    searching or maybe seeing nothing.
     
    “Look what you’ve done,” Mom says.
    She turns to my brother. “Steven. Steven, are you okay?”
     
    She knows better than to reach for him, touch him.
    Together we watch.
    “Want a cookie, Steven? Chocolate chip,” I try.
    But he flinches at the burping whoosh
    that opens the stay-fresh cookie bin.
     
    “Damn. I haven’t taken him to the bathroom yet,”
    Mom murmurs.
     
    “Come on, Steven, let’s go watch Batman.”
    I stupidly try to take his hand,
    but he yanks it away, twisting his palms together.
    With a wail, the pacing begins, slow and awkward,
    around the edges of the kitchen.
    He smacks his head against the doorframe.
     
    Mom and I are frozen statues watching a tornado:
    transfixed, terrified, unable to take cover.
     
    “I’m calling your father.
    Did