Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 92749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
“Whoa.” She leans forward. “How?”
“Physics, basically. You’re dividing the string at specific points. But forget the science for now. Just barely touch the string, right over the fret. Don’t press down.”
She tries it on her guitar, gets a muted thunk.
“Lighter,” I tell her. “Pretend the string is hot and you can only touch it for a second.”
She adjusts her finger pressure, tries again. Still muted.
“Here.” I reach over and guide her hand, showing her the exact pressure needed. “Feel that? Almost nothing.”
She tries again. This time it sings.
“Yes!” She grins, the first real emotion she’s shown beyond focus. “That’s amazing! Where else can you do that?”
“Seventh fret. Fifth fret. Different spots give different notes.”
She experiments, finding them on different strings. There’s no hesitation in her exploration. She’s not afraid of making mistakes, just determined to figure it out. She finds the harmonic on the seventh fret, then the fifth, then starts combining them into patterns.
“This is way better than what I usually learn,” she says, still exploring.
“Different approach.”
“No, it’s more than that. You teach like it matters. Like music is important, not just something to check off a list.”
“Music is important.”
“My mom says that too. But then she gets weird about it.”
“Weird how?”
“Like she wants me to play but doesn’t want me to care too much. Does that make sense?”
“Parents worry. It’s their job.”
“I guess.” She finds another harmonic, this one on the third fret, subtle but there. “Oh! There’s one here too!”
“Good ear. That one’s harder to find.”
We work through harmonics for another ten minutes, then I show her how to incorporate them into the progressions she already knows. Her face lights up when she realizes she can end a phrase with a harmonic instead of a regular note.
“It’s like punctuation,” she says. “Like an exclamation point instead of a period.”
“Exactly. Music is language. Same rules apply.”
“My teacher never explains it like that.”
“Everyone teaches differently.”
“Yeah, but you teach like someone who actually plays. Not just someone who learned to teach from a book about teaching.”
Smart kid. Maybe too smart.
“Want to learn something else?”
“Yes.”
“This is called a hammer-on.”
I demonstrate the technique, fretting a note then hammering another finger down to create the second note without picking again. She watches intently, her eyes tracking every movement.
“It’s like the note appears from nowhere,” she says.
“Try it.”
She attempts it, but the second note barely sounds.
“More force on the hammer. Really smack it down.”
She tries again. Better.
“It’s harder than it looks.”
“Everything worth doing is.”
She practices the hammer-on for a few minutes, gradually getting cleaner sound. Then without me showing her, she figures out the opposite technique.
“Nice, what you just did is called a pull-off. Try it again.”
She does, and while it’s messy, the fact that she intuited its existence shows me she’s thinking about music, not just copying.
“Pull down slightly as you release,” I explain. “Not just lifting off. You want to kind of pluck the string with the finger that’s leaving.”
She tries again. Better. On the third attempt, she gets it clean.
“This changes everything,” she says. “I can play so many more notes without picking them all.”
“Now you’re thinking like a guitarist.”
“I want to learn everything.”
“Everything takes time.”
“I have time. I’m ten. I have years and years.”
Before I can respond, the bell above the door chimes. A woman walks in and freezes when she sees us. Dark hair pulled back, wearing jeans and a worn denim jacket that’s seen better years. The late afternoon sun behind her makes it hard to see her face for a moment.
Then she steps forward and I see her clearly.
Rye.
Her mouth opens slightly, then closes. She stands there taking in the scene—me teaching someone, a kid with a guitar, both of us in the middle of what’s clearly a lesson. I see her eyes go to Lily, then to me, then back to Lily. The moment she puts it together is visible on her face.
“Mom!” Lily doesn’t look up, too focused on the pull-off technique. “Listen to this!” She plays a combination of hammer-ons and pull-offs, creating a little melodic run. “Darian taught me. Isn’t it cool?”
Rye’s eyes meet mine over Lily’s head. I see the moment she realizes what’s happened. Benny asked me to cover a lesson. That lesson was her daughter’s. Neither of us had any idea. There’s no anger in her expression, just complete surprise. Maybe something else too. Something harder to read.
“Very cool, baby.” Her voice is careful, controlled.
“Benny had an emergency,” Lily explains, still playing. “So Darian’s teaching me instead. He’s way better.”
“Lily,” Rye says quietly.
“What? He is. He actually teaches music, not just notes. He showed me harmonics and hammer-ons and pull-offs and how to make chords sound like they’re talking instead of just existing.”
Rye moves into the shop, still processing. Each step is measured, like she’s buying time to figure out how to handle this. “We should let Darian get back to his day.”