Chapter 10: Six Strings and Silence

Castro's "concert" dragged on for a full fifteen minutes — the exact time it took him to exhaust every riff he'd half-memorized off a chord sheet. Jake stood by, not transfixed by the music (God no — the guy couldn't tune a radio), but by the crowd itself.

They were watching him.

Actually watching.

No flirting, no bullshit, no zoning out. These people had ditched the stereos and ditched their own conversations just to listen to this clown plunk through a few chords. It wasn't skill. It wasn't talent. It was something else.

It was presence.

That's what hit Jake the hardest. That even sloppy, out-of-tune Castro had pulled focus. Not because of how good he was. But because he was the one holding the guitar.

And Jake? Even on his worst day, he knew he could outplay this guy blindfolded. Hell, Michelle could outplay this guy. Yet here was Castro, getting all the attention, all the awe. Jake could practically feel Mandy's boobs bounce in slow-mo every time the guy changed chords.

The thought crept in, sly and unwanted: What if that were me up there?

What if he was the one commanding this group, pulling them into his sound like some low-budget Hendrix? No matter how loud the self-doubt got — the voice that said they'd mock him, toss beer on him, maybe even the guitar — it couldn't drown out the stronger truth rising in his chest.

They wouldn't laugh. Not if I played.

Then the moment broke.

"I need a hit," Castro announced, laying the guitar down like he'd just finished a stadium show. "Who's got some fuckin' weed?"

Half the group scrambled for their stashes, eager to feed the local rock god. But Jake? Jake stepped forward.

He wouldn't remember the walk clearly. Later, he'd chalk it up to the beer in his blood — but this was more than liquid courage.

He wanted this.

"Wassup, dude?" Castro greeted him lazily, giving that default head nod guys use when they don't remember your name.

Jake pointed at the guitar. "Nice axe. Mind if I… try it out?"

"You play?"

Jake gave a sheepish shrug. "A little."

Castro smirked. "No shit?" He lifted the guitar and handed it over, already assuming it was about to be comedy hour. "Let's hear what you got, man."

Jake took it, weighed it in his hands. It was light. Cheap. Trash, really. But in that moment, it might as well have been Excalibur.

He stepped over to the other side of the bench, right next to Mandy — who didn't even blink in his direction — and gave the strings a slow drag with his fingers.

"Woo, yeah, baby," Castro cracked. "You fuckin' rock, man."

"Eric Clapton, eat your fuckin' heart out," some other voice chimed in. The group chuckled, not cruelly, just amused.

Jake didn't respond. He hit the low E a few times, twisting the tuning peg.

"Hey, what the fuck you doing?" Castro said, frowning. "I just tuned that thing."

"Must've slipped out while you were playing," Jake said evenly. "I'll get it back in."

"It sounded fine to me."

"It's hard to tell with all this noise. Won't take a sec."

Jake didn't argue. He just kept adjusting.

But Castro looked ready to step in and take it back — and that could've ended it right there. The moment, the chance, gone. Jake wouldn't have fought him. He'd have handed it over and walked away.

But fate — or something like it — stepped in wearing a tie-dye shirt.

Doug Biel, an orbiting member of the cool kids' crew, popped up with a hand-carved weed pipe and a butane lighter.

"Here, Castro," he said. "Try this. My brother brought it back from Hawaii. Best shit you'll ever smoke."

"Maui Wowie?" Castro perked up like a kid on Christmas.

"Damn right," Doug grinned. "Twenty-five an eighth, easy."

"Oh, hell yeah," Castro said, all attention redirected. "Haven't had that in months."

"Then fire it up, brother."

And just like that, Jake was invisible again.

He smiled to himself and kept tuning. Each string, one at a time. Slow. Precise. The kind of attention no one gave this guitar before. When the pipe finally made its rounds and Castro was melting into Mandy's side, Jake had it as dialed in as that junker would allow.

Then he started playing.

Not some Skynyrd riff. Not a radio cover. Just a quiet, original melody — one of his warmups. Simple, slow, but beautiful. Chords that moved smooth and sweet, like butter melting on toast. His calloused fingertips pressed and danced across the frets like he was born to it.

One by one, conversations stopped.

Heads turned.

The lighter paused mid-flick. The pipe stopped mid-pass.

People listened.

Mandy looked over. Looked at him. "Wow," she said softly. "That's pretty good."

"Thanks," Jake said with a quick grin. "Just a warm-up piece I use."

Castro blinked at him, mouth half-open. "What's that from? Kansas?"

Jake shook his head. "Nah. It's just something I wrote. Gets the fingers going."

Castro looked like someone had just explained calculus using finger puppets.

Jake kept going. The melody shifted. His hands moved faster, more sure now, more alive. And with each chord change, with each pick and slide, he felt it — that click.

That moment where sound becomes magic.

"Wow," Mandy whispered again, turning her whole body toward him.

She wasn't the only one.