The Sidewalk's Regrets

By Kate Larkindale

~Editor's Pick~

Seventeen-year-old Sacha McLeod isn’t looking for someone to rock her world. But when she hears the boy in the music store play the guitar, the music thrills her and she falls hard for Dylan and his sound.

Sacha finds herself spending less time with her violin and more time with this guy. Her plans for her violin-virtuoso future—and her self-confidence—are shattered when she screws up the audition for a summer music program. Failure isn’t something she’s had to face before, so when Dylan asks her to spend her vacation with him in the city, she lies to her parents, pretends she won a place in the summer school, and secretly moves in with Dylan.

She’s expecting romance, music, and passion, but when she finds herself playing second fiddle to Dylan’s newly acquired drug habit, she realizes despite what the songs say, sometimes love isn’t all you need.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Evernight Teen
• Release date: Feb 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781773398709

Kate Larkindale

Having spent a lifetime travelling the globe, Kate Larkindale is currently residing in Wellington, New Zealand. A cinema manager, film reviewer and mother, she’s surprised she finds any time to write, but doesn’t sleep much. As a result, she can usually be found near the espresso machine with a long black in hand. Her short stories have appeared in Halfway Down The Stairs, A Fly in Amber, Daily Flash Anthology, The Barrier Islands Review, Everyday Fiction, Death Rattle, Drastic Measures, Cutlass & Musket and Residential Aliens, among others. She has written eight contemporary YA novels, four of which other people are allowed to see. She has also written one very bad historical romance. She is currently working on a new YA novel that is still looking for a title other than its Twitter hashtag, #juvvielesbian.

Book preview

Chapter One

I fix my eyes on the top line of sheet music, not looking at the row after row of sixteenth notes blackening the staves. As my fingers and bow fly across the strings, the music soars through the practice room, filling it so completely I struggle to imagine how another tone can fit into the tiny space. A well-placed rest gives me a chance to turn the page and I grit my teeth, willing myself not to slow down as I head into the trickiest section of this piece. One bar down. Two bars. Three. Four. My focus flicks to the second line of manuscript, my fingers finding the correct places on the violin’s neck as if by magic. Excitement coils through my belly. This is what it’s supposed to sound like.

My bow stutters across the bridge and I wince at the piercing noise that squawks from my instrument when the E-string breaks.

Damn. I want to throw the bow across the room but know better. I set it on the table beside me instead and glance at the clock. Four fifteen. Great. I got an hour in. Maybe a little more. That’s going to get this piece nailed. Not.

Stupid Shostakovich. Whoever picked this to be the compulsory piece for summer school auditions deserves a kick in the ass. Music should be beautiful, not atonal and without a rhythm that makes sense. Not that my opinion is worth squat.

I place my violin on the table while I scrabble through the paper envelopes of strings I keep inside the case’s lining. I’m wasting my time though. I know I don’t have a spare E because I broke one last week too. In the same measure. There’s clearly something wrong with my technique in that section. I’ll have to ask Mr. Dobson about that when I go to my lesson tomorrow. Meanwhile, buying a new E-string is a priority, since one hasn’t miraculously appeared during my search.

With a sigh, I pack my violin away, pausing to run a hand over the warm, golden wood before shutting the lid. I wince at the sharp click of the latch. It’s like locking away my best friend. It is locking away my best friend. God knows I spend more time with my instrument than I do with actual people. 

The music wing’s hallways are empty and quiet. My footsteps echo off the lockers and bounce from the walls. I try to keep them steady and even as the beats of a metronome, but when I draw nearer the doors and the glimpse of freedom beyond them, I can’t help but speed up.

Sunshine cascades over my skin and I straighten into it. For the first time this year, I feel like maybe spring isn’t too far away. I roll my shoulders and my spine crackles. I’m aware how stiff and tight I am. I guess I did practice more than an hour. I had a free last period and went to the practice room then. I give my neck a stretch, testing the knots at the base of my skull. Yeah, probably closer to two. It’s not enough though. Not with an audition looming and a piece as complex as the Shostakovich. I’ll have to try to get another hour or so in after dinner. Which means I need to go to the music store now.

I head toward downtown. Downtown. Two streets that run parallel to one another, the mall at the end of one and a McDonald’s at the end of the other. That’s downtown. From here, just outside the school parking lot, I can already see the golden arches hanging above the drive-thru.

The music store sits in an alley running between Main and Commercial. The bell over the door gives a half-hearted jingle as I walk through.

Behind the counter, Gus looks up and gives me a lazy wave. Hi, Sacha.

Gus. I nod in his direction and enter the maze of oddly joined spaces, squeezing between a piano and a tuba. A stack of music books on a shelf threatens to tumble to the floor as I pass, but I catch them and shove them back onto the low shelf groaning with volumes. I can’t help but pause to flick through the top one, humming the simple tunes the notes make up. I love everything about this place, from its weird nooks and crannies to the dusty scent of mildew creeping from the towers of sheet-music tottering on every available surface. The rooms are silent except for the irregular sound of my footsteps on the bare wooden floors.

Strings are near the back, in a strange narrow space that could once have been a corridor leading who-knows-where. I reach for my usual brand, then stop. I’ve been struggling with this piece. Maybe I need a change. Maybe the steel strings I usually use aren’t right for Shostakovich. But what do I go for? Gold plated? Steel-wound? Silver? Tonally, they’ll all be slightly different, but which one will best suit the composition?

I pick up a yellow package and test its weight. Steel-wrapped, perlon core. I’ve never tried a wound E-string before. Feels good, but really, until it’s strung, tuned, and played, I’m not going to know. I like the weight of the wrapped string, the solidity of it in my palm. I’m comparing the bulk of this string with one of my usual brand when a noise makes me jump. No, not a noise. It’s a wall of noise. A huge tsunami of sound that washes over me and carries me away with it. It wails and shrieks and croons and moans all at the same time. I’ve never heard anything like it. My stomach leaps with something that could be fear or excitement. I can’t tell which. I just know my heartbeat has grown so fast and strong my ribs groan.

As if drawn by a magnet, I’m outside the string room, cutting through the jumbled spaces, the sound growing louder and louder. It reaches into my soul and tears off a piece, carrying it away. What is this music? Can I even call it music?

I stumble into the store’s main room on trembling legs. In the corner, someone is playing an electric guitar. Although playing doesn’t seem like the right word for the way his hands move across the instrument. He’s caressing it. Teasing it. Berating it into creating this otherworldly sound that pummels the walls and assaults my senses. Feedback cackles through the amp and he seems to encourage it, pushing the neck of his instrument closer and closer before tearing it away. Every note burrows into the marrow of my bones, each one digging deeper and deeper until I can’t separate my body from the music swirling around it.

As abruptly as it started, the sound stops. I stagger backward as if the weight of the noise was keeping me upright. I’m still clutching the packages of strings, the paper envelopes growing damp in my palm. My heart raps a staccato rhythm against my ribs and I realize I’m holding my breath.

Wow. I really like the sustain I get with this one. The boy bends over his guitar and picks up a small orange box from the floor. Think it’ll work well with my other pedals? He glances at Gus behind the counter.

Sure. You just need to figure out what combination’s gonna give you the sound you’re looking for. Practice, man.

The guitarist tosses his head, too-long dark hair flicking away from his forehead to reveal a pair of pale-blue eyes. He’s younger than I thought, probably only a year or two older than me. We’ve got a gig this weekend. That doesn’t give me a ton of time to practice.

So, you’ll figure it out on stage. You want the pedal or not?

The boy holds the orange metal in his hands the same way I hold my violin—like a baby or a piece of fragile china too precious to set down in case it gets broken. He wants it. Whatever it is. He’s already fallen in love with it. He sighs, leaning over to open the battered guitar case at his feet. How much are you going to bleed me this time, Gus?

When he stands again, his eyes rake over me and pause, meeting mine. I look away, blood pounding in my ears. Caught staring. Good one, Sacha. I must look like such a geek to him, standing there with my violin case and strings, my hair still knotted into the bun I keep it in while practicing. I sneak another peek while he’s busy with the clips on the case. Tall. Thin. His skinniness is accentuated by tight black pants clinging to his legs. Above them, he wears a wine-colored shirt, unbuttoned at the top to reveal a scrawny collarbone. His face is angular, his nose too large, his eyes wide and a little too far apart. He’s the most fascinating boy I’ve ever seen.

He nods at me and puts the guitar back into its case, pausing to run his fingers across it before closing the lid. Recognizing the gesture, his obvious reluctance to shut away the instrument, my lips curve into a smile.

 Did you find what you wanted, Sacha? Gus’s voice breaks me out of my trance and my cheeks blaze as I turn toward him. 

Yes. I walk to the counter and deposit the strings in their crumpled paper packaging. I’ll try these.

When the guitarist moves into line behind me, his guitar case dropping heavily near my legs, I swear the heat from his body bleeds into mine.

My face is still hot when I walk out the door. The sun’s lower now, and it doesn’t penetrate the alley at all. I shiver and move toward the brightness at the end of the lane, my head filled with the extraordinary sounds the boy managed to wrench from his guitar.

Hey! 

I whirl around and find him standing in front of me, a small plastic bag dangling from one hand, his guitar case from the other.

You forgot your strings. He stretches the hand with the bag in it toward me, closing the space between us.

Oh! I shake my head as I reach for it. Unbelievable. I’m such an idiot. Thanks.

No problem. He rocks back on his heels like he’s about to say something more, but doesn’t, just turns and walks toward the other end of the alley.

Wait! I hurry after him, no idea what I’m going to say, but certain I can’t let him leave without saying something. Anything.

He turns, a puzzled expression crossing his elfin features. God, those cheekbones… 

Uh… My face burns again. Thanks. For the strings. It’s not what I want to say. It’s not what I mean. It’s the music. His playing. The way it ripped my heart from my chest then threw it back, bruised and broken. You’re an amazing guitar player. Ugh. How asinine. 

Thanks. He gives me a smile, ducking his head so his hair tumbles across his forehead again. I’m still figuring it all out. I taught myself.

You’re a good teacher. I give myself a bruising mental kick to the shin. Why does everything coming out of my mouth sound so dumb? I’m not inarticulate. Usually.

He shrugs. I’m not so sure.

You play with a band? I dimly remember the conversation inside the store.

Yeah. Sidewalk Regrets. You ever heard us?

 Sorry… I shake my head. I don’t listen to much music except classical. A little jazz sometimes, maybe some blues. I’ve never had time for popular music. But I don’t tell him that. Someone who can leave me punished and blessed with a little tooling around on his instrument is bound to think my kind of music is lame.

We’re playing Catacombs this weekend. I can put your name on the door.

It’s my turn to scuff at the ground. Um… Okay. Your playing… It’s … awesome. I close my eyes, trying not to wince at how stupid I sound. But I don’t think there are words in English to describe what I heard in there. Maybe in Icelandic or Turkish.

He smiles again, this time a real one that completely alters his face. Cool. So, what name do I put down?

Sacha, I manage. Sacha McLeod.

Hi, Sacha. He reaches out his hand again, taking mine and squeezing it. His fingers are long and strong, and calluses like my own roughen the tips. I’m Dylan.

Chapter Two

I race to my locker at school the next morning, not even pausing to stash my violin, with its newly tuned E-string, in the music room. It’s early, and I have to wait almost ten minutes before Laura wanders down the hallway toward me, clutching an extra-large coffee. I duck into the stream of sleepy-eyed students to meet her.

She jumps when I grab her shoulder and drag her toward our lockers. Sacha? How come you’re not practicing?

I ignore her question. What are you doing this weekend?

She shrugs, giving me a puzzled glance as she spins her lock. I don’t know. Why? You didn’t get more tickets to the opera did you? She frowns and a suspicious look flashes across her face. I’m not going with you if you did.

No. I wave her suggestion away. As if I’d ever waste opera tickets on her again after she snored through the whole second half of La Boheme. I met this guy yesterday, and he said he’ll put my name on the door for a show at Catacombs. I need you to come with me.

Laura slams her locker shut and stares at me, one hand held up in front of her. She tosses her thick, dark hair away from her face. Whoa! Hold up a minute. She places her palm on my forehead. Are you okay? Are you even Sacha? What did you do with my friend?

Laura! I swat her away. You’re not helping.

She laughs and takes a noisy slurp of coffee. Okay, okay. But you do know Catacombs is a rock club, right? Like, rock music?

I know that. It’s not like I’ve never listened to rock music before. My face heats up as I say it. I’ve heard rock music, in stores and on other people’s radios and stuff, but I’ve never really listened to it. Not the way I listen to Mozart or Prokofiev. Popular music always seemed so simple compared with the music I listen to, so easy to get caught in without thinking. But what Dylan played yesterday wasn’t simple at all, and I haven’t stopped thinking about it. Maybe I’ve been kind of a snob.

Laura gives me one of her looks, like she knows I’m lying. She does know I’m lying. We’ve been friends since preschool and there isn’t much about me she doesn’t know. So, who’s the guy? Where’d you meet him?

At the music store. I broke my last E-string while I was practicing after school yesterday. He was playing guitar in the store and… Well, Laura, it kind of blew my mind. I try to recall what that massive wave of music sounded like, but my memory can’t do it justice, can’t distill that amazing music into mere words.

Okay. Laura drags the word out so it’s about thirteen syllables. What’s the band called?

Uh. I can’t believe I’ve forgotten it. Something about sidewalks?

Sidewalk Regrets? She stares at me again, her brown eyes so wide they look like they’re about to pop right out of her face.

Yeah. Have you heard of them?

Jesus, Sacha. Anyone who hasn’t been living under a rock’s heard of them. They’re the biggest thing to hit this town in—well, the biggest thing to hit this town. Period. My brother is totally into them.

That’s enough to strike terror into my heart. Whenever I go to Laura’s, the noise spilling through Robbie’s door is unholy. It’s not music in any real sense of the word, just a barrage of discordant noise droning along with no discernible beginning or end. If Dylan’s band is like that… No way. Dylan’s band won’t be like that. They can’t be. Not with the magic I heard from him yesterday. Once again, I try to recall what excited me so much, but I can only grasp the overall impression of it, not individual notes or chords or themes.

So, will you come with me on Saturday? I just want her to say yes, to commit before I chicken out. No way am I going alone. Too far out of my element.

She raises her eyebrows. You really want to go? You’ll probably hate it.

Maybe. But what I heard yesterday… My eyes close as I try to drag back the power and passion of what he played, the way it wormed through my insides, seeking and finding small nuggets of me to steal.

Well, sure. Okay. It’s not like I had any big plans or anything. I bet Robbie’s going, so we can probably get a ride.

Thanks, Laura. The bell rings, making me jump. I’ve been so focused on Dylan and getting to hear him again, I’ve forgotten we’re at school.

****

I leave the house early on Saturday, sliding through the kitchen to the back door. Mom catches me with my hand on the knob.

Sacha? Are you going somewhere?

Uh. Yeah. I’m staying the night at Laura’s. I told you. I give her what I hope is an exasperated look.

She returns it. You never said anything about staying at Laura’s. Don’t you have a workshop tomorrow at the University?

She knows I do. My color-coded schedule of classes, competitions, workshops, and rehearsals is taped to the fridge where I always keep it. It’s not until three, Mom. I’ll be home in the morning. I try not to sound impatient or anxious, even though my palms are sweating at the thought she might make me stay home. I have to go to this concert. I don’t know why, but it’s the most important thing in the world right now. Far more important than a workshop, even if it is with Franz Heimler.

Come on, Dorothy. Dad pushes past me, shaking his gardening gloves over the steps before entering the kitchen. It’s Saturday night. She had a lesson this morning and I’ve heard her practicing all afternoon. Don’t you think she deserves a night off?

I could kiss him. I would if he wasn’t covered in lawn-clippings and mud.

Mom frowns. You need to be on the ball tomorrow. It wasn’t easy to get you into that workshop, you know.

I know. I dart across the room to peck her cheek.

The Chopin’s sounding good. Dad runs his hands under the faucet in the sink. I’m not sure I like the other one quite so much.

It’s Shostakovich.

Ah. I never liked him. Too unpredictable.

It’s hard, but I kind of like it. I lean against the doorframe and watch Dad dry his dripping fingers on the dishtowel. Good thing Mom’s still looking my way or he’d be in trouble. The dishtowel is for dishes and the hand towel for hands. Mom’s strict about stuff like that. Who am I kidding? She’s strict about everything.

She clears her throat. Make sure you and Laura don’t stay up all night giggling or you’ll be no good tomorrow. At Chopin or Shostakovich. You can’t afford to be sloppy in front of Mr. Heimler. He’ll notice any slip in your technique.

I’ll make sure we go to sleep at a ‘reasonable hour’. Promise. I roll my eyes as I parrot her favorite phrase and cross my heart the way I used to when I was a little kid. She laughs, shooing me out the door. I leap down the steps and hurry around the house, sucking in gusts of air untainted by the deception drifting through the kitchen. Who knew lying was so hard?

Laura’s mother ushers me through the door and points me toward Laura’s room. I let myself in and find her in front of the mirror, a mascara wand clasped between her fingers. Bass thuds through the floorboards from Robbie’s room next door.

She finishes coating her lashes before spinning to face me, her mouth turning down as she takes in my outfit. "What are you wearing?"

I glance at my floral skirt and plain white blouse. What’s wrong with this?

She rolls her eyes. Oh, nothing. If you’re going to visit your grandmother. Come on, Sacha. It’s a rock club. You can’t go dressed like that.

I like this skirt.

You want this guy to actually notice you, right? And not because you look forty.

Okay, then. What do you suggest? I run my eyes over her outfit: skinny black jeans, boots, and a red t-shirt with the neck stretched so wide it droops to reveal her shoulder, a lacy black bra-strap climbing over it. With her dark hair loose around her shoulders and the dramatic makeup, she appears wild and untamed. It’s not a look I could ever pull off.

Laura dives into her closet and I hear her rummaging around, hangers clanking an irregular tattoo. When she appears again, she has a mountain of clothes piled in her arms. After tossing them on the bed, she sorts through them, holding things up one by one and scrutinizing them before casting them aside.

Here. She flings a skirt at me and follows it with another scrap of material. Put those on. You can keep the tights. It would be better if they were fishnets, but they’ll do.

I slide out of my own skirt and into hers, which is about six inches shorter. I tug it down as far as it will go, but there’s still a vast expanse of exposed thigh. Thank God for the tights. The other garment defies logic. I know it’s a shirt of some description, but no matter which way I hold it, I can’t figure out how to put it on.

Like this. Laura leaps across the room and pulls it over my head, adjusting it so it sits the way she thinks it should. There. Now you look like you’re going somewhere cool. Let me just do something with your hair.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m allowed to look in the mirror. The girl looking back at me bears some resemblance to the one I saw in the mirror at home, but not much. My legs look like they go for miles beneath the short hem of the fitted purple skirt. The shirt is made of layers and layers of whisper-thin material that float and drape around me in a cloud of charcoal gray and black. Underneath all that, my worn black boots look shabby and wrong. This outfit needs stilettos or something.

Do you have any better shoes? I tug at my hair, letting a few blonde strands fall loose from the messy knot she’s made high on my head.

Are you kidding me? We’re going to a club. Boots are perfect. Your feet will get stomped on. You look hot. You should wear makeup more often.

I do wear makeup. I study my face, liking the way she’s made my eyes appear bigger and greener and accentuated the fullness of my lower lip. I look older, maybe even … sexy?

Laura slings her purse over her shoulder and slicks another layer of scarlet lipstick across her mouth. Real makeup, she says. Not that natural, nude crap you use. What’s the point of makeup if you can’t see it?

I don’t bother to reply. We’ve been having the same argument for years. It’s a miracle we’ve managed to stay friends as long as we have. Laura and I are almost total opposites in every way. But then, don’t the different poles of magnets stick together?

I remember the day we met, on our first day of kindergarten. She joined all the big kids in riding the long slide snaking down the slope from the upper playground to the lower one. I stood by the fence and watched her hurl herself down, skirt flying up in her face. I wanted to have a go too, but every time I edged into the line, a bigger kid shoved me aside or jumped in front of me. Laura grabbed my arm and dragged me to the top with her, making me sit, and shoving me off before I had a chance to chicken out at how long and steep the slide was from this angle. And she’s done that for me ever since. I would never have been to a college party, tried a beer, or giggled through a porno if she hadn’t given me a shove.

I sneak a final peek at my reflection in the mirror, dropping myself a wink before we step out the door. It makes me giggle nervously. I don’t know if I can live up to this sexy look.

Chapter Three

A queue snakes from the Catacombs door and winds up the block. In the blue-white streetlights, I can see my breath and hope we don’t have to wait too long out here. I glance at Laura, but she strides past the line and heads for the entrance, her brother trailing behind. He stops several times to slap hands with people or sneak drags off cigarettes. He seems to know everyone. Which isn’t that surprising, I guess. It’s not a big town, and there can only be a finite number of people who like this kind of music. I hope I’m in that number. My palms are damp and I wipe them on my skirt. I don’t know what I’ll do if I hate the band. But I won’t hate them. Not if they play the way Dylan did the other day.

I grab hold of Laura’s arm. Wow, there are a lot of people. Shouldn’t we get in line?

Didn’t you say your name was on the list? We don’t have to wait in line like these losers. We’re like VIPs. Laura giggles. I shrug and follow. She’s the one who knows this stuff.

Long before we reach the entrance, I hear the heavy thud of drums and bass. My heart nestles into the base of my throat.

They’ve already started? I poke Laura’s side. I told you we should’ve left earlier.

Relax, why don’t you? There’s always at least one support act. Sidewalk won’t go on until at least ten, probably eleven. I think someone has a little crush… Laura waggles her eyebrows.

Don’t be stupid. It’s not a crush. My cheeks pound with blood and I know I’m blushing. I only talked to the guy for about three minutes.

Ahhh… Love at first sight. How romantic.

Laura.

Kidding, okay? She holds up her hands to keep me from slapping her. Love at first sight is something that only exists in cheesy romance novels. C’mon. Let’s go inside. It’s cold out here. Robbie!

We sidle up to the door where a short woman with a lot of facial piercings sits on a high stool. Her face looks like a dartboard and I can’t help staring at the way light glints off rings in her eyebrows, lips, cheek, and nose. Didn’t that hurt?

Ten bucks. She yawns, holding out her hand without looking at us.

My friend’s name is on the door list, Laura says.