Sketch

38 - Emmy

Dedicated to jessiemegan6 for the sweet comments and votes :)  More Emmy and Sam in this one!

I follow Sam to his room and take a seat on his desk chair as he kicks piles of dirty clothes to the corner.

"Sorry," he says, hastily throwing a pair of boxers to the pile.

I shrug. "Don't think of me as a girl.  Think of me as your band-mate."

He smiles.  "I won't bother trying not to break wind in your presence then."  I snort as I laugh and his smile widens.  "Just like you won't try to act like a girl around me."

"I'll snort if I want to," I say.  "Besides, it's part of being imperfect, right?"

"Right."  He nods and crosses to his guitar.  It's red and shiny and new looking.  I don't have a clue about guitar makers so I don't know if it's a fancy one or not.  The one I used back home was Dad's old acoustic that he hasn't played since before Tabs and I were born.  He notices my gaze on his guitar.  "Birthday present last year.  My one is the old thing you tried to play at the recording studio."

"The black and white one?"

"Yeah.  It was my mum's.  I taught myself to play the guitar with it."

"Cool," I say.  "I cheated and had lessons at school."

He bites his lip before holding the expensive looking guitar out to me.  "Want to try?"

I shake my head.  "Not on something so breakable looking.  Maybe later."

"Okay, but make sure you say if inspiration strikes.  If your song's anything to go by, I reckon you've got real potential."

I hold a hand to my heart.  "A real compliment from Sam Merrick?  What is this?  Miracle day?"  I almost jump out of my skin when Sam's face splits in two with a grin.  It's his lovely smile from the wardrobe picture.  "And a smile," I add, before I can stop myself.

Sam taps his chin, his other hand gripping the guitar's neck.  "Sarcasm.  Gotta love the stuff."

"At least you get it," I say.  "Most people think I'm being rude."

"That's the beauty of sarcasm," Sam agrees.  "You can be rude and get away with it by assuring everyone it's a joke.  And as for the compliment, you deserve it.  If it wasn't for you we wouldn't have a song yet."

My spine tingles at his words.  "Thank you."

He moves to the desk I'm sitting beside and opens the drawer.  He riffles through papers and bottles of various sprays before he pulls out a guitar pick.  He sets it between his teeth as he hoists the guitar around his neck.  When he's settled it properly he takes the pick in his fingers and strums the strings.  

"Out of tune," I say.

"Wanna tune it?"

"Breakable object,"  I remind him.  "Besides, it's about time you did something.  You know, 'cause I wrote the song and everything."

He laughs a deep sound that seems to echo around the room.  "Touché."   He perches on the end of his bed opposite me and I watch as he fiddles with the guitar until he's happy that it's in tune.  "Ready?"  He looks up suddenly and I feel guilty, like I've been caught watching the way his brows are knitted in concentration, the tip of his tongue visible between his lips. 

I blush.  "Uh, I have no idea how to write music."  It's true.  I mean, I've messed around a bit before at home but this is different.  This is actually coming up with music for a real song that could be released to the public.  The thought makes me dizzy.