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Aaron’s eyes widened.
The Black boy blinked, clearly surprised.
“Is that okay?”
The two kids looked at each other, then back at Aaron. It was the Black kid who said, “We’re not very good.”
“I’mnot very good,” Aaron muttered, a dull flush coloring his narrow face. “You’reamazing.”
The other kid flashed a wide, warm smile at Aaron. “You’re getting better. It just takes practice.”
Aaron jerked a shoulder in a shrug, then darted another look at Travis. “If we’re not going to break your eardrums or anything, I guess you can listen. If you want.” He lifted a hand back to the guitar strings, then paused. “This is Booker.”
“Quite the name,” Travis commented.
The boy grinned, some of the tension draining from his shoulders. “Yeah. Hell of a namesake, huh? Booker Darius Howard Phillips, after Booker T. Washington, my dad, and my mom’s dad. I don’t know which one of them is going to be the hardest inspiration to live up to, either.”
Judging by the kindness and earnestness Travis had seen in the smile he’d given Aaron, he doubted the kid would have any trouble forging his own path there. “Something tells me you’re going to do just fine.”
Now the boy’s smile turned bashful and he jerked his gaze away and focused on Aaron. “Start from the beginning.”
The music started again.
Loud.
Booker definitely had skills, both the keyboard and singing, although Travis wasn’t certain what sort of music they were making—indie grunge? Was that a thing? He had no idea.
Every now and then, discordant twangs from the guitar would break the melody they were trying to attain and he studied Aaron’s hands on the guitar, remembered when he and Trey had been learning to play, determined to keep up with Zane back when his oldest brother had been doing the same.
He considered making a suggestion, but after a moment, reconsidered. He’d check on something first, then maybe.
Just as the chords started to die down, the door to the garage blew open and a tall, rangy boy with dark brown hair and intense brown eyes came storming in. Aaron still had his head bent intently over the guitar and Booker’s eyes were closed as he sang.
Travis shoved away from the frame of the garage door but didn’t get there in time to keep the kid from yanking the amp’s plug from the wall.
“Enough with that shit!”
