I'd managed to convince myself that Dumb was about a college fund, a simple business decision. But kneeling among those damp weeds, trying to make sense of everything around me, I realized that it had become so much more than that. My college fund was a veneer too, and everything beneath was slowly bubbling to the surface. There was nothing I could do to stop it. And I wasn't even sure I wanted to anymore.

"Come on," said Ed, helping me up. His hand was warmer than mine, and he didn't let go until we got back to the sidewalk, where Finn addressed us with all the enthusiasm of an undertaker: "It's true. Hendrix's house used to be here, but this isn't where he grew up. In fact, you're not going to believe what I'm about to tell you." That really got everyone's attention. "Jimi Hendrix grew up in a small house a few blocks from here, but that land was sold to a developer to build condominiums. Some fans arranged to save his house, and the city let them move it here. But after a few years, the city wanted to sell this plot, so they told the group to move the house again. Just as the city was about to demolish it, a Hendrix fan picked up the house, stuck it on a truck, and drove it away."

There was stunned silence while we looked at one another, waiting to see who'd bust out laughing first. It turned out to be Tash.

"You are s.h.i.tting me," she said with customary eloquence.

"Tash, I am so not s.h.i.tting you," Finn a.s.sured her.

"So where is it now?" I asked.

Finn shook his head. "I don't know exactly, although the guy I spoke to said he thought it was across the road from the Hendrix memorial, which is in Greenwood Memorial Park in Renton."

"Renton? That's way the other side of the lake!"

Tash stepped forward. "Yes, it is. And we're going there now."

Ten minutes later, we joined the rush hour traffic heading east on I-90 across Lake Washington, fighting a stiff breeze that whipped waves against the bridge. I peered in the rearview mirror occasionally, but no one on the backseat was talking. Whatever thoughts we were lost in, we were lost in together.

Ed turned the Seattle map over and examined the streets on the eastern side of the lake, his finger drifting over Bellevue and down to Renton. I could see him tracing our route, but it was several miles before he pointed to an exit sign and I pulled off the highway. As we turned to face another long, grueling incline, I could feel Immovable Immovable vibrating oddly, and I almost felt sorry for her. Hilly Seattle is a cruel city for a car that should have been retired years ago. vibrating oddly, and I almost felt sorry for her. Hilly Seattle is a cruel city for a car that should have been retired years ago.

After another mile I saw a cemetery on the right-nothing but headstones and manicured lawns, flanked by evergreens. I signaled to turn, but then Finn jutted between the front seats and pointed to the left instead. I didn't have time to ask why, and as soon as I'd crossed the oncoming traffic and realized he'd directed me into a trailer park, I wanted to curse. But by then he was telling me to stop.

I jammed on the brakes and glared at him, waiting for an explanation. Finn just pointed past me to the shack outside my window: a tiny, dilapidated clapboard house surrounded by a flagging chain-link fence.

"You don't mean ..." I began, but Finn was nodding.

I dragged myself out of the car and felt my entire body deflate. Tufts of weeds filled holes in the cracked asphalt, and I kicked up stones and dust as I stepped toward the fence. I laced my fingers through the chain-links, icy-cold and battered. The house inside had been painted once, but it was flaking off. In its place, someone had spray-painted graffiti, but that only made the shack appear more neglected.

I was able to walk the entire perimeter of the fence in about twenty seconds. I did another circuit, hoping somehow that I might mysteriously stumble upon the rest of the house-the part where a family could live without being on top of one another the whole time. But there was nothing more to see. The house was tiny, smaller by half than Josh and Will's garage. Whatever the source of Jimi Hendrix's genius, it evolved in a place of poverty.

The rush of cars on the busy road beside us provided a wall of white noise, drowning out the crunch of footsteps and the scratch of voices. Somehow it felt right, so I closed my eyes and savored the peacefulness. When I opened them again, Tash stood beside me, slouching, like the bristling energy that kept her alive had seeped out somewhere between the car and the fence. She wrapped her arm around me and leaned her head on my shoulder.

"He grew up in there," she said, her words distinct so close to my ear.

I nodded.

Tash took a deep breath, exhaled hard. "The greatest rock guitarist in history grew up in this house. Do you understand that?"

I didn't, of course, not really; but at the same time, I did. I got the notion of someone transforming the way an instrument could be played just like I got the way that Andy Warhol and Jackson Pollack could change art, and William Faulkner and Ernest Hemingway could change literature. I told her so.

Tash snorted. "Yeah, well . . . let me know if their houses are falling apart, stuck on the edge of a trailer park, okay?"

"It's not fair," I agreed.

"No, it's not. His home should be a museum. It's a holy relic. It's ..." She squeezed her left hand through a gap in the fence, willed herself a few inches closer. "Nothing's sacred, you know?"

"I know." I wrapped my arm over her shoulder and pulled her closer. "How did he die?"

Tash cleared her throat. "Drug overdose. He was only twenty-seven, same as Kurt Cobain. Can you believe it? Twenty-seven years old." She bit her lip. "What would you do if you knew you only had nine more years?"

I stared straight ahead, tried not to blink as my eyes dried out in the cold wind and the house became blurry. The sun was setting, casting a warm glow around the place. It reminded me that we'd turn the clocks back the next night, and if we hadn't visited now we'd have missed out on this scene. I didn't want to miss out on moments like this.

"If I only had nine more years," I said, "I'd make the most of every day. Every single one."

Silence again. We kept looking at the house, like we were expecting something to happen-a miracle, perhaps. I thought about all those hours Jimi had spent playing air guitar on a broom. I tried to picture the moment in eighth grade when he received his first guitar, a banged-up instrument with only one string. I imagined him practicing inside those thin walls, in a s.p.a.ce so small the only way to be alone, to lose yourself, was through music.

How did he keep playing when money got really tight, and there was no more food in the house? How did he play on when it became clear he was flunking out of school? Was music really enough when the whole world seemed to be collapsing around him? Or was it just the only thing left?

I felt Tash shudder against me, and I knew she was fighting back tears. I would have cried too, but then I pictured Jimi bringing his guitar to life, his whole body transported by the pure power of music. And he didn't look sad or regretful-he brimmed with energy, savoring every stolen moment of untainted joy. Live in the moment Live in the moment, he seemed to be saying. And for once, I heard the words perfectly.

Live in the moment. I could do that.

We could all do that.

CHAPTER 34.

Tash remained in her silent funk all the way home. Ed had tried to convince her it was a promising sign that fans had bothered to save the house at all, but for once he should have let it go. Tash was beyond seeing the silver lining, and I understood why.

I dropped Ed and Kallie off first. Tash said her mom wouldn't be home until much later, so Finn suggested she head back with us. She even seemed relieved. I guess she didn't want to be left alone with her thoughts.

The house was almost completely dark when we walked in, the only sign of life an overpowering odor of Chinese food. I switched on a light and lifted the lid on each carton, uncovering every variety of meat cooked in every conceivable way. Apart from fried rice (with pork, of course), there wasn't a single grain or vegetable to be found. Dad clearly didn't want the ma.s.sacre of innocent vegetables on his conscience.

The Vaughan family-reintroducing scurvy, one child at a time!

We ate straight from the containers. After that, we went down to the bas.e.m.e.nt, where Dad was watching the History Channel. The first thing I noticed was his clothes: T-shirt and jeans. True, he'd ironed a sharp crease down the front of the jeans, but it was progress.

He raised his eyebrows as I came into view, which made it difficult for him to express his shock when he caught sight of Tash.

"Dad, this is Tash," I said.

Dad began to extend his hand, then thought better of it, either because he figured she wasn't the hand-shaking type, or because he was afraid she'd rip it off his arm. In the end he settled for a curt nod that looked weirdly self-conscious.

"You're later than I thought you'd be. Just as well your mom is out."

"We wouldn't have been late otherwise," I said.

Dad chuckled, apparently impressed by our cunning. "Where have you been?"

"Jimi Hendrix's house."

That clearly got his attention. "The one in Renton?"

"Uh, yeah. . . . How do you know that?"

Dad waved off my question. "Hendrix was the greatest. The things he could do, the way he transformed rock guitar into something angry and poetic all at once . . . it was miraculous."

I nodded, but I couldn't help wondering if we were getting a glimpse of the real real Ryan Vaughan at last. It was already the longest conversation we'd had in months. Ryan Vaughan at last. It was already the longest conversation we'd had in months.

Tash and Finn sidled up, and together we sat down on the sofa next to Dad's armchair.

"Jimi played at Woodstock in the summer of 1969," continued Dad. "It was a crazy thing-three days of music and drugs and rain. He played near the end, and most of the crowd had given up and gone home, but his set was the most amazing of all." Dad looked up, suddenly remembering that he had an audience. "You've seen it, right?"

Tash and Finn nodded, but I shook my head. Dad frowned, like he couldn't believe he'd been so negligent. He walked over to the far corner of the den and began rifling through a cardboard box. Eventually he pulled out a few LPs, and a DVD.

He handed me the LPs to look at while he put on the DVD. They had cool covers too. The t.i.tle of one-Are You Experienced -was written in a kind of psychedelic bubble lettering, wrapped under a photo of three guys in flamboyant outfits (aka: the Jimi Hendrix Experience). Apart from Tash, I'd never personally known anyone who could get away with wearing such outrageous clothes, and it made me feel kind of envious. -was written in a kind of psychedelic bubble lettering, wrapped under a photo of three guys in flamboyant outfits (aka: the Jimi Hendrix Experience). Apart from Tash, I'd never personally known anyone who could get away with wearing such outrageous clothes, and it made me feel kind of envious.

When I'd cycled through the LP covers, I realized that Dad was still kneeling in front of the DVD player, transfixed, unable to contemplate the long journey back to his armchair. So I watched the TV too, where the real Jimi Hendrix had taken center stage, presumably live at Woodstock. He wore bell-bottom jeans and a white jacket with ta.s.sels, topped off with a red bandana. He should have looked funny, but instead he just looked incredibly cool.

Dad spun around. "Listen to this," he told me, his hands shaking with excitement.

I could have pointed out that what he was asking was difficult, to say the least, but I just wanted to hang out with this new Ryan Vaughan for a little longer, so I nodded. I wondered if Mom ever saw the version of Dad that emerged during his date nights with Jimi.

Jimi was playing solo now, the crowd cheering wildly. I studied his hands, but the noise coming from the old speakers beside the TV meant nothing to me, gave no hint of the music emerging from his guitar. I'd contented myself with watching Dad instead, when I thought I caught a few notes of "The Star-Spangled Banner." It couldn't have been that, of course, not at Woodstock, but then I recognized a little more of the national anthem. Dad lowered the volume, turned to me and smiled.

"Can you believe it?" he asked, his words clear and slow, like he really needed me to understand. "To do an improvisation on 'The Star-Spangled Banner' at that time, in that place. . . . Hendrix always said he thought it just sounded nice, but it was during the Vietnam War, and his improvisation was so tortured. His guitar spoke for a generation that day."

Finn had stopped looking at the TV now, and his eyes were fixed on Dad instead. Dad was changing before our eyes, and I'm not sure either of us knew what to make of it.

Eventually Dad shrugged, smiled, and turned the volume back up, communing with Jimi once again. The music became denser, fuzzier, but knowing what he was playing helped me. And because it mattered so much to Dad, I concentrated as hard as I could on Jimi and his guitar, as they sang, scratched, and clawed their way through "The Star-Spangled Banner" like it was part patriotic hymn, part heartrending cry. He seemed to sculpt the sound with his bare hands, pulling and shivering a lever, prolonging the agony or ecstasy or whatever was coming out of the instrument at that moment. And although I couldn't make out most of what he did, I could tell by the faces of the crowd, and the faces of Finn, Tash, and Dad, that what he was doing was utterly compelling, and positively transcendent.

As suddenly as it began, the improvisation ended. The whole band rejoined their leader, and the crowd drifted back toward insanity. Immediately Tash unzipped her guitar case and pulled out her guitar, and Finn did the same. Dad grabbed the remote and raised the volume until the speakers rocked on their stands and the walls began to shake. He leaned back and laughed with delight as Tash and Finn jumped up and down on the spot, strumming their unplugged guitars. Then he joined them, and suddenly there was a trio of Hendrix impersonators, egging each other on to ever greater feats of imaginary dexterity. For the first time I saw Tash laughing out loud, basking in her own personal heaven. And Finn was right there with her, matching her step for step, gazing at her like no one else existed.

My breath caught as the scene came into sudden focus. Finn wasn't interested in Kallie-never had been. It was Tash. It was all about Tash. I couldn't believe I hadn't seen it before.

Just then, Mom appeared at the bottom of the stairs, her expression caught between amazement and puzzlement. No one but me even noticed her.

Is your father really doing what I think he's doing? she signed, stifling a laugh. she signed, stifling a laugh.

Absolutely. He's an air guitar genius. Didn't you know?

Mom snorted, but it seemed to require effort. Frankly, she looked exhausted. What are they listening to? What are they listening to?

I was going to finger-spell Jimi Hendrix, Jimi Hendrix, but I just lifted the cover to one of Dad's LPs instead. but I just lifted the cover to one of Dad's LPs instead.

She nodded, but then her eyebrows shot up, and I knew she'd spotted Tash. She didn't seem as amused anymore.

Is Grace sleeping through this? she signed. she signed.

When I didn't respond she stalked up to Dad and waved. "Is Grace sleeping through this?" she shouted. "Where's the baby monitor?"

Dad looked like someone rudely awoken from a very happy dream. He shut off the TV, ran across the room, and turned on the monitor with fumbling hands. Suddenly there was a new sound, as all five lights on the monitor sprang to life.

Dad sprinted across the den toward the staircase, but Mom stopped him with an outstretched arm. "Don't bother," she snapped. "I'll do it myself."

Mom spun around and left the deflated mob in her wake. Dad sighed twice, then shook his head and trailed after her.

Tash knelt down and pushed her guitar back into its case.

"You should stay," said Finn, placing a hand on her shoulder. "I-I'd like my mom to meet you."

Tash peered up scornfully. "Why?"

Finn's eyes darted around the room. "Just 'cause ..."

She picked up the case and swung it across her back. "This was cool. Thanks."

"You need a ride home," blurted Finn as a last resort.

Tash leaned forward and planted a kiss on Finn's cheek. "I'll be okay, Finn. I've got a bus pa.s.s."

Then it was just Finn and me, scurrying around in a last-ditch attempt to clean up the evidence before the interrogation began.

Sure enough, Dad returned a minute later, slumping onto a bar stool and closing his eyes tightly.

A couple minutes after that Mom arrived too, clutching a still hysterical Grace. She popped out a b.o.o.b and pulled the baby toward it, trying to counteract our neglect through a midnight snack. It seemed to work.

"What on earth were you thinking?" she asked finally.

Dad raised his hand. "I'm sorry. It was my fault."

"No, it's everyone's fault," corrected Mom. "You all know she's up there. Or did you just forget about her somehow?"

"We're sorry, honey. Okay?"

"No, it's not okay. Sorry doesn't make it right. All three of you chose to ignore her because it's easier that way. All so you can prance around the den pretending you're Jimi freaking Hendrix."

Finn shook his head. "We were just having fun, Mom."

"Wonderful. Some new girl comes over and suddenly our family's idea of fun is playing music loud enough to bust the walls, and neglecting the baby."

I could see Finn growing tense, his jaw clamped shut like he didn't quite trust himself to speak.

"You know who she is, Mom," I said calmly. "That's Tash. I told you about her."

"Frankly, I don't care what she's called."

Finn snorted. "I bet you don't. What is it-the green hair or the piercings?"

"Oh, you'd like it to be about that, wouldn't you?"

Dad stepped off his stool, knelt down beside Mom, and squeezed her arm rea.s.suringly. "Hang on, Lynn. Tash was very pleasant. This isn't her fault."