Twenty-Eight
TWENTY-EIGHT
WE CAN’T HAVE THINGS IN COMMON. THAT WOULD RUIN THE VIBE.
I’ve started drumming, not always in a rage-y way, every afternoon before doors. Some of the crew have seen me, but no one seems too bothered by it. It levels me out in a way nothing else does. Some people do yoga. Some meditate. I drum.
Today when I walk out onto the stage, two drum kits are set up in front of the Sparrow backdrop. The new one is a Yamaha set which isn’t used for shows since Sparrow has an endorsement with Pearl. I can’t imagine why the crew would set out two drum sets but figure they’ll be taking it away soon enough.
I sit down at Mateo’s kit and pull out some sticks. Before I can hit the first downbeat, I sense someone else on stage with me.
“What’s up, Goldie.”
Kick’s sitting at the Yamaha kit, sticks in hand, close-lipped grin on his face.
I rest my chin on the tip of a drumstick and attempt a glare that is definitely coming off as me fighting a giant smile. “What are you doing up here?”
We haven’t really talked about anything that’s happened the last few shows—Don’s offer, the possibility of becoming a band, the way we brazenly flirted with each other in front of thousands of people at the Chicago show.
Cass was right, smoke did come out of the internet. Cheddar nearly had a fit screaming about numbers and trends and growth percentages. Our signing line has grown longer every single night. We’ve kept the flirting routine going on stage, but off stage, maintained our friendly rivalry.
Kick shrugs. “Thought I’d come see what you’re made of.”
I sit up straighter, ready for the challenge he’s obviously proposing.
“This is supposed to be my private drum time. I mean, do you even play?”
“Oh, come on. You’re not scared of a little competition, are you?”
He’s bouncing on his stool like he just instigated a round of chicken in the swimming pool, not a drum-off on an arena stage. No matter. I’m ready. I’m always ready.
I throw my chin in the air, a subtle acceptance of his challenge.
“I won’t go easy on you.”
“You never do.”
Without preamble I launch into my favorite drum fill—a complicated rhythm with triplet-fills and double kick flourishes. It’s technical and precise and, for someone who doesn’t really play, very, very difficult. When I’m done, I point one of my sticks at Kick in challenge.
He throws me a big toothy smile and proceeds to play the same fill. Beat for beat. Perfectly. I can’t decide if I’m more irritated or impressed.
I play another fill, a showy number that’s all drama with big swings and stick spins and an abundance of cymbal crashes, hoping Kick is more of a technical drummer than a showboat.
By the end, my heart’s racing and beads of sweat have popped up across my forehead.
Kick rolls his shoulders and spends a few seconds in concentration before launching into the combination, playing it like a pro, his arms flying over the high tom and the floor tom, his cymbal crashes powerful and dramatic.
When he finishes, he takes his time looking at me, slowly rolling his head to the side, like he’s sure I’ll be irritated.
“Where’d you learn to play like that?” I’m doing my best to hide how impressed I am but feel sure it’s written all over my transparent face.
“I could ask you the same thing. You’re badass.”
We’re both breathing heavy and sweating, glowing from the inside out.
“You have some earbuds?”
He leans back and fishes a pair out of his front jeans pocket. I connect his pair to my phone so we can listen to the same song.
“Do you know Nirvana’s ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit?’”
He squints at me. “Would I be allowed to call myself a musician if I didn’t?”
I queue up the song and as soon as I hit the downbeat, he’s right there with me, drumming in sync. Together, we plow through the song, our duet rocketing through the entire arena. We keep checking in with each other during the song, watching each other, staying in sync. Playing beside Kick, my beats hit harder, my timing perfect.
We play through all my rage drum favorites—Metallica “Enter Sandman” and Black Sabbath “Paranoid” and Foo Fighters “Everlong”—completely aligned on each song. I can’t stop watching him, his arms flying, his shoulders flexing under his tight t-shirt. He looks like a fantasy, like a poster teenage me would hang on her wall of a sweaty, sexy drummer going all out.
I half-wonder if I look like he does. If Kick finds me posterworthy.
At the end of “Everlong,” we notice we’ve drawn a crowd. A handful of crew guys are watching from Kick’s side of the stage and clap when we stop playing. Emily’s there too, phone up, recording us, a satisfied smile on her face .
“Show’s over,” I say, getting up from Mateo’s kit and bending over to wipe my sweaty face on the bottom of my Celine Dion t-shirt.
“Hey,” Kick touches my forearm softly as I move past him. His skin is hot, his fingertips searing into my skin. “That was really fun.”
My eyes drift from his face to his shoulders to his lips to his eyes. “Maybe we can do it again sometime.”
He holds my gaze, saying absolutely yes with his eyes.
Emily smirks at me as I’m coming down the stairs. “You two make my job so easy.”
“You’re the one who’s been feeding photos and videos to that TikToker.”
“Just doing my job, Mari.”
I stare at her, looking for the hidden meaning. “But why be so secretive about it? Think about how I feel, seeing videos of myself I didn’t even know were being filmed.”
She’s tapping out a message on her phone as she says, “A good lesson to learn as early as possible is you have to feed the machine what it wants. I’m helping you do that.”
“Helping me or helping yourself?”
She shakes her head, done with the conversation. “The sooner you stop resisting, the better off you’ll be. Look at Kick,” she says, motioning behind me where he’s happily chatting with the crew guys, “you don’t hear him complaining, do you?”
When I look back at her, she’s typing on her phone, probably sending the video of me and Kick drumming to her TikTok contact. Even though she says she’s doing this for me and Kick, I know there’s more she’s not saying. There’s no way the end game doesn’t somehow benefit her.