Interlude
Tim
Eight years ago...
THE DRUMMER IS MISSING.
He’s often missing, so no one reacts when Mr. White calls out “Summers” at the start of band practice and no one responds. I know he’s here today. I saw him in algebra during third period, though he wasn’t paying attention to Mrs. Calhoun’s attempts to teach what a sine and cosine are. He was busy smirking at something, that curling smile I’ve noticed too often playing across his lips.
Not that I notice his lips, either. I just happened to notice today because it looked like he was up to something. Now, as usual, he’s cutting class.
It might not annoy me so much if he wasn’t so damn good . I also play drums in the high school band, but I’m nothing compared to Keannen. When he picks up those sticks, something happens that even Mr. White can’t explain, an explosion of sound that all the rest of us can do nothing but follow. It doesn’t matter how often he skips class or how little he practices. On the days when he does show up, this whole band is his.
Today, we’re just a normal high school band, just a bunch of kids stumbling through the same music high school bands have played forever. My heart isn’t really in it, and as a result I lag a step behind everyone else the whole time we play. Mr. White’s eyes slide toward me as he picks up the stuttering beat I bang out.
About halfway through the class period, I excuse myself for the bathroom. How can a guy who doesn’t even show up for practice be so much better than me at this? I try so hard, yet I’ll never catch up to Keannen, who’s probably off doing something illegal.
I leave the bathroom frustrated and take the long way back to toward the band room. The halls are empty in the middle of the class period. Outside, the sun beats down on the suburbs of Baltimore, scorching even though the school year has only just begun. I’m a junior now, so I’ve got two more years of watching Keannen effortlessly surpass me.
I sigh, pausing at a window and contemplating the sports fields outside it. I could leave too, I suppose. There’s nothing stopping me. It’s not like this door is locked. But I’m not like Keannen. I don’t have an edgy haircut and pitch black eyes and a leather jacket. I don’t sometimes come into school smelling like cigarettes and lob a cocky smirk at anyone who notices. In fact, I’m the complete opposite of that. I’m the nerd. I’ve never cut a class. I’ve rarely had a sick day. I get straight As and always have.
But when it comes to drumming, none of that matters.
I can study all I like, but I’ll never be a match for the raw talent pouring out of Keannen every time he picks up a drumstick.
I don’t know how long I stand at that window fuming over the unfairness of the universe, but eventually movement catches my eye. Dark hair and a leather jacket slipping under the bleachers in front of the football field.
My heart lurches. It’s him. He didn’t even go far, just waltzed outside. The entire class period, and he’s been a mere few feet away.
Indignation spurs me on. I’m shoving open the door and storming outside before I realize what I’m doing. I stomp across the parking lot and toward the athletic fields, then clamber under the bleachers. Cool shadows drape over me, and I stop to get my bearings.
Keannen stares at me, one dark eyebrow cocked.
He’s wearing his leather jacket despite the heat. Black jacket. Black jeans. Black T-shirt underneath. Black hair flopping over to one side. Piercing black eyes shining with mirth. And that crooked God damn smirk I can’t help noticing during class. After a beat of surprise, the smirk turns into a full-on smile, and he brings a lit cigarette to his mouth.
“Hey,” he says.
“What are you doing?” I say.
“Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that? Why aren’t you at practice, Freckles?”
“Why aren’t you at practice?”
Keannen shrugs a shoulder. “I wanted a smoke.”
Indignation floods through me in a torrent. Why doesn’t he care? If he tried at all he could be so much more than I’ll ever be. He could be incredible. He’s already incredible.
“Relax, Freckles,” he drawls. “You’re going to pop a blood vessel. Why don’t you go back inside like a good boy?”
His words throw fresh fuel on the resentment burning inside me. I stomp closer, and for an instant, Keannen actually looks surprised. That flicker of an expression shouldn’t feel so good, but it does, and I place myself almost toe-to-toe with him.
“Why do you skip so much?” I say.
“Cuz I feel like it.”
“But you’re good. You’re really good. Why don’t you go to practice? Everyone knows you’re the best drummer in the band.”
This time, the surprise is both more dramatic and longer lasting. Both eyebrows rise. His mouth falls open, the cigarette dangling from numb fingers. This can’t possibly be news to him. Does he seriously think anyone in that band can out-drum him? He drums circles around all of us on the rare occasions he bothers to try.
“What do you want, Freckles?” he says. “You’re annoying me now.”
“I want you to come back inside with me and drum.”
“Why? What’s it matter to you?”
“Because you’re good and you should be there. Because…” I stop short. Why did I chase him out here? Why does it make me so mad that he’s hiding under the bleachers instead of playing in a stupid high school band? Why did I make it my business that he cut class?
He takes another drag from his cigarette, those smirking lips closing around the tip, his cheeks hollowing as he sucks in, his eyes on mine. He exhales, blowing the smoke right in my face. I swat it away, but I find it far less annoying than I should. Instead of coughing, I’m thinking about the way his lips closed around the tip of the cigarette.
“Why do you do that?” I say, mostly to distract myself, to say something . “It’s super bad for you.”
“Yeah,” he says with a toothy smile. Then he leans closer, so close our noses almost touch. “But boys find it hot.”
Heat rushes up my neck and into my cheeks before I can stop it, and Keannen’s grin widens. From this close, it’s even prettier than those glimpses I sometimes get in class. Something about how his lips stretch to reveal his teeth twists things inside me that are rapidly melting into mush.
I’ve never heard anyone just say it, just say they like boys. I mean, I’ve heard girls say it sometimes, but I’ve never heard a guy say it. It’s not that anyone will be outright homophobic or something. It’s just … not something you say when you’re a guy in high school. Though, thinking back on it, it’s not a huge surprise. I’ve never seen Keannen pay attention to a girl, but every once in a while when he catches me glaring at him in class, he’ll wink in return. I thought he was messing with me, but what if…
I blink, but it does little to put my head back together or stop the heat searing my cheeks. I know Keannen can see it. He’s grinning like the Cheshire cat, and he’s barely backed off at all.
“That’s…” I manage, “that’s a really stupid reason.”
“Is it?” he says. “You’re here.”
Somehow, I burn even hotter. I know my eyes are wide. I know my face is bright red. I know there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it. A puddle forms in my gut, a molten soup where my organs should be.
Keannen swipes his thumb along my burning cheek. “Your freckles look cute when you blush.”
I’ve never thought about my freckles looking cute. Even Carly, the girl I kissed in second grade, never said anything about my freckles. I always figured they were pretty unremarkable. Lots of people have freckles. Mine aren’t special. But when Keannen touches my cheek like that, when he comments on them, it feels like I’ve got stardust on my cheeks instead of ordinary freckles.
Keannen flicks his cigarette aside and cups my cheek. His tongue flicks out, wetting his lips. My mind whirls, a thousand thoughts crashing into each other, but one rises above the fray: Holy shit. He’s going to kiss me.
I should reel away. I should push him back. He’s taller than me, but skinny. I could overpower him and get out of here.
I don’t.
I stand rooted to the spot, Keannen’s hand cool on my cheek, his thumb stroking as his eyes trace my own parted, shocked lips.
“Didn’t know you liked guys, Freckles,” he says, so close he has to lower his voice.
“I don’t,” I say.
“Damn, what a shame.”
Then he leans in, and those lips I’ve watched smirk through so many algebra classes are against mine. I reach up, but when my hands land on his chest, I don’t push him away. My fingers curl, clinging to him, maybe because I both can’t believe this is happening and dare not let it end.
Keannen’s mouth is sour from the cigarette, but I don’t care when those lips press firmly against mine and he sucks the breath right out of my lungs. Kissing Carly in second grade never felt like this. It felt like putting my mouth against a slightly damp gummy worm. Keannen’s mouth is different. Keannen’s mouth is hard and demanding. It’s fireworks. It’s nuclear bombs exploding in my brain. My eyes flutter shut, as though I need to narrow my senses to nothing but the mouth against mine. Without thinking, I kiss him back, pressing into the firmness of his lips, colliding into him like a comet careening into the earth. I can’t stop myself from falling, blazing hot as I streak toward an inevitable crash.
When Keannen pulls away, I waver, but at some point he put a hand on my waist. I don’t stop clinging to his shirt, keeping him close as we stand there breathlessly blinking at each other under the bleachers. My thoughts haven’t stopped tumbling like laundry in a dryer. I came out here in a rage, thinking I might drag him back inside, furious with him for cutting class when he’s the most talented drummer in the entire band. How did I suddenly end up kissing him?
Except it’s not sudden, a little voice inside me says. I know it’s not sudden, I just haven’t had to face it until now. All those smiles during class, the way I couldn’t look away from him, the way drumming beside him invariably throws me off. Keannen Summers has always had an effect on me, but I’ve buried it under anger and resentment, too afraid to acknowledge that it could be … this.
A shudder runs through me, fear chasing that last thought. My friends, my parents, my sisters. What would they say? What would they think? It’s so, so hard to focus on the judgment of others when Keannen is holding me and my mouth remembers the shape of his against it and my tongue tastes bitter and sweet all at once because of his cigarette.
“I think you might like guys, Freckles,” Keannen says.
I swallow. “If I say I do, do we get to do that again?”
I used to think Keannen’s smirk was harsh and cold, like a switchblade flicking out to threaten you, but right now, it’s just about the most beautiful thing in the world.
“Yeah,” he says. “We could do that again.”