“Hey,” she calls out, voice dripping with flirtation. “You’re Koa, right? Hockey player?”
I don’t respond. Just keep walking toward the instructor.
Ms. Reyes is in her fifties, gray hair pulled into a bun, reading glasses perched on her nose. She’s sorting through sheet music when I approach.
“Koa.” She smiles. “Good to see you. How was your summer?”
“Fine.” I get straight to the point. “I need to talk about my schedule.”
“Of course. What’s going on?”
“Hockey practice starts October third. After that, I can only do Mondays or Tuesdays at night. That going to be a problem?”
She shakes her head. “Not at all. We’ll work around it. You’re one of our best drummers—we need you here.”
“Thanks.”
She gestures to the room. “Go ahead and warm up. We’ll start in ten.”
I head to the drum kit in the corner, away from the chattering singers. I adjust the stool, test the pedals, pick up the sticks. The weight feels right in my hands.
I start slow. Simple beats. Kick, snare, hi-hat. Then I pick up the tempo, let my hands fly, let the rhythm take over. Everything else fades—the voices, the stress, the constant calculation of who owes what and who needs to be reminded why crossing me is a bad idea.
It’s just me and the drums.
I lose myself in it.
I don’t know how long I’ve been playing when I feel someone standing next to me.
I stop, look up.
It’s one of the girls from earlier. Honey-brown hair, hazel eyes, tight shirt that shows off too much. She’s smiling like she just won something.
“You’re really good,” she says, leaning against the drum kit.
I set the sticks down, already annoyed.
“I’m in a band,” she continues, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “We’re looking for a drummer. You interested?”
“No.”
She pouts. Actually pouts. “Come on. We’re really good. We play gigs and everything.”
I stare at her. Brown eyes would’ve been better. Black hair would’ve been better. The look of defiance instead of this desperate need for my attention. This one wants to eat me alive, and I’m not into the easy ones. Easy pussy is easy pussy. I don’t want a pick-me girl.
I point across the room at my friend Derek, who’s messing around on the other drum set. “Ask him. He’ll be interested.”
Her face falls. “But—”
“Not interested,” I repeat, picking the sticks back up.
She huffs, walks away.
I go back to playing.
After club, I’m walking back to my dorm when Oxy catches up with me.
“Yo.” He falls into step beside me, hands in his pockets. “There’s a party this weekend.”
