There. Better.
Sal strode back in, almost slipping as soon as he saw me. We hadn’t waxed the floor or spilled anything, so I wondered why he was so clumsy on his feet. “Oh, hey,” he said.
“Hey. Show me the magic?” I offered him the motion sensor drumsticks.
He flushed and grinned, dragging the drum set over. “I’ll try.”
“I believe in you,” I said.
He flopped into the seat beside me, our thighs flush, and arched his eyebrow at me.
My legs sizzled, and I shrugged. “What? I do.”
“Let’s see if you’re any good on these keys, honey.” He nudged my arm and selected a song.
Honey. That time, it was definitely a joke. I chuckled even though it wasn’t funny. Instead of tangling, my guts skipped rope on this silliness. I usually opted for guitar or keyboard, but maybe one day, maybe with Sal, I could sing.
18
Bonus Round
I flung my arm in a windmill for extra flair points. “Come on, this is our bonus chorus,” I chided.
“If I draw back anymore, I’m gonna hit you in the face.” Sal laughed.
Our score counter flared white, then burst for an encore. I focused on each key-combination in rapid succession. My hands ached from clenching the guitar handle so hard. Sal bit his lip and rocked, easily smacking the pads to the beat. It didn’t always react right, though. Maybe two out of every three smacks counted. Our encore got cut short because one pad wasn’t registering and kept throwing off our chain bonus. The audience booed us off the stage.
“What a rip,” he chided the game.
“That’s cheating,” I told the screen. “Or at the very least, buggy. Maybe I can repair the pad?”
“It’s okay, I still had fun.” He wiped his forehead and sat back. “What did you think?”
“I just said, it’s buggy.”
“Of my drumming.” He gestured to the set.
“Ah, yes. What you lack in skill you make up for in enthusiasm,” I teased.
His jaw hung open. “My skill is fine. You just said it’s buggy,” he protested, miming like he was going to smack my thigh with the sticks.
Laughing, I fenced him away with the fake guitar neck. “I was kidding. You were great. At least for the game. I can’t wait to hear you play real drums.”
“Classic rock probably isn’t your thing,” he said, setting the sticks aside.
“I wouldn’t be there for the music. I’d be there for the company.” I fiddled with the fake guitar. Should I give him my instrument, or were we done playing?
His throat bobbed. “Fair. But, you know, even Ash doesn’t come to all my shows. Not that we have a lot to begin with. We’re just a basement band.”
I set the guitar aside and sat beside him on the couch. “What’s a basement band?”
“We play other people’s songs and hang out in my bud’s basement.” He propped his elbows on his knees and fidgeted with his goatee.
“That sounds nice,” I said.
“Not…I don’t know, pathetic?” He chuckled without humor and peeked at me.
Why would that be pathetic? “I’m a basement robot tech. That doesn’t make me any less impressive or passionate. Plus, you’re doing something creative with your friends. There’s nothing embarrassing about that, even if you don't get gigs.”
