“A kazoo?”
“Have you ever played one before?” he prompts.
“Nope.” And I’m not sure I want to.
“It’s easy. All you have to do is hold it to your lips, but instead of blowing air, you simply buzz like a bee.”
I frown. “You want me to buzz like a bee?”
“Would that be so terrible?”
“It’s just so…unserious.”
“Exactly.”
I narrow my eyes. “And this is part of your method, is it?”
“Wax on, wax off.”
I nearly choke on a laugh.
“I want you to get out of your head for a while. Focus on a feeling rather than technical skills.”
I see his point, but when I raise the instrument to my mouth, I hesitate. “What if I screw this up?”
“Anyone can play a kazoo,” he says gently. “Children, for instance.”
“So I’ve heard.” I let out a long breath. “That just makes it worse.”
“Never fear. Anyone who can sing like you did last night…” He gives me a smile that makes my heart do a somersault. “Will have no trouble with a kazoo.”
“It was just a song about a nameless horse,” I mutter.
He leans back on an elbow, the wind ruffling his shirt. “It’s not really about a horse, you know.”
“It isn’t?”
He shakes his head, a secretive smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
I resist the urge to look up the song’s meaning on my phone.
Instead, I gaze down at the plastic instrument in my hand. It isn’t the prospect of playing a kazoo that feels strange—it’s the fact I’ll be doing it in front of Brandon, who, despite the occasional streak of humour, carries a kind of quiet gravitas. He may not be Toby-level harsh in his critiques, but he’s still a former manager who’s worked with some of the best artists in the world.
And I’m supposed to buzz like a bee?
“Like this,” he says, producing a blue kazoo from his pocket.
I gape at him, unable to picture Brandon Ward of all people playing a kazoo—or reconcile the fact that he has one of his own.
He catches my stare and says solemnly, “I carry it with me always.”
If it weren’t for the twinkle in his eye, I’d have thought he was making a hand-over-heart declaration.
“Prepare yourself.” He lifts the instrument and, without further warning, plays theHappy Birthdaytune.
I burst out laughing, unprepared for the ridiculous buzz filling the air—nor the dead-serious way he commits.
“Don’t tell me it’s your birthday!” I exclaim when he finishes, clutching my side where a stitch has formed.
