Isat in the back of the classroom, taking it all in. And it was a lot; more than I’d bargained for when I’d seen the flyer for the music class and decided to give it a try. At the very least, I hoped to feel sticks back in my hands. At the very most, I wanted to be playing again, on a drum kit like the universe had always intended. But it was clear the minute the class started that I’d been recruited to the minor leagues.
Yes, it had been advertised as a music class for all levels, but from what I could tell, there was only one level—ground. Had I not tucked myself into the corner and felt leaving in the middle would be rude, I’d already have been gone by now.
My only consolation as I waited out the hour was watching the teacher, a cultured woman in her forties, attempt to find good in all the questionable performances, especially when some of them were just messing with her. Wasting her time. And she knew it. I had to hand it to her—she handled them well, like she had some troublemakers of her own at home. This woman was volunteering her hard-earned time for this shit. I had to wonder what was in it for her.
After a particularly aggressive flute solo, the unflappable music teacher cut a path in my direction and stopped directly in front of me. I quickly removed my propped feet from the table and looked up at her.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you here before,” she said, more a statement than a greeting.
I wanted to tell her to get a good look because it would be the last time she saw me in here, but the woman had already had a rough session and I was feeling generous.
“This is my first time.”
“What brings you in here?”
“Just checking it out.”
“That’s it? No hidden talent you’d like to reveal?” She paused for a moment and then whispered, “Please.”
I laughed.
She winked. “Let me guess—you play the drums.”
I blinked up at her in surprise. What made her think that?
“You’ve been tapping out a beat with your fingers since you got here. Did you bring your drumsticks?”
“I lost them a few months ago.”
“Well, that won’t do.”
She walked back across the room to her big bag of tricks and produced a set of well-worn sticks. My favorite kind. Instead of carrying them back to me, she stayed put and waved them in the air.
“Show me what you got and they’re yours.”
I smiled at her offer, then checked the clock on the wall… ten more minutes before I bounced. This place wasn’t for me. I was too advanced, and really, I didn’tneedthe sticks. I just wanted them. Like, really bad. I was tired of their subpar substitutes—pencils and spoons and Frigo cheese sticks.
Normally it would be a no-brainer. Get up and perform. I’d certainly never been shy with a pair of sticks in my hands. But her offer felt as if there were strings attached, like this woman would wrangle me into being the star of her dysfunctional school of rock.
“What’s your name?”
“Rory.”
“Nice to meet you, Rory, I’m Mrs. M,” she said, and I could already feel her getting her claws into me. “So, what do you say? Are you ready to put some of that swagger to the test?”
Unable to resist the dare, I rose from my chair and ambled over to her. She held out the sticks, and before they’d even left her hands, I had them twirling through my fingers.
Her smile widened. “That’s what I thought.”
With all the confidence in the world, I walked to the drum kit and straddled the stool, taking a moment to glide my hands over the equipment. The tactile feel of the skins sent a thrill through me. It was like being back with old friends. It had been way too long. I’d wanted to pick up some buckets and sticks and start playing again, but then what? I couldn’t go back out to the streets and busk, not with Hartman out there waiting to take me down. Had I known this drum kit was in here waiting for me, I would’ve been sneaking in through the back doors and playing while everyone slept, or tried to sleep.
Really, I should’ve known Camden Place would offer a class like this. They had something for everyone. Those wealthy do-gooders sure knew how to run a charity. And you wouldn’t hear me complaining one bit. I was directly benefiting. With their paid and volunteer staff available to guide me, I got back on track with my education, choosing to go for my GED over being held back a grade in school, which was what I would’ve had to do to catch up after everything I’d missed. Tutoring was just one of the many programs offered. There were life skills classes and apprenticeship programs and group therapy sessions. Sports. Poetry. Art. Even goat yoga for the bougiest of us. And then there was Mrs. M and her sad little music therapy program.
Looking out over the class of underachievers, I decided they needed some Fireball in their lives, so I kicked it off with a single stroke, double kick pattern and some syncopated snare drum hits. With adrenaline pumping through me, I was a bit quick on the start but managed to bring the tempo back down and pace myself through the remainder of the song. It wasn’t like any of these musical misfits would know the difference anyway. They were thrilled with my performance and gave me a roaring round of applause.
Curiously, Mrs. M did not. She watched. Studied. Nodded. But she didn’t smile or clap. I couldn’t read her expression, and she didn’t give me much by way of verbal acknowledgement.
“Very nice,” was all she said.
