Very nice? Very nice! I had no conceivable way to interpret that.
Mrs. M dismissed the class soon after. I rose from the stool and followed the other students to the door, still clutching my sticks—they’d been part of the deal whether she liked my performance or not.
“Rory, can you hang back?”
Pissed at her lackluster reaction, I had half a mind to walk out, but I stopped in place and turned around, forcing the rest of the students to swerve in all directions to avoid a direct collision with me.
“You have a very interesting style, Rory.”
Interesting? That ranked up there withvery nicein the scope of unflattering compliments. With an abundance of adjectives to choose from, that was all she could think to come up with? Interesting didn’t fill stadiums. Someday, Mrs. M would eat her words.
“I haven’t seen someone with your talent in a long time. But what’s interesting is you haven’t even reached your full potential. You’re like a raw, uncut diamond. You’ve got everything it takes to shine, but you need to be cut into the perfect shape and your rough edges smoothed out.”
I frowned, irritation rankling my bones. As far as I was concerned—as far as the crowds who used to gather around to watch me play were concerned—I already was a diamond. Maybe I was rusty after not having played in a while, but I shone.
“You have a lot of bad habits,” she continued, almost like she talking to herself out loud, so I could hear and get even more pissed. “But you’re skilled enough to make it work.”
“I’m rusty. I haven’t played in months so…” I mumbled, letting my excuse trail off.
“You’re self-taught, right?”
I almost didn’t want to give her a reply. She didn’t deserve one. People had always accepted my talent at face value. If she couldn’t see it, well then, fuck her.
“Yes. I play on buckets mostly.”
She raised a brow, tapping a finger to her lip. “Hmm. That’s why.”
“That’s why?” I bristled. Mrs. M was wearing on my last nerve. “What do you mean?”
“You favor the rims, like you would on buckets. And the bounce is different on skins than on a plastic bucket surface, so it makes sense that your timing is slightly off. If you’re just playing for fun, it’s not a big deal…”
“I don’t play for fun. I play for my survival.”
“I hear you,” she replied, her intense blue eyes studying me. “Can I ask you something?”
I laid the sticks on the stool and backed away, no longer wanting her gift if it came with condemnation. Who was this lady to question me? To judge me? To give me unsolicited advice. “Nah. I’ve got to go.”
“Rory,” she called to my exiting back. “How far do you want to take this talent of yours?”
I swung back around, squaring my jaw in defiance. “All the way.”
“Then pick those sticks back up and I’ll take you there.”
* * *
One hour.I’d worked with her for one hour, and already my edges were softening. Mrs. M was no joke. This was not some bored rich lady trying to feel good about herself by giving an hour of her time a week to a bunch of misfortunate foster kids who had never been, and would never be, as privileged as her. Mrs. M had real knowledge to impart. A musician’s mind. I was blown away by the things she knew about the instrument I considered myself an expert on. But I’d been self-taught; everything I knew about drumming had been learned through trial and error. While I’d had some training in school, it was only as part of the song we were performing and never as an individual musician. No one had ever sat me down like Mrs. M and shown me what I didn’t know.
After our first of hopefully many sessions, I walked Mrs. M to her car and loaded her bags into the trunk. I still had a hold of the sticks she’d given me.
“Did you want these back?” I asked.
“No. They’re yours to keep. I hope you’ll return next week. I can work with you after the class.”
“I will.”
“I wasn’t too blunt, was I? Sometimes when I’m super focused, I lose all social skills.”
“Nah, it’s all right. I did consider letting the air out of your tires at one point, though.”
