Can't Beat the Chemistry

by Kat Colmer

  ‘I thought you’d be interested to see what I get up to every Friday afternoon. Well, this is it.’ With another twitch of his lips, this one almost resembling a smile, he pushes out of the car’s cabin, leaving me no choice but to pull my blazer tighter around myself and follow.

  ***

  As Luke predicted, we arrive just in time for the bell. At exactly ten past three the quadrangle I’m following him across vibrates with a fog horn drone. Then the familiar volcanic rumble of hundreds of feet erupts, spilling out of classrooms, flooding all the hallways, crashing into the freedom of the Friday afternoon sun.

  ‘Slow down! That wasn’t an air raid siren, you know?’ The guy is all legs and determination. How is a shorter than average person meant to keep up with that stride?

  Luke doesn’t respond, but he adjusts his gait, so I have some chance of catching up to him. We push against the tide of students until he leads the way through the school’s main doors into reception.

  ‘Luke!’ A botoxed, blonde-bob of a woman beams up at him from behind her guard-dog desk like he’s her favourite nephew. ‘Is it Friday already?’

  Luke’s return smile seems genuine enough. ‘Sure is, Mrs Ellis.’

  ‘I hope you’re in good form for your game of bowling tomorrow.’ Mrs Ellis tips her head to the side, but the blonde bob is in cahoots with her facial features and both remain eerily unmoving. ‘It’s all Rosie’s been talking about.’

  Rosie? Who on earth is Rosie? And, wait … bowling?

  ‘I owe her a rematch,’ Luke says, like conversations about bowling are a common occurrence for him. ‘I beat her last game. She’s real eager to get even.’

  Girlfriend. Is that who this Rosie is? I suck in a breath; how am I going to break this Luke-has-a-girlfriend news to Sandy?

  Luke waves a pen at me to sign the visitors’ register.

  I swipe the pen from him and sign my name under his. ‘Who’s Rosie?’

  Luke’s answer is another one of those irritating you’ll see eyebrow lifts.

  I take a deep breath, grip my bag strap that little bit tighter and round the corner after him. I’m not giving up my valuable time so he can hang with his I-love-bowling girlfriend!

  ‘Answer the question, Luke, who’s Rosie?’ There’s just enough edge in my voice to make sure he knows I’m not impressed with this particular turn of events.

  He surprises me by coming to a sudden stop in front of room 149. Music. I step back, expecting him to turn and give me an answer. He doesn’t. Without so much as a glance in my direction, he opens the door.

  ‘You’re about to find out.’

  Luke motions me inside. The second my eyes scan the room I’m wishing for those last few drops of water in the bottle. As I take in all the expectant faces, my gut cramps with an unsettling premonition: I’ll be eating my words, forcing them down with a bitter side of miscalculated assumptions—until all that’s left is a greasy smear of what was once my pride.

  Luke

  Rosie Takes Five

  If shock and confusion bumped uglies and had a love child, MJ, at this very moment, would be it. Her already über-Nordic complexion borders on bleached, and her white-knuckled fingers are strangling her bag strap as she takes in the music room and everything in it. I follow her gaze and do the same, try to see the scene through her widening eyes. The large circle of chairs, the various sized drums: congas, doumbeks, djembes and bongos. Nothing unusual for a music room—except for the twenty or so young people getting ready to make some wicked noise in it.

  Through my lens I see Jack, gently rocking on his chair, ready to roll with a frame drum. Next to him, Dakota, a rhythm stick clasped in her jerking hand; her wheelchair makes anything larger tricky. Then there’s Solomon, dragging one of the heftier African djembes into the circle with the help of his aid.

  MJ’s gape is silent, but it screams of a completely different picture to the one I see. Without the benefit of personal connection to sharpen her vision she’s blindsided by the same labels everyone else is blinkered by: autism, cerebral palsy, Tourette syndrome.

  And Down syndrome.

  ‘Luke!’

  The voice yanks the corners of my mouth into a grin, and I forget all about MJ’s distorted view of reality as familiar arms snatch around my waist. They squeeze hard, like it’s been five years instead of the five days since I was last trapped in them.

  ‘Hey, how’s my favourite girl?’ I hold her tight, loving the unabashed display of her affection.

  ‘I’m going to beat you tomorrow.’ Another squeeze of her arms.

  ‘You sure about that? Cause I’ve got a feeling last week might have been the start of a winning streak for me.’

  Her eyes spark with challenge at my taunt. She pulls away, just a little, to look up at me. ‘I’m gonna beat you tomorrow. I am.’

  I tug her back into the warmth of our hug. ‘Give it your best,’ I tell her and plant a kiss to her forehead.

  When I pull back I’m no longer the centre of her attention. She’s staring over my shoulder, eyes burning with a curiosity as devoid of shyness as her displays of affection.

  ‘Hi. I’m Rosie. Who are you?’

  Man, just this once I wish John and Solomon would follow drum circle rules and quit imitating their favourite cymbal bashing Muppet before the session starts. Maybe then I wouldn’t have missed the gobsmacked pop of MJ’s jaw clamping shut in response to Rosie’s question. Almost as loud as the gears grinding in the little hedgehog’s head back at the office at the mention of Rosie’s name. That overactive brain of hers processed the information so quickly, she put the latest Intel chip to shame. But whoever it was that her brain decided ‘Rosie’ is, Rosie in the flesh, with eyes the exact colour of mine, so similar to MJ’s and yet so very different, is not what MJ was expecting.

  MJ’s lips don’t so much part as fall open, then pop closed again. She’s struggling, her voice probably buried somewhere under the weight of her self-righteous assumptions. I’m also struggling. Struggling to contain the I-told-you-so grin threatening to split my face in two. Then I see her fingers, roped tight around the strap of her bag, twisting the breath from the fabric and … ah hell.

  ‘This is MJ. A friend of mine from school.’

  Rosie’s gaze darts from MJ’s bewildered face up to mine then back again, the inevitable question forming on her non-censored tongue before I have a chance to stop her.

  ‘Are you Luke’s girlfriend?’

  The bag strap twisting stops about the same moment everything inside me stills.

  ‘No! I’m … we’re just …’ Her eyes find mine, the moonless midnight so wide it’s comical. At least it would be if not for the note of choked horror lacing her words. That one note vibrates up my spine, scraping along each vertebra until I’m standing there, all rigid and stiff and defensive. It’s stupid and irrational, because this is MJ, so there’s no way I’d ever contemplate the idea, but hey, I’m human and my wounded male ego takes offense at the never-in-a-million-years look on her face.

  I tug Rosie tighter into my side and force my muscles to relax. ‘We’re just friends.’ Although ‘friends’ is stretching it at the moment. ‘MJ is helping me with my chemistry homework.’

  Rosie nods. That’s how simple it is. No second guessing, no suspicion, just trust and acceptance. It’s what makes my baby sister so damn easy to love.

  ‘I have a test on Monday,’ I say. ‘MJ’s giving up her weekend to help me study.’ I hold MJ’s gaze and … bingo! There’s that nose twitch I’ve come to know so well. Although wouldn’t you know, this one’s nowhere near as high and mighty as all her others have been.

  ‘But bowling?’ Rosie twists to look up at me. ‘Are we still bowling?’

  ‘Sure. Of course we’re still bowling.’ I smile down at her, because it’s hard not to when her expression lights up at my promise. I peer
over Rosie’s head, find MJ’s semi-recovered but still bewildered expression. Time for a little payback. ‘And MJ’s coming with us.’

  MJ’s reaction doesn’t disappoint. By the panicked freezing of her features I’m guessing the prospect of bowling terrifies her more than the idea of being considered my girlfriend. I press my lips to Rosie’s hair to muffle my laugh. Not that I need to; the steadily growing racket in the room would have drowned it out anyway.

  I give Rosie one last squeeze. ‘Go get your drum. We better get started before Solomon puts his fist through his djembe again.’

  She runs off towards the other end of the drum circle where she’s already set up a pair of bongos, and I turn to MJ.

  ‘Welcome to my regular Friday night gig.’ I sweep a hand across the room with an over-exaggerated flourish. ‘These kids party hard. And don’t get me started on some of the drugs they’re into.’ I’m rubbing her face in it, I know, but damn if she doesn’t deserve it. To her credit, she keeps her smart mouth shut and takes it stoically on that small, if stubborn, chin of hers.

  ‘Want to join in?’ I nod towards an empty seat in the circle.

  MJ gives a sharp jolt of her head. ‘Um, no. Thanks.’

  No surprise there. ‘Grab a seat on the side then. The session runs for about an hour. After that you’ll have the pleasure of playing a hundred and one questions with Rosie on the way back to our place.’ I flash her an unapologetic grin and head for the storeroom to grab myself a djembe, the stupefied confusion in MJ’s eyes injecting an extra bounce into my step.

  ***

  We start with a basic boom-sha-la-ka warm up jam for the first five minutes or so. A quick scan of the room confirms there’s no one new to the group, so I’m good to transition from rhythm to rhythm without too much explanation. These kids, predominantly Year 8s, 9s and 10s, have been coming for at least a year, and even though some of them might struggle to catch the beat at first, they know their stuff. Despite their different limitations, these teens are quite highly functioning—they just happen to have a permanently engaged delay button pushing them five or so seconds into the past. That’s why the drum circle works so well; the constant repetition of rhythms means everyone has a chance to catch up and be part of the action. That’s the beauty of the beat; it doesn’t discriminate.

  I round off the warm up with the customary ratta-tatta riff and head straight into an African Fanga. It only takes a few bars to anchor everyone in the downbeat, and then we’re moving to the soulful rhythm. The whole idea is to stop overthinking and ‘get out of your head’. Just feel, experiment with the rhythm and sound. As the instructor, it’s my job to read the circle, guide the speed and volume of the music depending on the vibe I get from the group. Even so, with a group I know well, such as this one, I usually manage to let go and just become part of the beat. Not today. Today I’m too aware of MJ observing everything from the far corner of the room.

  Half an hour of guiding the group from rhythm to rhythm under MJ’s silent scrutiny, and I’m ready to ditch the djembe and retreat behind the safety of a full drum kit. The girl’s lack of blink reflex is spinning me out. I’m not even sure she’s moved in the past thirty minutes. Maybe the shock of being wrong about my ‘weekend gig’ has pushed her past the point of sanity, and the little hedgehog’s brain has stupefied. I’ll have to wave some extension physics papers under her nose. The smell of a complex equation or two is bound to snap her out of it.

  First, though, I’ll need to run the gang through their concert piece. I glance at the music room door as I beat out a finish rumble. Where is Mrs Bowers? Usually she’s shuffled in and settled her happy bulk at the piano by now.

  ‘Okay, guys, time to get your jazz groove on.’ I put my djembe down and pull out my sticks, hoping like hell the music teacher shows soon, because it’ll be near impossible to practise the piece without her providing the driving melody. Add MJ and her eerie unblinking eyes, and I’m likely to jab a tom with one of my sticks. Just as I round to the back of the kit, the door opens and … in walks Mrs Ellis. Not good.

  She rushes up to me, leans in so I can hear her over the drone of disjointed drumming coming from the group. ‘I’ve just had a call from Mrs Bowers. She’s very sorry, she won’t be in today. Something about an injured wrist.’

  Like he’s sensing a disturbance in the drum circle force, Solomon starts beating out a loud and impatient rhythm on his djembe. Beside him, Rosie shoots me a worried look.

  I sink down onto the throne. ‘Any chance some of the other music teachers are still on site?’

  Mrs Ellis gives me a stiff-haired head shake. Definitely not good. My left thumb finds its way between my teeth and I chew on the problem. The concert is still a while off, but the Brubeck song is complex and the group needs all the practise they can get. Maybe choosing a five-four piece was ambitious, but I know these kids can do it, and I wanted to show their friends and families what they’re capable of. Guess I’ll have to talk them through it with just me on the drums. Not ideal—this bunch of drummers doesn’t do so well with unexpected routine changes.

  Mrs Ellis leaves the room. I take a breath and place a hand on the skin of the snare to help anchor the knot of nerves tying up my stomach. I won’t let these kids down. ‘Listen up, people. Mrs Bowers is unwell, so unless one of you is hiding a secret piano playing talent, it’s just me on the drums today. But that’s okay. All you’ll have to do is follow my—’

  ‘I can play.’

  It takes me a second to register where the voice is coming from, and when I do, I swivel towards the far corner so quickly I almost slide off the drum stool.

  ‘I can play. Piano.’ Moonless midnight blinks at me. Guess MJ’s recovered that particular reflex. Ironic, since I seem to have lost mine. I stare at her until my eyes are ready to crack.

  ‘Can you sight read?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Stupid question. ‘Jazz?’

  She shrugs. ‘It’s all quavers and crotchets …’

  All quavers and—is there nothing this girl can’t do? But then she did say her dad sometimes played jazz. Maybe she meant actually played. That aside, why is she offering to do this when her face resembled an extra on the Little Shop of Horrors the second she walked into the room?

  Solomon’s increasingly insistent drumming reminds me I don’t have the luxury to ask that question at the moment. I shove the nagging thought aside and pull an extra copy of Brubeck’s Take Five from my backpack.

  I hand her the music. ‘Give me four bars, then come in and play to the repeat. This is a shorter, simplified version. The idea is to give the kids a chance to go nuts in the middle section, that’s their improv solo.’

  She nods and heads for the piano to the front right of me. Perching on the edge of the seat, back concert-pianist straight, she brushes confident fingers over the imitation ebony and ivory. A glance over her shoulder is my signal she’s good to go.

  I ride both cymbal and snare to set the rhythm. My one kernel of doubt at MJ’s ability to pull this off dissolves the moment she smoothly locks in with the bass line and melody after my intro. Not even so much as a hitch. And damn if the girl doesn’t swing the upper end of the melody line a touch. I’m impressed. Just a little. Okay, maybe a bit more than a little.

  With the beat established and the tune swinging away, it’s not long until the group joins in. The intensity builds as everyone gets into it, faces pulled wide with equal parts concentration and enjoyment.

  We’re about half way though the piece when it hits me: I’m jamming with MJ! And it’s … good. I can’t see her face because she’s got her back to me, but I’d be surprised if she wasn’t smiling. I don’t care how uptight the little hedgehog is; this here’s way too good for her not to be feeling it. If I can’t keep the beat-whipped grin off my face, then she’s got to at least be cracking a small smile. Who’d have thought; MJ getting right into
one of my Friday night ‘gigs’. I shake my head in time to the beat. Not what I was expecting.

  There’s something else I wasn’t expecting: how well we lock in with each other. How we anticipate the other’s next move and adjust to accommodate it. She’s not even looking at me but we’re in sync—almost like two halves of a duo created to complement the other.

  MJ and I complement one another? The thought vibrates through me like a kick to the bass drum; the concept so bizarre, I fumble the beat for a bar or two. MJ throws me a look over her shoulder, but damn if she doesn’t drive the bass line a little louder until I find my way back into the rhythm.

  I fix my gaze between her shoulder blades, on the wall of black silk that’s her hair, and concentrate on not making a total schmuck of myself.

  MJ and I … complement one another.

  MJ

  For The Love Of Patrick

  ‘How long have you been playing piano? You’re good. Almost as good as Mrs Bowers. She’s really, really good!’

  Luke wasn’t wrong; Rosie’s been peppering me with questions from the moment we climbed into his station wagon half an hour ago. My request to stop at the shopping centre isn’t just so I can buy an emergency supply of toiletries and underwear for the weekend—something which Luke, so far, hasn’t made any snark comments about—it’s also to escape Rosie’s inquisition. My head is still spinning from this afternoon’s mind-bending revelation.

  Drum circles? How could I get it so wrong? How could I get him so wrong? All the signs pointed to deadbeat drummer, not selfless Samaritan. I mean, how many first year uni students give up their Friday afternoons to drum with a bunch of special needs kids? And then … Rosie. It’ll take a long time to clean this egg mess off my face.