by Mike Grosso
“Play on another drum? Yes, I did. It’s the moment you’ve been waiting for. We’re moving on!”
I move on. I play paradiddles all around the drum set. It’s hard, but it’s fantastic hearing my sticks make sounds all over the room.
The last fifteen minutes of the lesson is the best thing that has ever happened to me. I play paradiddles and three stroke rolls and four and five stroke rolls. I even play something called paradiddle-diddles that I swear Pete made up, but he assures me he did not. Everything’s moving so fast, and yet somehow it’s not fast enough, because I want to eat up everything he teaches me.
And then it’s over. The second it ends, I desperately want it to be next week.
“Your homework this week is to search the web for the words amazing rock drummers. Pick two of the names that come up in your search and check out their music from the library.”
Wow. Just when I thought this day couldn’t get any better, Pete officially gives me permission to rock out. I’m so excited that I almost forget to give him the fifteen dollars in my pocket. I’ve never been so glad to give away money before.
Our symphonic band performance arrives fast that Friday. Every band kid dresses in dark pants, white button-down oxford shirts, and blindingly bright red suspenders, the last of which I consider to be a cruel and unusual form of fashion torture. They do this so they can gather in the auditorium on a stage that is much too small to hold them all and play out of tune for their parents. Totally my kind of night.
Zeke is his usual silly self, but Scott acts strange. He’s even quieter than he is outside of band, and his face is frozen in a frown. It’s hard to be mad at him when he looks so miserable. I try to strike up a conversation, and for a few moments, we’re talking like we used to, but then it dies down and we’re back to being silent nondrummers in the back of the band.
My turns come to play during the concert, and I do my very best, remembering what Pete said about learning to play one drum before trying to play them all. It’s actually kind of easy to play my parts when I think of it that way. It’s all so effortless. I don’t get nervous, because for the first time in my life I feel like I know what I’m doing. Scott and I on dual snare are especially great. I even catch him smiling for the first time that night.
We all gather in the lobby afterward and meet our parents. My mom is there with Brian, waiting for me.
“You totally played in the wrong key the whole time!” Brian says.
“I was playing snare, idiot,” I say. “It doesn’t have a key.”
“Don’t call your little brother an idiot,” my mom says. I wait for her to say something about the concert—how well I did or how proud she is—but I get nothing. No surprise there.
We’re about to leave when I see Scott and Zeke together, making their way toward me, beckoning me to come and talk to them. I head on over, and Scott says, “I’m really sorry, Sam.”
“Sorry for what?” I say.
“Are you gonna make me say it?”
“I don’t know what you’re sorry about, so yeah.”
Scott sighs, slumps his shoulders, and says, “About what I said the day you found out music was getting cut. About you being better off in beginning concert band.”
He’s trying to make me feel better, but it’s hard for that to happen when he’s just reminding me of what hurt my feelings in the first place.
“You’re better than I gave you credit for,” Scott says. “You’ve improved more than anyone else this year, and if they weren’t killing off jazz band, you’d probably make it.”
“It’s all right,” I say, even though the memory of what he said still hurts and I’m not really sure it is okay. “You don’t need to flatter me.”
“I’m not. You’re the only drummer here who cares, and it shows.”
All right, I admit it. That last line makes me really happy. Even more so because I didn’t expect it.
Jessica sneaks up behind Scott and says, “Time to go, my little bro.”
Scott says goodbye and starts to leave the lobby. Jessica waits behind long enough to say, “Nice job tonight, Sam.”
“Thanks,” I say. Before I can think to clamp my mouth shut, I add, “Did you tell Scott to say those things to me?”
She looks confused. “What things? Is he being a jerk to you? Because I can handle him if he is.”
I smile. “Not at all. Not anymore.”
I head back to my mom and brother to find them speaking with Ms. Rinalli. For some reason, the sight of them together makes me nervous.
“Sam’s come a long way this year,” Ms. Rinalli says.
“I suppose she has,” my mom says, smiling.
Ms. Rinalli sees me approaching and says, “Hello, Sam. I was just telling your mother the sad news about the cuts to music. I really hope you find a way to continue with drums.” I catch Ms. Rinalli giving my mom a few nods, likes she’s trying to say something additional without actually saying it.
My mom doesn’t say much in response. “I suppose we’ll see.”
Ms. Rinalli gives me a final congrats, and I head outside with my mom and brother. It’s not until I’m sitting in the back seat of my car, watching store lights illuminating the night, that I realize why Scott changed his mind about my drumming.
Pete’s lessons. I’m getting better. And people are already noticing.
I dread my mom checking the voice mail when we get home later. By this point, I’ve lost track of how many times Dr. Pullman has called, and I’m terrified of his recorded voice. But there’s only a message for my mom from my aunt and something for my dad from someone I don’t know, and nothing else.
Finally, I think. Dr. Pullman has given up. Even though I feel bad for every time I pushed the button to delete his messages, I’m thankful I wasn’t caught. I’m in the clear. I’m not getting into any more trouble.
I’m finally able to complete Pete’s homework the following day, after I’m done picking up gas from Wanda, mowing lawns all over town, and fighting the Orb of Death. A web search of amazing rock drummers gets more results than I imagined. And for every result that claims one thing, there’s another claiming the opposite. There’s no real answer as to who the best rock drummer might be. Just some names worth checking out.
There are so many choices that I end up picking three—Neil Peart from Rush, Keith Moon from the Who, and Dave Grohl from Nirvana and, more recently, Foo Fighters. I check out music from each band at the library and listen to them at home. Keith Moon and Dave Grohl play really fast and powerfully, and I swear halfway through every song they’re going to break their drums in half. I find one insane video where Keith Moon starts breaking his drums on purpose! It’s absolute madness as he slams his bass drum into the ground and kicks his snare and toms across the stage. Neil Peart looks calm in comparison, but he still sounds like he’s playing the entire kit at once. I’m convinced he has eight arms and the energy of a border collie herding sheep.
Neil Peart and Rush also have a few songs that fit into a genre Mr. Warner mentioned—math rock. Some websites call it “progressive,” but the ideas are pretty similar. Take away the rules that rock must have four beats per measure and a steady backbeat, and you get songs in time signatures of seven, nine, or even crazier stuff like thirteen. Unlike a lot of rock, there’s almost no trace of blues, and it has a weird jazzy quality to it. I listen to songs by June of 44, Don Caballero, King Crimson, and a bunch of bands whose names I can’t pronounce. I swear I’m cross-eyed by the end. That’s what Mr. Warner must have meant—some music requires mathematical thinking.
All of them are good. Really good. But it leaves me with a question I have to ask Pete at our next Monday lesson:
“How do they only use their wrists when they play so loud?”
Pete pulls out his phone and loads a video. “Check out Neil Peart playing a solo,” he says, handing his phone to me. “Yes, he moves his arms all over when he plays rock beats—it’s ca
lled showmanship—but when he plays the really fast stuff, he doesn’t move his arms at all.”
I watch the video and see that Pete’s right. Neil Peart flings his arms all about, looking tough and cool, but when it comes to the fast stuff, it’s all in the wrist.
It’s weird. I’ve always been angry when I play the drums. I even saw it as an advantage. But the more I learn about them, the less angry I feel.
The next two lessons have a set pattern—the first five minutes we talk about new music I’ve checked out at the library. John Coltrane the saxophonist, Ella Fitzgerald the singer, and more. For the first time since the conversation with my dad, I bring up John Bonham’s solo in “Moby Dick,” and Pete doesn’t say anything about how he died. He just smiles.
Then we spend ten minutes playing singles and doubles and paradiddles and all other sorts of craziness. He makes me hold one drumstick a little higher than the other, and then I bring them both down in one swoop, creating the two quick strikes of a perfect flam.
The rest of the lesson is a powerhouse of new drumbeats and patterns, each one cooler and harder to play than the last.
Then, at the end of the second lesson, Pete says, “I need you to do one other thing for next week. You need to dress in something nicer.”
I look down at my T-shirt and jeans. My hand goes to my hat, lifts it off my head, and holds it in front of me. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
“Nothing, as far as I’m concerned, but you had to dress up for the middle school band performance, right?”
I nod.
“Wear whatever they forced you to wear for that, and let your parents know you might get home a little later than usual.”
I cringe at the thought of wearing those clothes and having to stay out later. My parents will freak if I’m not there when they get home from work. I can’t just tell them I’ll be missing for a few hours and expect them to understand. “Why?”
Pete rubs his chin and exhales. “I don’t want to say too much. You’ll just end up bummed if it doesn’t work out.”
I arrive home with my head full of daydreams about what Pete has in store next week. I try to get my mind off it by going back online and searching something else. Something Pete didn’t ask, but I’m thinking he’ll like. I click in the browser’s search box, enter the phrase “amazing girl rock drummers” and click the search button. I wasn’t expecting much, so I’m shocked when I get over twelve million results full of top ten and top twenty and top even more lists full of girls who’ve done exactly what I want to do.
Karen Carpenter from the Carpenters started out on drums, and sang while keeping the rhythm for the band. I never knew the drummer could be the singer.
Moe Tucker from Velvet Underground, who only used mallets (Danny Lenix would love her) and played while standing up.
And there’s more. Gina Schock, Meg White, Janet Weiss, Carla Azar—the list goes on and on and on.
I’m not alone after all.
All I know leading up to the following week’s lesson is it’s going to be something different. That doesn’t bother me as much as the getting home late part. If my parents get home before I do, I’ll be in serious trouble.
I talk to Kristen right after math just in case. “I need to tell my parents I’m going over to your house for dinner tonight,” I say. “If they call to check, I need you to answer and cover for me.”
“Sure,” Kristen says, “but why do I need to cover for you if you’re coming over?”
“Because I’m not actually going to your house.”
“Okay. Now I’m confused.”
I try to explain my mysterious lesson with Pete, and how I need to convince my parents I’m going somewhere else as cover.
“Sam, you really should just tell your parents about the drum lessons.”
“If you actually believe that, you don’t know my parents.”
Kristen exhales a dramatic huff, then shrugs. “Fine. I’ll cover for you, but call me the second you get back so I know you’re in the clear. If you get busted, you’d better not bring me down with you!”
I thank Kristen and give her the biggest hug possible, promising to make it up to her somehow.
I show up to Pete’s house for my lesson later that day and am greeted by his disgusted face.
“What?” I ask. “Did someone yak on my shirt?”
“I asked you to dress nice,” he says. “Are those really the clothes you wore for your school concert?”
No, of course they aren’t. They’re my regular clothes—always some variation of a T-shirt and jeans. I remembered that he wanted me to dress nice, but I felt stupid while I was putting on the white button-down shirt, black dress pants, and blindingly bright red suspenders. Once was enough. Do they really have to look that dorky? And does Pete really have to make me wear them?
“Go home and get changed,” he says.
“Come on!” I say. “Do I really have to?”
“Why not?”
I’m silent.
“I’m not taking you to a beauty contest,” he says. “I’m taking you to the Kirkwood Music Academy. I’m trying to get you into the recital.”
Recital. Now I feel like an even bigger dork. Is this worth the risk of getting both Kristen and myself in trouble? “Aren’t recitals for piano players?”
“Recitals are for musicians,” Pete says. “And yes, most of them are excruciatingly boring. That’s where I come in.”
“You run recitals?”
Pete grunts and rubs his hands together. “No, Kirkwood Music Academy does. It’s true that most of the kids they host play classical pieces on piano, or cello, or something like that, but they have on rare occasions allowed me to enter a student who shows promise to play a drum solo.”
“You want me to play a drum solo?”
He nods. “You’ve shown a lot of natural skill in such a short time for someone so young. I was hoping they would take you, but you’re not going to get accepted looking like that.”
“Accepted for what?”
Pete snorts as if I’ve asked the dumbest question ever. “Your school is cutting its music program, and I can only bring you so far without practical experience. You need other musicians to jam with.”
I swallow hard. “You think I’m good enough?”
“You could be if you stopped whining so much about a lousy outfit.”
My fists clench, but I take a breath and allow myself to calm down. “Can I change back as soon as this is over?”
Pete nods. “The only other time I’ll make you wear it is at the recital, assuming we’re lucky enough to be allowed in this late in the game.”
“When will it be?”
“In about three weeks. It’s on a Saturday, so it won’t get in the way of school.”
If I had water in my mouth, it’d be coming out of my nose right now. “Only three weeks? When was the deadline to get in?”
“A little less than three weeks, actually. And the deadline was last Saturday.”
I laugh. “Oh, well, that makes perfect sense, then. How exactly are you going to get me in?”
Pete smiles. “I have a friend who might be able to help, but you’re going to have to prove yourself to her—convince her you’re talented and hardworking and not just looking for a place to goof off.”
We walk through his house, out his back door, and enter his yard. My nose tickles with the smell of fertilizer and mold, blending together somewhere inside the long blades of grass all over his lawn.
We trudge through his yard and into his garage, where a small yellow car is parked. Black numbers—it looks like Sharpie—are written on his rear side window.
“What are those?” I ask, pointing to the numbers.
“Oh, that,” he says. “I parked in a lot where I wasn’t supposed to, so my car got towed. I keep meaning to wash those off, but I can’t seem to find the time.”
I creep in the passenger-side door and find the s
eat covered in music sheets and coffee cups. Pete throws all of it in his back seat, where a large amount of the same stuff has already collected, and motions for me to sit.
I tell him my address, and he drives me back to my house, where he sends me inside to change. Brian isn’t home from school, so I don’t need a cover story for him. I stomp all the way up the stairs and into my bedroom, scowling as I change into my black pants, white button-down shirt, and blindingly bright red suspenders. Last are my black dress shoes—they’re supposed to fit, but dress shoes are sized to choke the life out of your toes and ankles.
I return to Pete’s car and jump in the passenger seat. He takes a quick look at my outfit and says, “That looks better. You’d make a great Tiny Tim.”
I flash him a nasty face, but he just smiles as he puts the car in gear and starts driving.
I think about Kristen covering for me as I drive into the city with a person my parents have never met to get into a recital my parents don’t know exists. The opportunity to learn drums has changed a lot of things about me. I’m more confident. More brave. I’m also a liar, and I was never the lying type of kid. Irresponsible, maybe, but not a liar.
Pete’s passenger seat is tiny and uncomfortable, with countless college pamphlets at my feet. I pick a few of them up.
“Are you going back to school or something?” I ask.
“Once was quite enough, thank you,” he says. “I’m always getting junk mail from music schools. I pass them on to promising high school students.”
“Are there really colleges where almost every class is about music?”
He nods. “Of course. Why wouldn’t there be?”
I scan through Pete’s junk mail and find a pamphlet for the Juilliard School in New York. “Can you actually make a living in music?”
Pete hesitates before answering. “It’s a lot harder than it used to be, but I suppose I’m living proof that it’s possible.”
Juilliard’s pamphlet is full of crazy stuff—pictures of musicians and dancers having the time of their lives. Pete notices and takes the pamphlet out of my hand.