I Am Drums

by Mike Grosso

  My dad clears his throat. “No, you obviously don’t. Sam began lessons with you because she did things that were wrong. To continue lessons and recitals and whatever else you demand a week or a month from now encourages her to lie in the future.”

  “I have no intention of teaching Sam bad habits. I fully support your parental decisions. I just want Sam to continue studying music.”

  “Why? To fill your wallet?”

  I meet eyes with Pete, who now can’t seem to hide his offense.

  My dad points at him and says, “How much were you charging my daughter, anyway? How much does fraud of a twelve-year-old pay nowadays? How long have you known that my daughter was lying to us so that the two of you could meet without our permission?”

  Pete’s jaw drops. “Mr. Morris, please rest assured that I encouraged Sam to tell you about our lessons the moment I realized you and your wife were out of the loop. As for what I charge, the price can be adjusted to suit your family’s budget.”

  “Well, now you know, and as far as you’re concerned, you’d like things to continue just as they had before.”

  “I just don’t want her to give up music.” Pete reaches with his hands like he’s holding an invisible object out to my dad. “With all due respect, you’ve never heard her play. She’s extremely dedicated. It’s astounding what she was able to learn on her own, and with my help, she’s grasping the material I throw at her better than some of my high school students. Think of what she’ll be capable of when she’s approaching college.”

  My dad shakes his head. “Let’s say you’re right, and my daughter is some kind of drum prodigy. How does that help us? You’ll still find some way to charge outrageous prices, we’ll still pay through the roof, all while my daughter learns that lying and stealing are okay if you really want something you can’t have.”

  “There are ways around the money,” Pete says. “It might not cost you anything in the end. There are high schools that give out full scholarships to kids who aren’t anywhere near as good as Sam will be by her freshman year if she keeps this up.”

  “Oh, that sounds great!” my dad says. “So she gets to spend high school goofing off with burnouts, all so she can graduate with skills that are worth zero in the modern world! Great idea, Mr. Educator!”

  Pete’s face tightens with rage. This is the Pete I know​—​the one that sits across from me and tells me to stop whining and play another five stroke roll. “You think all musicians are burnouts who can’t make a living? I’m one of those burnouts, and I’m doing just fine!”

  “Pete, don’t,” I hear myself whisper. I want to stop him. Push him into his car or put a muzzle on his mouth to keep him and my father from killing each other. But there’s no stopping him. I can see it in his face. He’s set to explode.

  “I’m happy!” Pete shouts. “Happier than anyone in your house! What are you contributing to the modern world, Mr. Morris? A miserable kid who will never live up to her parents’ wishes? How dare you do this to Sam! How dare you hold her back!”

  I put my head in my hands. I’m sure this is not how Pete wanted their conversation to go, but I’m not sure what else he expected. I once wondered what would happen if Pete and my dad ever met. Now I don’t have to imagine it.

  Pete’s face returns to its normal color.

  “Get in the car, Sam,” my dad says. He glares at Pete. “Don’t ever talk to my daughter again.”

  I get into the passenger seat and stare at the floor mat as I hear Pete’s footsteps echoing in the parking lot as he heads back to his car. The driver-side door opens, and my father gets in and starts the ignition. We drive home in silence.

  My mom is back when we return from the store. She knows something is wrong when she sees we don’t have groceries. “What happened? Didn’t you go to the store?”

  “Ask your daughter,” my dad says.

  Mom looks at me, so I exhale and say, “We ran into Pete.”

  “Is he your drum teacher?” my mom asks.

  “Not anymore.” I shrug and look at the floor. “He said I was pretty good. More than good, actually. I learn quicker than some of his high school students.”

  My mom almost replies, but closes her mouth and looks away instead. I run upstairs to my room before my eyes burst with tears.

  Brian is sitting on my bed when I enter, staring at my empty desk. He stands up when he notices me and asks, “Are you okay?”

  I plop down on my bed. “We ran into my drum teacher at the store.”

  “Did he talk to dad? Is dad going to let you go to your recital?”

  I shake my head as I curl my arms above my pillow and around my head. Brian must get the point, because he leaves right away, looking almost as bummed as I feel when the door closes behind him.

  I must have fallen asleep, because I wake up with a start to the sound of raised voices downstairs. It’s my mom and dad, fighting over something. I can’t hear clearly enough to know what. It goes on for almost an hour before I hear my dad storm outside and drive away.

  He doesn’t come back for almost two hours. I hear him entering the house quietly, like he’s tiptoeing. He goes into the living room and rustles around for about fifteen minutes, followed by a dead silence. He must have fallen asleep on the couch.

  My mom enters my room shortly afterward. I pretend to be asleep. My eyes are shut tight, but I can both hear and feel her presence walking up to the side of my bed and kneeling down. An arm wraps around me and gives me a light hug that lasts longer than any hug I’ve ever gotten.

  Then my mom whispers, “I’m sorry, Sam.” I feel her embrace as I remember the sound of her voice fighting with my dad and know her wedding ring is not the only thing she has lost.

  I want to say something back, but I’m not sure if I’m supposed to be asleep. Will I get in trouble for replying? Or will I get in trouble for not replying?

  I don’t have time to find out. My mom stands back up and walks out of my room. She closes the door quietly, leaving me alone in the darkness to wonder what I was supposed to do.

  It takes even longer than normal for the drums in my head to quiet down and allow me to fall asleep.

  I’ve never cared less about a Friday before. The recital where I will not be performing is tomorrow, so I can’t think of anything else. Friday is usually such an amazing day. The last day of the week, and the end of every period brings you one step closer to leaving for the weekend. But today doesn’t feel that way. Going home doesn’t feel much different from school. I’m always watched, accused, and judged in both places.

  Mrs. Pitts is talking about the Great Depression in sixth-period social studies today. Money, more money, and how sometimes there’s no money at all. Yeah, I definitely get that.

  Another kid in class raises her hand and says, “Isn’t it true that we’re in a recession right now?”

  Mrs. Pitts nods. “Yes, we are, and while it’s not quite as severe as the Great Depression, it has been a very tough one.”

  My hand shoots up. Mrs. Pitts looks surprised to see it, so she calls on me right away. “I’m glad to see your hand up, Sam! Do you have something to share?”

  “I get that there’s a recession,” I say. “And most people seem to say it happened because a lot of people made bad decisions.”

  A few heads turn to look at me. Eyes and ears focus on what I have to say. Scott sits up straighter than ever before, his eyes glued to me. Nobody’s used to me raising my hand and speaking up in any of my classes, much less social studies. I don’t talk about history. I just beat on things.

  “Yes, that is generally considered to be the case,” Mrs. Pitts says.

  And since I still have everyone’s attention, I continue. “And these bad decisions​—​or whatever you want to call them​—​who is responsible for them?”

  Mrs. Pitts ponders this for a moment. “It’s complicated, Sam. Opinions differ based on whom you ask. Some people might blame it on big banks, or on the government, or on lazy poor p
eople or greedy rich people. At times it seems like they’re blaming someone new every day.”

  My mouth trembles for a moment, and I almost lose my nerve. “Is it our fault, Mrs. Pitts?”

  “Sam, I’m not sure what you mean by​—”

  “Would you ever blame kids for the recession? Are we the reason why some people have no money while others have disgusting amounts of it?”

  Mrs. Pitts takes a deep breath. “No, Sam. Kids did not cause the recession.”

  I take a breath and get out the last part of what I have to say. What I need to say. “Then why are we the ones paying for it? Why are they taking away our parks and pools and teachers and jazz bands? Why, all of a sudden, doesn’t anybody want to pay for that?”

  Mrs. Pitts folds her arms against her chest. “That’s an interesting question, Sam.”

  A few kids turn away. The ones who don’t have peeled their eyes open to the size of cantaloupes. I’d be a little embarrassed if I still cared what any of them thought of me. Scott’s eyes are larger than anyone else’s. His look is an awful mix of sadness and hope. I can’t help wondering what he spent his allowance on after my dad slammed the door in his face.

  “I’m not trying to be rude,” I say. “I just want someone to tell me how that’s supposed to be fair.”

  Mrs. Pitts frowns. She looks to the floor, as if the answer to my question is hidden somewhere in the tiles. When she meets my gaze again, her eyes are tired and heavy.

  “It’s not fair, Sam,” she says. “It’s not fair at all.”

  After school I’m in my room again, my hands tapping on my thighs.

  Right left right left right left right left right left.

  Give it up, Sam. It’s over.

  Right right left left right right left left right right left left.

  Your dream of being a drummer is gone, just like your mom’s wedding ring.

  Right left right right left right left left right left right right.

  This is getting silly. You need to stop.

  Silence. My hands are still. I clamp them shut in my lap.

  See? Was that so hard?

  RIGHT LEFT RIGHT LEFT RIGHT LEFT RIGHT LEFT RIGHT LEFT.

  I spend the rest of Friday afternoon in my bedroom, dreading my forthcoming weekend of staring at the wall and eating uncomfortable meals with my family.

  My mom comes to my room. She opens the door with the same sadness she’s been carrying for days. It seems to get worse with every passing hour.

  She sits beside me on my bed and says, “The recital is tomorrow, isn’t it?”

  “It was,” I say.

  “You must be pretty upset.” She looks over at my desk. “You put away all those books.”

  I nod. “No point in having them out if I’m not learning to play.”

  “So you really did use them to practice?”

  “Yeah. I had a book or newspaper for each drum.”

  She smiles for the first time in days. “Did it work well?”

  I don’t know if it’s because I’m talking about drums or because my mom sounds happy, but my voice brightens. “It wasn’t the real thing, but it was good enough. It helped me feel like a real drummer.”

  She looks closely at me, but I don’t return her gaze. It’s still too uncomfortable.

  “Do you understand why your dad made this decision?” she asks.

  “Didn’t you both make it?” I ask back.

  She hesitates before answering. “Yes, I suppose we did.”

  I look over at my empty desk. “You and Dad don’t need to fight over it, you know. What’s done is done.”

  My mom looks shocked. “We’re fighting about a lot more than that, Sam.”

  I don’t respond. I can’t pretend it’s not a little my fault.

  My mom says, “Your dad is out with a friend, and I need to go to the store. I should be back and have dinner ready in about an hour or so.” Then she stands and walks out of my room, shutting the door behind her. I wonder if she actually has to go shopping or if she just needs to get away for a while.

  I think of the way my mom smiled when I told her about my desk set.

  I rise from my bed, walk over to my dresser, and open my top drawer. I take out the lawn-mowing money and close my eyes as tight as possible. I finally kiss the dream of owning my own drum set goodbye and decide to spend the money on something else.

  I have at least an hour until my mom gets home from the store. That should be plenty of time.

  I wait until Brian is in the basement and my mom has left, and I quietly sneak out the door. I’m risking getting into way more trouble leaving the house, but I have to believe my family will understand my reasons when they find out.

  My destination is near the bridge over the Eisenhower Expressway, so it only takes twenty minutes to get what I need. When I arrive back home with a small white bag, my mom is still gone and Brian is still in the basement, unaware that I ever left. I open the bag and pull out a tiny box that I place on the kitchen counter where my mom puts her keys when she gets home. She’ll be sure to see it.

  I dash upstairs to my bedroom, shut the door, and wait.

  My windows are open, so I hear my mom pulling up outside when she returns. Her keys are jingling as she exits the car and walks toward the house.

  The front door opens and footsteps head inside. They walk into the kitchen, but instead of the familiar clang of keys hitting the counter I hear the dropping of grocery bags followed by nothing at all.

  A very, very long nothing.

  Footsteps run up the stairs, and my door swings open to my mom staring at me with a heartbroken expression. The tiny box is in her hand, flipped open to a small wedding band.

  “Sam,” she says, tears filling her eyes. “Did you buy this?”

  I nod. “I went to Silverlight Jewelers while you were out.”

  I expect her to scold me for leaving the house while grounded, but instead she asks, “Why?”

  “I wanted to help,” I say. The ring is shining under the hallway light. I’d considered pretending it was the real one, but I didn’t want to lie anymore.

  Her eyes look at the box, and then back at me. “How did you pay for this?”

  I tell her about the extra money from mowing lawns, and saving whatever was left after paying Pete. Her eyes fill with awe. “How many lawns did you mow each week?”

  Her jaw drops as I tell her about Wanda, and the old lady who only paid three dollars, and my strategies for mowing each lawn as efficiently as possible. I catch myself smiling halfway through, and my mom smiles back.

  “You did all that work just for drum lessons?” she says. “You were saving every extra dollar to buy your own set?”

  “It wasn’t that much,” I say. “I only had enough for a cheap knock-off ring. I couldn’t replace the real thing.”

  She sets the box on my dresser and sits next to me on the bed, taking my hands in hers. “It’s just a ring, Sam. It’s not important. But that money​—” she shakes her head. “You had special plans for it.”

  “I wanted to help you and dad.”

  “We’re not fighting because of a ring.”

  My hands shake. “I know that. You’re fighting because of me.”

  She pulls me close, and I bury my face in her arms.

  My shoulders quiver in her grip. “I just wanted to help,” I say again.

  “It’s not your job to help us,” she says. “It’s our job to help you.”

  My mom sighs as we pull away from each other. Our eyes meet, and something happens while we’re caught in midgaze. Her expression is a puzzle, and the last few pieces push into place. Her eyebrows soften, and her mouth becomes a half-crescent as it gently smiles. I know before she has spoken that something has changed.

  She pushes the hair out of my face and says, “We’re returning the ring and getting back the money you earned.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  She stands up and grabs the tiny box off the dresser. “Because I
’m calling Pete. You’re going to the recital tomorrow.”

  The second she says it, my blood begins to flow again. An adrenaline rush floods my heart. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean exactly what I said. You’re going to your recital. Are you still up for it?”

  My legs are suddenly spastic. “Of course I’m up for it.”

  “Then why don’t you get started practicing?”

  My hands are moving up and down. I want to drum. I want to drum like never before. But it’s too good to be true. She can’t really be thinking of doing this. “Why are you letting me do it? Why now?”

  My mom sighs. “Your father isn’t a bad person, Sam. He’s just very angry about a lot of things. Things that aren’t fair, but happened to him all the same. When you lied about the lawn mower and the incident in school, it was a lot for him to handle.” She turns to me and smiles. “But I didn’t realize how much this meant to you, and I can’t stand to watch the fire in you go out any longer.”

  My eyes well up. My retinas tighten, holding everything in. “Does he know you’re doing this?”

  “Let me worry about your father.”

  “But Mom, he’s so mad.”

  “Your father has spent the majority of his adult life mad. Another few hours won’t hurt him.”

  My fingers tremble, and my mom notices. “You don’t understand how he was the day Dr. Pullman called,” I say. “You weren’t here.”

  My mom takes my hand in hers and says, “I can handle him. Trust me. You’re performing tomorrow, and we’re going to find a way to continue your drum lessons.”

  Pressure builds behind my eyes. It’s the pressure of tears I’m afraid to let fall, because I’m in front of my mom and I’ve spent so long turning my feelings off around my parents.

  “Do you really mean it?” I ask. “Is it really okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you call Pete for me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do I need to do anything to​—”

  “Sam, the clock is ticking. Start practicing.”

  “Okay,” I say, and then tear across my room in search of my drumsticks. I find them underneath a pile of dirty clothes and hold them in my hand for the first time in days.