by Mike Grosso
It’s the best I’ve felt since getting into the recital in the first place.
The good thing about having drums on the brain is you’re always practicing, even when your desk set is disassembled and strewn about your bedroom. Your hands are tapping out rhythms and rudiments, and your imagination is dreaming up new ways to make beautiful noise. It’s not the same as real practice, but it’s something.
It doesn’t take long to put my desk set back together, but when I actually try to practice, everything feels weird. Real drums have a rebound effect when you hit them with a drumstick. It isn’t there when you tap on your legs. Even on my desk set, I can feel the difference. My flams sound like a giraffe falling down and my double stroke roll sounds like a goblin kneading bread. Pete wasn’t kidding. I really do need to start every practice session with stick control.
After an hour or so of going through the motions, I’m sounding better. It’s almost like I never gave up, because in my heart I never really did.
My dad is staying out late with a friend he hopes will help him network and find a new job, so I practice until the sun sets. I realize how tired I am and settle down for the night, hoping my mom knows the right way to explain things to my dad when he gets home.
The drums in my head are louder than ever, but tonight they don’t keep me awake.
My eyes fly open the next morning, the day of the recital. I run downstairs, find my mom, and shout, “Have you talked to Pete?”
“Good morning, Sam,” she says with a hint of sarcasm.
“Good morning, Mom. Have you called him?”
“Several times, but when I dial his number, it just keeps ringing.”
I run to the phone and call Pete, getting the same result. A whole bunch of ringing and a voice mail message that I know he ignores. I try one more time, get no answer, and tell my mom I’m heading over there. She politely asks me to change out of my pajamas first, and as soon as I do, I spring out the front door and down to Pete’s house.
I forget to ring Pete’s bell and burst through his front door. Then I run downstairs into his basement and find him working with another student. I forgot he gave lessons on Saturday.
I expect him to scream at me for barging into his house, but all he says is “I thought you were grounded.”
“I am,” I say. “Well, I’m technically only half grounded now.”
“Great! I’m glad to hear this won’t get me into more trouble with your father, then.”
“This is serious!”
Pete laughs and points to his current student, who looks so embarrassed his face might explode. “So is this. Can I have five minutes, please?” The look he gives me makes it clear he’s not asking permission.
I run back upstairs into Pete’s living room. I sit on the couch and hear a high-pitched meow as a small black-and-white cat pokes its head out from under the cushions and hisses at me. I hiss back, and the cat runs away.
I didn’t even know Pete had a cat.
Several minutes pass, and Pete comes upstairs with his deer-in-the-headlights-looking student and walks him out the door. Then he turns to me and folds his arms against his chest.
“Your cat hates me,” I say.
“He hates me, too,” Pete says. “You found him inside the couch?”
I nod.
“Don’t ask me how he digs his way in there. And don’t worry about him—he doesn’t scratch.” Pete grabs a folding chair from the corner of the room and opens it in the middle of the hardwood floor, taking a seat. “Why are you back?”
I explain the conversation with my mom. He nods at all the important parts and tosses his tongue around in his mouth like he’s thinking really hard.
“Your dad is going to find out,” he says. “He’s going to be upset.”
That’s an understatement. “My mom said she’ll take care of him.”
“Oh, I’m sure I’ll have to take care of it as well.”
“Not the way my mom said it.”
“But I will. Your dad is not my biggest fan, but he’s still a good person, and he won’t have the heart to blame this all on your mother. He’ll find someone else to take it out on. That will be me.”
I sit forward on the couch. “Does that mean you don’t want me to do this?”
“Of course I want you to do this. I just need you to make some promises first.” Pete stands up and grabs a sheet of paper and pencil from a small drawer next to his couch. Then he sits back down in his folding chair and begins to write. “You will never miss a lesson without twenty-four hours’ notice, and when you do, it will be for a really good reason. You will never show up to a lesson the way you did last time. Without practicing. Without showing that you care. With nothing besides a bad attitude. You will not waste our time. You will never, under any circumstances, lie to your parents about our lessons together. I will not be an accomplice to your dishonesty.”
I stand up and extend my hand. “Deal.”
Pete slaps my hand away. “What did I tell you about handshakes?”
My face turns red. “Sorry.”
Pete scribbles one last time on his paper and hands it to me along with the pencil. “Sign it.”
I take the paper and pencil from him and read it:
Number one: No missing lessons.
Number two: No bad attitudes.
Number three: NO LYING.
Underneath the third line is a messy scribble I assume is Pete’s signature. I sign my name much more legibly underneath his and hand the paper back. Pete takes it from me and says, “It’s a promise now. No backing out.”
“I know,” I say. “So what should I do next?”
“Do you remember what we worked on for the recital?” When I nod, he says, “Then let’s get to work.”
“Right now?”
“When else? Tomorrow will be too late. The recital is today, and you’ve got a rock solo to deliver.”
And so we get to work. I don’t have a cell, so I ask Pete to text my mom to let her know I’ll be here a while longer. She responds almost immediately, thanking him. He has two more lessons that day, but he cancels both, claiming he’s come down with a bug. I can’t remember a single time Pete canceled our Monday lesson. Canceling is not a part of his vocabulary. He’s the kind of person who’s always working, even when he’s sick to the point that his insides are becoming his outsides.
But today he’s making an exception for me.
It feels just as weird as last time—button-down oxford shirt and black dress pants. Pete’s not making me wear red suspenders, though, which is more than I can say about symphonic band. I finish dressing, tucking in my shirt, and fixing my chaotic hair. For just a quick moment, I throw my baseball cap on and stare at myself in the mirror, admiring the casual chaos of my hat against the rest of my outfit. I’d love to show up like this, but I can’t do that to Pete. Not after all he’s done for me.
My mom knocks on my door, and I tell her to come in. She opens the door with a serious look. The color has drained from her face.
“Pete is going to take you to the recital,” she says.
“Why?” I ask. Then I wonder why it matters. Pete’s the one who wants this. Why should anyone else take me? But that’s when I feel an overwhelming need to be with my mom—I want her to take me more than anybody, because that means she’ll be there. Someone from this house needs to be there to witness that I’m a drummer in more than just my imagination.
“Your father is home,” she says.
“I thought you were going to deal with him,” I say.
“I was going to.” She exhales. “After you left. It seems he’s home early.”
I choke up for a moment. My dad went to meet with his friend again today. “Did it go well?” I ask.
“I don’t know, Sam, but whatever happened to him today is not for you to worry about.”
“What about Brian?” I don’t want my brother in the middle of a fight that has nothing to do with him.
&nb
sp; “He’s at a sleepover. Everything here will be fine. You just worry about tonight. I’ll take care of the rest.”
I nod, wanting to say something else. I don’t get my chance to. Something else happens instead. My face trembles, my eyes water, and my throat closes.
“Are you sure this is okay?” I ask.
“It’s more than okay, Sam,” she says. “Show Kirkwood what you’re made of. Wait outside for Pete, and remember that I can handle your father just fine.”
My mom closes the door and goes downstairs. I open my top drawer and pull out the pristine Vic Firth sticks that Scott didn’t give me and hold them tight. I haven’t used them, not even on my practice pad—the first sound they make will be at the recital.
I hear my mom talking with my dad. Their conversation is in whispers, so I can only guess at most of it. When I know they’re both in the kitchen, the room farthest from the front door, I walk downstairs quietly, tiptoeing on every squeaky step. I open both the front and screen doors quietly and shut them as silently as I can, listening to the voices of my parents inside. I’m halfway down the sidewalk to the curb when I finally hear my dad explode. He shouts, and my mom shouts back.
My body shakes when I hear the burst of their voices. I want to run inside. Apologize to my dad and explain everything to him. Tell him it was my fault and my mom didn’t do anything. But I remember what my mom said—I can handle your father just fine—and I reach inside myself, into the fire my mom is fighting to keep alive, and remember that tonight I will show everyone at Kirkwood that I am a rhythmic tornado—a dynamic force to be reckoned with.
Then I finally see him—his small yellow car putt-putt-putting down the street. It pulls up to the curb, and the passenger-side door opens. Pete is inside, waving me in and saying, “Hop in, rock star.”
So that’s what I do. I no longer hear my parents’ voices when we drive away.
I don’t remember much of what happened from the moment I entered Pete’s car to the moment I walked on stage.
What I do remember is streets and cars and lights whizzing by on the way there. Then I was suddenly surrounded by the smelly old wood of the Kirkwood Music Academy. We must have arrived late, because there were already tons of people in the audience and performers on stage. I don’t know how it went from being virtually empty my first visit to jam-packed tonight, but that’s how it is now as I wait for my turn to perform.
The host for the night calls my name, and I float up to the stage, feeling the eyes of the audience on me the whole time. I take a seat at the throne behind Pete’s drum set on stage—his own personal set, I might add, not the one he keeps for students. I might be the first person other than Pete to play it.
I’m the only one playing drums. Every other performer is a pianist, or violinist, or cellist, or some other string instrument that would be much more interesting with a beat behind it. I swear I spot a small group of sax players in the back, but I can hardly see them through the stage lights. Memories of Danny and his father at Kirkwood flood back to me, along with the realization that they could be sitting in the audience this very minute. I push the thought away. I don’t have time to worry about whether or not I sound like I’m playing on a garbage can.
I sit behind the drum set and feel my legs shaking. My hands are numb. The sticks are hanging loose in my grip. And that’s when I realize I’m totally going to blow this. I’m not ready. I’ve improved under Pete’s guidance, but I still have so much to learn. At Kirkwood I’m a guppy in a pool of piranhas—I don’t belong here, and I know it. Drums require all four limbs to act independently, and I can’t even stop mine from shaking. I have a big black hole in my confidence, and that hole is going to ruin my performance.
Unless I take one deep breath.
That’s right. Pete said to take one deep breath. Right before I start playing. I may miss notes or lose the beat in a few places, but if I take a single deep breath right before I start, there is no way I can bomb the whole show.
So I take a breath.
In.
Out.
And I start to play.
The first note is wrong. I start with a cymbal crash, but I lead with my left hand when I’m supposed to lead with my right, and the whole opening fill is three beats too long and sounds like I’m playing on a tin can. But it’s only one fill. And as soon as it’s over, I have the whole rest of the performance to think about.
And what a performance it is. Not that I know how it sounds to the audience. To me, the whole thing sounds like I’m underwater. It feels amazing, though, my arms flying across the set and falling into place. I start playing patterns I’d planned, and switch to stuff I didn’t plan because it feels like the right thing to do. Before long, I cease to think about what I’m playing at all and hear my inner voice shouting, This is the best you’ve ever played, Sam!
And it totally isn’t the best I’ve ever played. Not even close. My muscles are tense, I hit the rim of the snare three times, and the stick slips into my second knuckle more times than I can count. My best drumming only exists in a place where I never quit and never lie and never hit Danny Lenix with a drumstick (it was a marimba mallet, Sam, a marimba mallet!). But this is good enough. It’s more than good enough.
Halfway through, I lose all feeling in my arms and legs, and my emotions are electricity powering my limbs as they pound out rhythms. I release everything—Danny’s insults, and my dad’s anger, and all the lies and doubts and voices in my head that tell me I’ll never be good enough—and swing them into the snare, erasing the pain with each note.
When I play drums, I become them. There is no difference between me and the musical machine in front of me. I am drums, and I am finally happy.
When I’m done, my final double strike of the crash and ride rings through the audience, and the moment it starts to settle, everyone applauds. The amazing sound of clapping hands floods the room. Through the ruckus comes a round of hooting and hollering, cheering and whistles.
I spot Pete in the audience, standing near the back, smiling in a way I didn’t think was possible for someone so grumpy. His smile is so large that I worry his cheeks will crack and bleed. He motions for me to stand up, and I do that. The applause rises.
My eyes focus, penetrating the bright lights. Somewhere in the fourth or fifth row are two hands clapping harder than any of the others. A duo of palms applauding steadily enough that their owner has to be a fellow musician. It’s the hands of Ms. Rinalli, and her shining face is grinning ear to ear.
She made it. I can’t believe she actually made it. I continue to scan the crowd, looking for other familiar faces. I’m not sure who I expect to see. My mom? My dad? Maybe Brian, or Kristen, or Scott and Zeke in the corner, peeing in the timpani.
It would be nice to imagine their smiling faces while I’m listening to the rhythms in my head that will keep me awake later tonight.
Pete is waiting for me in the main hall where students are meeting their families and getting congratulated. He doesn’t say much. “Nice work” is about it, but coming from him, that says a lot. A few strangers compliment me, and I can’t help but smile. I try again to spot Mom or Brian, but they’re nowhere to be seen. It’s just Pete.
I see the infamous Pam Stanky talking to a group of parents. She locks eyes with me and leaves their side, heading straight for me.
“Sam Morris, right?” she says.
“That’s me,” I say. My eyes turn to Pete, who waits silently, watching the two of us talk. “Thanks for everything, Ms., um—”
“Please just call me Pam,” she says, saving me from having to say Stanky without cracking up. “Do you have plans for the summer?”
“I’m not sure,” I say, knowing it sounds stupid. “This has been a complicated night.”
Pete butts in and says, “Her schedule is open.” He glares at me like he’s ready to kill me if I argue.
“I want you to think about trying out for our dru
m ensemble,” Pam says. “Auditions are normally reserved for students fourteen and up, but I’d like to see what you’re really capable of.”
Fourteen and up? I’d be playing with high school kids. I’ll need a ton of practice and discipline in the meantime. It’s insane. It’s scary. And kind of exciting, but . . .
“Can I get back to you on that?” I say, eyeing Pete to see if he’s mad. He actually looks quite relaxed.
Pam gives me a card with her direct line circled. “Of course you can, but make a decision soon. You could have a very interesting future.”
Ms. Rinalli shows up at my side. She hands me a copy of the program and says, “Keep it. You’ll want to remember this someday.”
I won’t need any help remembering tonight, but I take the program anyway.
“If you do end up here this summer, make sure to say hello,” she says. “I’ll be here two days a week.”
A burst of excitement floods me. “Pam’s hiring you? You’re going to have a job?”
“On a very part-time basis,” Ms. Rinalli says. “It’s only for the summer at this point, but Pam’s letting me teach private lessons to a few students here. I’ve given private lessons on the side on and off for a couple of years, so I’ll make it work until something full-time comes along.”
I hope she can make it work. I don’t want Ms. Rinalli to have to settle like my dad did. I congratulate her, thank Pam again, and head outside with Pete. Another adult stops us to tell Pete how proud he must be to have such a talented daughter, and as flattering as it sounds, the thought of Pete as my father is just too weird.
“Student,” Pete says with a polite nod. “She’s just my student.”
Pete and I are about to get in his car when another familiar face exits the building. It’s the most unlikely one I would have imagined. Danny Lenix. He was in the audience after all. He must have performed with the other saxophone players before Pete and I arrived.