Drummer Girl (4 page)

6 |
two beat fill

Flying under the jock set's radar was hard work. Sid had made James take her to school early, before the students usually started arriving, so he could assure
vp
Finning he had talked to Sid about the seriousness of her situation. She'd had to duck low a few times as some track-and-field jocks had jogged past the office after early practise – she'd forgotten their coach was an early riser kind of guy.

All day she'd kept her head down and kept moving. Hard to hit a moving target. But she'd kept her ears open and there was still no word if
tfd
had chosen a drummer. The suspense left her stomach gnarled and rebelling at the thought of food so she'd hidden in the library stacks during lunch. That's when she'd run across the psychology section and had thumbed through a few books. Now she knew how she was going to handle Mr. Brock.

The day had gone well, until she walked into shop class and saw Wes Remichuk sitting on a stool beside her work space. She ignored him as long as she could, getting out the chest she was almost finished, some brushes and varnish, laying out a tarp, finding a screwdriver to pry open the can and a stick to stir the varnish. Finally, she stopped moving.

She felt like a bull's-eye was painted on her forehead.
Be cool,
she told herself.
Like playing ghost notes.
After all, no word from
tfd
meant he was edgy, too.

Wes said, “Hear you been ducking out of sight all day. Hiding from me?”

“Not hiding. I'm busy. Prepping for my visit with Mr. Brock.” No point hiding anything about that when Mr. Franklin was going to call her out of class at any moment.

Wes leaned forward. “Going to shrink your brain, is he?”

“At least I have something for him to shrink.” Sid bit the inside of her lip – that was more like hitting the crash cymbal than playing a ghost note. Stupid.

“A real smart-ass, aren't you?”

She was fighting the temptation to reply when her woodworking neighbour, Rick, tapped Wes's shoulder. “You're in my way, Wes. Your assigned space is over there.” His thumb pointed over his shoulder. “Say... Nice bruise on your jaw.” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “But there's a wicked rumour going around that you got beat up by a girl.”

Sid started laughing. She couldn't help it. The dirty look Wes gave her set off a drum roll in her head, but she didn't care. Wes stomped off. Rick gave her a wink and whispered, “Remind me to never get you mad, Sid. Your right hook is awesome. Where'd you learn it?”

“My brother. Taylor was the first person I tried it on. You should ask him about it.”

Rick chuckled.

From his desk, Mr. Franklin called out, “Class has started, people.”

Sid opened the varnish and got to work on the bridal chest. It wasn't big, the size of two bread boxes, so she only had the back panel left to varnish when Mr. Franklin told her it was time to go to the office. Rick asked if he could finish her first coat so she could apply the whole second coat tomorrow. Mr. Franklin gave Rick's lopsided shelf a skeptical look but agreed.

“Thanks, Rick.”

“No problem. I'll clean up for you, too. It's not like I'm making any progress on my shelf.”

“Maybe I can help you square it off.”

“Great. Better go. Franklin's giving you the evil eye.”

Minutes later, she stood before the counsellor's door, a little nervous at the thought of putting her plan into action. She smoothed her white
t
-shirt. It had been a careful choice this morning – nothing dark and metal that might suggest violence or anger, just the cool Starman that was Rush's logo. Behind her, the secretary encouraged her to knock.

She raised her hand the same instant that Mr. Brock opened the door. “Hi, Sidney. I saw you walk into the general office.” He indicated the window beside the door that allowed the secretary to see into his office. “I thought maybe you had decided to sneak out through the staff room.” He indicated the other direction.

“No. I'm here for my medicine.”

“Since I'm not a psychiatrist, I can't prescribe any.” He stepped aside and waved her in.

Same as Monday, he scuttled his chair sideways like a crab until he was beside the desk and closer to Sid. Today he wore a patterned green shirt and darker green jeans. He looked very relaxed as he leaned back in his chair and rocked it slightly. Sid wished she were half so calm. It felt like someone was rapidly tapping a ride cymbal in her stomach.

Brock smiled. “Nice Rush
t
-shirt. Do you like this band for its drummer, too?”

Sid wanted to say what she'd planned then get out. She gave a terse nod.

“Who is it?”

Didn't this man know anything about music? Sid's breath huffed out. “Neil Peart. He writes a lot of their lyrics, too.”

“He's good?”

“One of the best.” Sid was still tense but was trying not to show it. The sooner they moved past this friendly chat, the better.

Brock did move. He asked her how she'd spent her two days off school, so she told him how she'd been her dad's house elf and how he'd lectured her, a lot, on the importance of getting an education and all that jazz. Which wasn't completely true. He'd mentioned it in passing during their talk on Monday evening, but every time he'd popped another antacid tablet it had felt like a lecture. The whole time, Brock nodded like a bobble-head, apparently pleased with her remorse.

Then came the moment she'd prepped for. “Let's talk about hitting Wesley.”

“I've thought about it a lot, Mr. Brock-”

“Paul. You're supposed to call me Paul.”

She blinked. “I know you think I'm angry. I'm not. Really. I think I'm confused.”

“Oh? So when you're confused you hit people?”

“No. That was, well, maybe it was a flash of anger. But mostly it was just me being confused.” She pointed at her file, which Brock had left on his desk. “You have to know I don't have a mom. Something Dad said on Monday made me realize that's why I hit Wes.”

“You have a mother, Sydney, she just isn't part of your household.”

“No, I really don't have a mom. She did more than left us. She
resigned.
When she left she told Dad she didn't want anything to do with being a wife or mom. And she never has, not in the twelve years since she walked out.” Sid willed Brock to take the bait. Sure she'd been upset about her mother leaving...twelve years ago. She had a single memory of being tiny and her dad rocking her while she kicked and wailed that she wanted her mommy.

“Where is she now?”

“Don't know. I think Dad keeps track, but I've never asked.”

Head down, Sid watched Brock from the corner of her eye. She was dumping all this too fast, she decided. She needed to slow down, let him coax stuff from her. More important, she needed to loosen the band squeezing her chest. Taylor was right: lying wasn't her style.

Brock leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees. “So having no mother on the scene makes you angry?”

“Not angry,” she whispered. “Confused. Devin and Dad are great. They taught me lots of stuff, but it was all guy stuff. I don't know how girls handle being insulted. In the movies, they cry, but I'm sure not going to do that. Guys hit. So that's what I did to Wes.”

She kept her hands clasped so she wasn't tempted to start tapping out a rhythm. Was he going to bite? Was he going to let her blame everything on someone she hadn't thought about in years? Someone she hadn't cared about for pretty much as long as she could remember.

The bobble started again, barely noticeable but there. Sid's breath huffed out in relief. But her body didn't relax –
her stomach still quivered, her calves felt on the verge of cramping.

“You've obviously given this a lot of thought, Sidney, and I think you are possibly right. But have you given any thought to what you're going to do about it? Going around hitting people isn't a useful approach to conflict resolution. Quite the opposite.”

“I think... I need to learn to be a girl.”
Reinvent myself.

“How are you going to do that?”

“I have an idea or two, but I'm not totally sure.”

Brock pointed at the poster on the wall, the one about being special just as you are. “Trying to figure out who you are is a good thing. Just remember that you have a lot of good qualities already. Girls don't fit a single mould any more than guys do.”

Which showed how little Brock knew about high school. If you didn't fit in one of the accepted moulds, you were a freak, or an outcast, or both. And at this point, if she didn't get into The Fourth Down she was as good as socially outcast. The audition had gotten their attention but she had to keep it. Their approval could erase the target Wes was trying to paint on her back.

Brock laid a hand on the arm of Sid's chair. “Peer pressure can be a powerful force, Sidney. Don't sacrifice too much just to fit in, okay?” She didn't reply – it was like he'd been reading
her mind and it was freaky. He leaned back and asked, “Out of curiosity, how much would you give up? Would you stop drumming?”

Sid jerked her head up. He was so off; this was all about drumming. Her one heel began to jitter. “No. I wouldn't give it up for anything. I'm not...selling my soul here. I'm only trying to figure out who I am.”

To her surprise, Brock nodded at the corny statement. “Okay. That's righteous.” Sid almost rolled her eyes – who ever, anywhere, said
righteous?
He added, “I want to see you again to touch base and see how you're handling things.”

She fought to keep her face neutral. This was not part of the plan. She had done the confessional thing so she wouldn't have to come back.

“So long as nothing else comes up, why don't you come back next Thursday, okay?” Brock took off his glasses and gave her that “trust me” smile.

Sid nodded and escaped. She almost ran to her locker, grabbed her books, stuffed them in her backpack and shot to the nearest exit. She needed fresh air before the smell of this place made her puke. Wax and metal and disinfectant and bodies. Too many bodies. All with eyes – eyes that watched too much, accused too much, judged too much. Why couldn't Brock back off?

She was half a block from the school when the last bell rang. She walked as fast as she could without breaking into a run. Her heart pounded like a double bass beat.

What was wrong with her? What had happened to staying cool? This wasn't part of the plan. She'd handed Brock her “woe is me, my mother abandoned me” line. And he'd eaten it like it was a plate of warm chocolate chip cookies.

Sid started to run. Someone drove by and honked. She didn't look. And she didn't stop until she turned onto her street. Six blocks. She wheezed and pressed her hand against her ribs, and wondered if this reinvention project should include some fitness training. No way. Not if it meant she'd have to get near any of the jock set.

Footsteps pounded behind her. There was no flight left in her, so she dropped her backpack and spun, ready to fight. Taylor stumbled toward her.

“Didn't you hear me, Sid?” He bent over and gasped in big mouthfuls of air. After a moment, he straightened. “I've been trying to catch you since I left school. What's wrong?”

Sid snatched up her pack and started walking. Taylor caught up and nudged her shoulder. “Did the counsellor piss you off?”

Just the mention of the word counsellor made her muscles notch tighter. “Leave it, Tay. I just want to let loose.”

“Yup. He pissed you off. So what're you gonna do? Beat up your drums?”

“No. Right now I feel like I'd break something. I can't afford to start replacing drums.”

“Wow. What
did
he say?”

“I don't want to talk, Tay. I need...” Sid paused as a thought struck her. “Would you take me for a ride on your bike? That ride last Saturday was great. We could find some paved side roads, open it up. Get this stink out of my head.”

They arrived at Taylor's driveway. “Stink, huh? Sure. Mom had early shift so she'll be home by now. Let me tell her where we're going.” He took Sid's backpack and left her standing on the concrete.

Sid didn't have to tell anyone where she was. Devin was at college; James was at work and wouldn't be home until at least 6:30. What was it like, she wondered, to have someone waiting for you after school, someone who wanted to know how your day was and who nagged you to do homework?

Sid scowled at Taylor's front door. For twelve years she'd gotten along fine with only Devin and James. What did she need a mother for? Bad enough when James hassled her about stuff without having another adult adding to the chorus.

Why did she think it was a good idea to feed that abandoned waif junk to Brock? She wished that he was a jerk. It might be easier to lie to someone she didn't sort of like.