Drummer Girl (3 page)

4 |
grooves in the arsenal

Halfway through Sid's two-day suspension and it felt like four. Her dad had left her a long list of spring cleaning chores to do while she was home. She couldn't get them done in triple the time. And James still expected her to go to her math tutor tonight, just like every Tuesday. What good was a suspension if it didn't get her out of doing math?

The worst part had been sitting down with James on Monday after supper and explaining it to him. Now he was worried she might have
violent tendencies.
Among other things.

“This is all my fault,” James had said with a groan.

“How can it be your fault?” she'd asked.

“I never remarried.”

“But you told me once that you never actually got a divorce.”

“If I'd worked harder to have a female influence in your life, this wouldn't have happened. I thought Kathy living close by would be enough, but you hardly see your aunt or your cousins. You've grown up with only Devin and me. How were you supposed to learn to be a girl?”

“Dad,” she'd replied. “I am a girl.”

“Well, yes, but you don't act like one, do you?”

What, Sid wondered, had happened to women's liberation and being able to do what you wanted? Shortly after their talk, Devin had called from college, asking for Sid. She was sure James had set it up. So she had told Devin what had happened. He had snickered and said, “That's my sis.” His being cool about it had at least helped Sid try to shrug it off.

All Monday night James had popped antacid tablets like crazy. He'd tried to be sneaky, but Sid had noticed. She
was worried about him; he was worried about her. What a freaking mess.

Sid was cleaning yet another window – how could a smallish house have so many windows? – when the phone rang. She answered with a brusque, “Crowley's.”

“Sid?”

“Yeah...” She drew it out. The voice was vaguely familiar but she couldn't place it.

“Tim Rocklin here.” Sid's breath caught. The Fourth Down's bass player. He continued, “We're jamming at my place and are trying out a few guys on drums. Someone said you're pretty good and want to play. Thought you might like to come over. Audition, like.”

“I'd love to. Ah, when?”

“Another guy's trying out in about two minutes. Give us forty.”

Sid bit the inside of her lip and thought furiously. It was five o'clock and tutoring wasn't until half past seven. James was
working late again and might not make it home before that.

Rocklin cleared his throat. “Sound good?”

James wouldn't even know she'd slipped out. “Yeah. I'll be there.”

“Great.” He hung up.

Sid hit the off button and punched the air, phone in hand. “My break! Woohoo!” She danced around the living room, then stopped. Crap. She didn't know Rocklin's address. She phoned Taylor, barely letting him say hello. “Tell me you know where Tim Rocklin lives.”

“Sure. Other side of the school, in one of those rich cul-de-sacs near the ravine. Why?”

“I have to be there in forty minutes.”

“Aren't you, like, grounded until the suspension ends?”

“Don't quibble, Tay. This is my chance. I'm auditioning. Can you give me a ride?”

“What if Mr. J finds out?”

“He won't unless you tell him.”

Taylor sighed, then agreed, reluctance dripping from every word. Thirty-five minutes later he deposited her in the driveway of a house triple the size of her bungalow. He waved and headed off to gas up. His motorbike's roar echoed off the semicircle of what James would call executive homes. Sid practically hugged the box containing her kick pedal as she rang the doorbell. Nervous, yes, but totally pumped.

Someone in an apron answered the door, giving Sid a cursory, disapproving glance.
Maybe I should've changed out of my grungy housecleaning clothes.
The woman opened the door wider. “You must be the other young man Timothy said would be coming. They're in the basement. This way.” Her rubber-soled shoes barely whispered on the tiled floor. Hired help, Sid realized.

She descended the staircase the woman indicated, heading toward the sound of laughter and found the band sprawled in some home-theatre chairs drinking beer. Tim Rocklin, called Rock by his friends, spotted her and raised his bottle. “Want a beer before you start, Sid?”

“No, thanks. I prefer playing clean.”

He curled his top lip. “You know the guys?”

Everyone knew Jeff Clementine (Clem) and Han Walser. Both good athletes and better musicians. Han nodded; Clem stared. Sid fought the urge to shuffle. She refused to look nervous even if her heart was rattling a rapid snare drum tattoo.

Han indicated the box Sid clutched tightly. “Whatcha got there?”

“My kick pedal.” A look of approval crossed his face.

Rocklin said, “You're Devin's sister. You play as good as him?”

“He's lead guitar so it's hard to compare. I'm as good as any drummer his band had.”

“We'll judge that. Let's do it.”

She trailed them into the next room where Rocklin had a complete band set-up. He even had some basic recording equipment. The drum kit was better than hers – nothing second-hand for Rocklin – but as soon as she tried these she decided her own cymbals had better tone. It took her a few minutes to attach her pedal, wishing it was the cooler double kick pedal.
Someday.
Then she adjusted and positioned the throne. The rest would have to wait until she was a member of the band.

They kept to easy songs from a drummer's point of view. Basic rock grooves. She was able to add a few fills, spice it up a little. Han switched between lead guitar and keyboards, depending on the song. Clem played a solid lead guitar. Rocklin was awesome on bass, which was surprising considering how big he was, fingers included. But they flew, as fast and delicate as hummingbirds.

The tempo picked up as the session progressed. They were halfway through a song when Rocklin turned and yelled over the music, “Let's see you solo, Sid. In place of the chorus.”

Sid nodded. She'd hoped they'd want this. She'd been developing a solo almost for as long as she'd been playing. She gave them the full meal deal. Drummed her heart out. She felt the rhythm thrumming through her and knew she'd nailed it, ending it with a double hit – ride and crash cymbals together – that was her version of ending with a gong like Neil Peart did.

The cymbal vibrations faded away into silence. Sid laid the sticks on the snare drum and waited, the mantra of “Let me be your drummer” chanting through her mind.

Finally, Rocklin said, “That was decent.” Sid suppressed a smile but inside she was grinning. He asked, “You covered a lot of ground. Anything you can't do?”

“I still can't do double hand crossovers. I'm working on it.”

Rocklin nodded. Clem said, “We don't do drum solos in our gig.” He started to say something else, glanced at Rocklin and pressed his lips into a sneer.

Sid almost asked why they bothered listening to hers, then decided it was the best way to show them what she had. She loved soloing, but said, “I can live with that. I just want to play.”

Rocklin nodded again. “We all like to do that. We'll have to talk about it, Sid. You know we tried out another guy. Maybe you know him: Wes Remichuk?”

Sid blinked. “I didn't know he drummed.”

“He picked up sticks about a year ago. He's okay.”

Sid had been playing for over three years, had taken lessons on and off, and knew without hearing him that she was better than Wes. “Whatever you decide.” She'd said it cool, just like Devin would. Inside, her grin had widened to a maniacal width.

After Sid got her kick pedal back in its box, Clem said, “Are you going to tell her or not, Rock?” His outburst earned him a silencing look, which he ignored. “You're the one who's always saying we've got to be out front with each other, that bands fall apart when the members start pissing around.”

“Tell me what?” Sid asked. The inner grin had evaporated.

Clem slammed down the lid of his guitar case and snapped the catches closed. He turned to face her, his expression stony. “I don't want a chick in the band.”

“We've been through this, Clem,” Rocklin said. “We decided –”

“No,” Clem replied. “You decided. Maybe if she'd hooked up with Joanne it'd be okay.”

Sid looked from Clem to Rocklin, trying to decipher what the issue was. Rocklin shrugged in her direction. “Clem figures guys will fight over a chick if she's in the band. But that isn't likely to happen in this case, even if you aren't gay.” His gaze ran over Sid and she felt judgment in his suddenly closed expression.

Wearing her work clothes had definitely been a mistake. Sid's stomach squeezed as she felt her chance slipping away. She wasn't sure she should say anything but what did it matter at this point? “So, Clem only wants me to play if I'm into chicks and you'll only take me if I look better? What does Han think?”

Han, who'd been leaning against the wall listening, avoided her gaze.

Clem's tone was irritated. “Han always votes with Rock.”

“Which means what?”

Rock replied, “You impressed us enough today that we might let you play a gig with us to see how it goes. But...we're style-setters, Crowley, not refugees. You want to play with us you'd better clean up. We take our music seriously but we also look good on stage.” He gave her the once-over again and shook his head.

In her mind, Sid heard the drumbeat of a death march as her hopes were flung under a guillotine.

5 |
accent on the upbeats

Here it was, Wednesday night, and Sid admitted she was not looking forward to going back to school tomorrow. She still hadn't heard from Rocklin about that possible gig. If she didn't make it into The Fourth Down she was going to scream. Then there was Wes. Bad enough she'd hit him. If she did beat him out, he might try to rouse the wrath of the jock set. They stuck together tighter than a hillbilly clan. If she had the stamp of approval from
tfd
, she should be safe, but you never knew what would set them off.

With her earphones in and her
iPod
on half volume, Sid tried to keep her mind occupied by learning a new song. She'd found the drum tabs on the Internet, but even with that it was proving tricky. She was going through the song for the nine or tenth time when Taylor and Narain bounded down the stairs. Taylor's foot slid off the last step and he staggered sideways, stopping before he bumbled into the
tv
stand.

Sid tugged her earphones free. “My jailer is letting me have visitors?”

Taylor sprawled onto the carpet near the sofa, as if the floor were the safest place for him. “Yup. But Mr. J said we can't stay long.”

Narain plopped onto one end of the sofa and picked up a
Drum
magazine Sid had left on the end table. He fanned the pages. “There's to be no physical contact between the prisoner and visitors. He assured us all visits are being monitored. Maybe he got wind of your jailbreak last night.” He dropped the magazine. “What were you playing? It sounded pretty tame.”

Sid left her sticks and
iPod
on the throne and claimed the other end of the sofa. “A jazz piece.”

Narain's brown eyes grew round. “Jazz?”

Taylor laughed. “Now you know our metal queen's secret, Narain. She also likes jazz. Weird, huh? She says it has influenced metal but she's not gonna convince me of that. I'm happier thinking she has a split personality.”

“And I like Rush. They aren't metal. It's all about the drumming.” Sid sniffed and decided to change the topic. “Did you eat at your grandmother's tonight, Narain?”

He scowled. “What makes you think so?”

“Every time you do, you smell like a jumble of spices. What's that one they use so much in East Indian cooking?”

“Cumin,” he muttered.

“Yeah. That's what you smell like.”

“I had no choice. It was my grandfather's birthday. I'd rather have eaten at a pizza joint.”

Sid tapped his shin with her toe. “I'm not hassling you about it. Dad took Devin and me to an East Indian restaurant once. It was good. Well, except for one dish. The waitress warned us it was hot, but Dad said to try it. I think my mouth burned for two days.”

Narain smiled. She liked making him smile, liked the way his teeth shone white against his brown skin.

Taylor slapped the rug. “Now that we've covered music and food, let's get to the important stuff. What happened with the audition? You were gone when I swung by Rocklin's to pick you up.”

“I walked home. Needed to unwind.” Sid's gaze bounced between her friends. “No word around school yet?” They both shook their heads. She told them the story, but couldn't bring herself to quote Rocklin about her looking like a refugee. That had stung and she knew Taylor would howl over it.

Apprehension etched Taylor's brow. “Wait a minute. You hit Wes because he called you butch, but you didn't tell the band you aren't?”

“Yeah, well, I overreacted with Wes. His attitude pisses me off.”

“You're not into lying, Sid. Why would you lie about that?” Taylor's eyebrows had scrunched together as he spoke.

“Clem will go on a full out campaign against me as soon as I admit it. I didn't lie. I just didn't set them straight. That's all.”

Narain said, “That's
not
all, Sid. Wes might be your bigger problem. He got suspended for a day because of you. And if you beat him out to be
tfd
's drummer, he might be ticked enough to turn the jock set against you.” Sid nodded at the echo of her earlier thoughts.

Taylor said, “You're one of ‘em, Narain. You'll be able to warn us if that happens.”

“He isn't one of them,” Sid said and turned to Narain. “I mean, you play sports, but you don't have that own-the-hallways attitude.”

Narain's shoulders twitched. “Bottom line.” He leaned forward. “If they decide to make your days miserable, it'll happen.”

“Why would they do that?”

“Because they can.”

“What wonderful logic.”

Taylor said, “Maybe you should hope that Wes gets into
tfd
. At least then he'd be too busy to be gunning for you.”

“No way. I'm better than he is. I deserve that gig.”

Taylor's expression darkened. “And you'll lie to get it.”

Sid kicked the air in his direction. “Give it a rest, Tay. As soon as I do that practise gig with them they'll realize how good I am and Clem won't care that I'm not gay. I'll clear it up then. It doesn't mean anything.”

“Sure. So are you gonna hook up with a girl just to keep up appearances?”

“Don't be a jerk.”

Narain cleared his throat. “Cool it, you two. I don't want to have to call the warden.” His eyebrows jigged toward the ceiling. He stuffed his hands into his jeans pockets. Designer jeans.

Sid felt the need to come clean. “There's one way Wes has me beat.”

“He's a better liar?” Taylor asked.

She scowled at him. “No, he's a better dresser.”

Narain smiled. “No offence, Sid, but that doesn't take much. Though I see your point. The guys in
tfd
like their labels. Too bad you don't have a mom around to give you advice.” He gave her a compassionate glance. She rolled her eyes. That was ancient history.

Taylor said, “She dresses like Devin. He was cool.”

Sid thought about the disdainful look Rocklin had given her clothes. “Devin doesn't need to have style. He has talent.”

“You have talent, Sid. You don't need cool clothes any more than you need lies.” Taylor arched his eyebrows.

Sid's breath escaped in a hiss. Did he have to keep needling
her? Didn't he realize how important this was? Besides, he was so wrong. She wasn't going to pretend she was gay just for Clem, so she needed clothes. Cool clothes. She ignored the barb. “So... No great ideas?”

Taylor's expression said, “Don't look at me.” He rolled onto his stomach and picked at the red shag threads. Narain avoided her gaze and looked up at the tile ceiling.

What a useless pair of friends,
Sid thought.
How do I reinvent myself?