Letting loose with my arms and hands and feet, pounding out the rhythm that ran through my whole body, I felt free for the first time that day. No fear - I sent it hiding. No anger - it was used up as energy for my muscles. No ache for my sassing friends - this was the one way I stepped out of time and emotions. There was only rhythm.

Sweat prickled across my skin. My short sleeves were rolled up as high as they would go and skirt was hiked up in a way I supposed was indecent, if I cared about things like that. Especially when I was drumming.

My notes formed in my spine and danced through my limbs before dying in spectacular noise against the parts of drum kit. With the sticks balanced loosely in my hands, my feet cradled on the pedals, I lived and breathed the music. The room was a blur. My drums were all I could see.

"Hey, whoa, that's great Brooklyn!" yelled Stephen. His voice broke through the blur and brought me back to the room. "Let's wrap it up there. You can work out your solo stuff later."

I touched the top hat to quiet its ringing. "Good."

"Yeah, looks like you have 'Sweet Candy' down, except for the end of the refrain. Our old drummer did a quick ta-ta-da thing," Stephen said.

I blinked trying to imagine what he was talking about. The other two members of the band, Joshua and Mike, were not forthcoming with any additional help, so I shook my head. "I'll double check the CD and see if I can figure it out," I said. "What next?"

"'Walking the Mile,' if you practiced it."

"OK." I tapped my sticks together fast three times and listened as he opened with a screeching guitar solo. This song rubbed me the wrong way. Of all their pieces, this was the only one that annoyed me. I twirled my sticks around my fingers, waiting for my entry.

Joshua came in with his monotonous base-line, but for some reason he was staring at me. I kept spinning my sticks. Finally, I could start pounding my bass drum in a mind-numbing tempo. Not only did this song grate on my nerves, it was boring to play.

Halfway through and Joshua was still staring at me. Was my shirt ripped open? Chemical burns on my face that I hadn't noticed from Chemistry? Or was he looking at my shoulders? I had unusually muscular shoulders and arms for a girl between my drumming and martial arts practicing. I stretched my arms out and flipped my sticks before I started on the tom-toms with them.

Joshua missed a few notes and Mike paused on the keyboard to let him catch up.

"Whoa, stop!" yelled Stephen. As lead guitar player and singer, he was also the unofficial head of Spit Fire. "What is this crap? This practice is to help Brooklyn get up to speed, not babysit your sorry butts!"

The guys started flipping each other off and making obnoxious noises. I decided my snare drum was the most interesting object in the room and fiddled around with its height. I wanted to keep playing so I wouldn't have to think about anything else. Things like the words scratched into my closet wall, the hand print that was still in my book, that voice talking to me in the bathroom. I wanted it all out of my head. This day had already gone on too long and wasn't nearly over. The worst was yet to come.

I sighed and stretched my back. Now the guys were drinking water and telling each other what was wrong with the song.

There was something else bothering me. I knew when I nearly fainted in the Principal's office, I had had a weird hallucination of men and mud, but remembering exactly what happened was as hard as pinning a fly to the wall. It kept slipping away at the last second.

I rolled a military march rhythm on the snare drum, accentuated by a low boom of the base. A military march for ragged men in Civil War uniforms, waiting for orders to march to their death. That part I could remember. There had been death in their dirty faces, death on their thread-bare jackets and the threat of death in the watery mud.

I beat out the rhythm again, slow and precise.

That's what was wrong with this song. The tempo and rhythm were all wrong. "Military march," I said, interrupting the argument.

"What?" asked Mike.

"'Walking the Mile' should be done with a military march. It's about facing your enemy while being chased by your fears. We are going into battle." I did the rhythm again while they listened.

"Yeah, maybe," Stephen said. His scowl said I needed to keep my suggestions to myself.

Too bad for him, but I was a member of the band now. "I'm new here, but let me say this song sucks the way it is. Let's try it like this."

"Yeah, you're new here. I don't think-"

"That's awesome, do it again," Joshua said. He played his base at a matching tempo, slower than before, but bending his notes to slide up and down. It created a sorrowful, fateful sound. "That could work," he said.

"Yeah, except no," Stephen said. The guys launched into their verbal assaults and I figured I had done my time for the evening.

"Let's do this one later. I have to go. I have to be somewhere in thirty minutes. See you guys later!" I stood, adjusting my clothes back to their usual positions. The good thing about the practice room was that I could leave the kit standing. I packed my sticks and shouldered my backpack. They yelled their goodbyes after me.

Joshua followed me into the hallway. "Do you need a ride? You don't have a car, do you?"

"No, I can walk. It's not that far. Thanks!"

"Wait," he called. He fell into step with me. "Let me drive you, it's no problem." He smiled.

I hesitated for a moment. "No, really. I need this time for a walk to clear my head. It's fine, you guys have fun getting pizza."

"Do you want to talk about it? I mean earlier today, Alicia said some pretty crazy stuff, but it's OK. If you want to talk or if you don't, but I hate to think of you walking around alone."

"Because it might be dangerous for me?" I asked. My stomach turned.

"Well, probably not during the day, but you must be upset with that weird stuff happening to you. It might make you feel better to ride and talk."

"Actually, what I really need is a good walk," I said.

"But why not let me-"

"See you later, Joshua!" I called. I could see he was starting to cut himself on the broken glass I kept around me. Well, it was bound to happen. I waved and then turned to go.

******

Mr. and Mrs. Walter greeted me at the door to their perfectly kept house and ushered me into the living room. They had trays and trays of goodies to snack on and I wondered how long it would take the two of them to finish the leftovers. My appetite had fled upon arrival.

"Sit down, sit down, Brooklyn! Make yourself at home. It's so nice to see you. How is your mom?" Mrs. Walter asked. Her first name was Cheri, but she had never invited me to use her first name, so she was still Mrs. Walters.

"She's good. She's so busy with work and classes we hardly ever see each other."

"Mm-hmm."

It was Mr. Walters' turn. This was how it always went. "And how is school? Still learning great stuff?" He used a voice normally reserved for kids six years old and under.

"Oh, yeah. I'll have to start preparing my SAT's and looking at colleges pretty soon, but other than that, school is good."

"Oh, isn't that nice?" Mrs. Walters exclaimed as though utterly shocked that SAT's and colleges existed.

"You know teachers are your friends, right? They make it tough on you, but they want you to succeed. You keep working hard, you hear. You are the best!" Mr. Walters held up his fist which always made me cringe.

I made myself give him a fist bump; it was too cruel to leave him hanging. I suppose he wished I was a boy. Or better yet, one of his own boys.

The presence of Sean and Levi positively smothered the room. They were all over the walls. Their trophies and craft projects were all over the shelves and mantel. Their books and electronic games were decoratively placed between piles of photo albums on the coffee table.

Everyone thought I was a saint for coming here once a year to pay Mr. and Mrs. Walters a visit on the anniversary of when their sons disappeared. I personally thought I was a martyr, but after I went the first time, I didn't know how to refuse the standing invitation.

"I want you to eat some of these cucumber and cream-cheese slices I prepared. There are crackers and olives and some roasted bell peppers to dip in the humus. Eat something! You look like you might starve to death on that sofa," Mrs. Walters said. Laughing , she forced a plate in my hands and started loading it up.

"Thanks," I said. I had just taken a nibble of a cracker when she lifted the first photo album.

"I know what you want. Let's start!" She opened the first album. "My boys are so handsome. We are so proud of them, aren't we sweetheart?"

"We sure are. They are two in two million," Mr. Walters said with a chuckle.

"We are really looking forward to the day this family will be reunited and you will always be a part of that, Brooklyn. We wanted you to know."

"That's right," Mr. Walters agreed. He held the second photo album ready to go and we hadn't even started the first.

"Oh, this reminds me. A while back we found Levi's diary. Now, in honor of your great friendship with our boys and especially Levi, we wanted to let you read a part of it. I know he wouldn't mind."

I had to keep myself from bolting from the sofa. "That's really nice, Mrs. Walters, but I wouldn't feel right-"

"Oh, shush, shush. Let's go upstairs you and me and get it, just the girls!" She put her hand on my elbow to pull me up.

********* Thanks for reading! This chapter was tough for me to get right, I kept having to start over, so I hope you enjoyed it! Comments and votes are greatly appreciated! **********