HEARTBEAT

Chapter Three

A musician.

Grandma use to call me her lil' musician. She giggles display her two front teeth with a small space between them. A whistle escapes and adds another element to her laughter. With her index finger, she bops my nose as she looks over her shoulder down at me. We usually sit on her piano stool; my feet are long enough to touch the floor.

We spend our evenings at the piano wherever my parents went out and Grandma babysit us. My brother sits in the opposite side of the parlor, his feet dang off the golden chair. He slouches as he hum the notes Grandma would play. Under his breath, he tries to harmonize.

I miss this memory.

I forgot until Cameron mention it.

I guess in my subconscious, I know I am a musician. It's - well, it's different than saying the word in your mind. Once the word escapes the lips and sound comes out. The word becomes alive. It's true. I am and have always been a musician.

But here I am being a college student ... for a degree I have little desire in.

Why haven't I out right said to my parents I want to be a drummer?

I've implied through my constant practice, bothering in the newest sets (especially my drumsticks), and my plastic golden trophies that now sit on my dresser (mom and dad remove them from the living room to my room last year).

I've told them.

I think - wait, have I?

I start to. I prepare myself. I organize my thoughts, my strongest reason to my dream.

However, I hear them. Their voices.

A professional drummer? There's no financial guarantee.

I thought it was a hobby. I know it's a passion, but are you willing to do it for the rest of your life?

Grandma Anne was a pianist. She made a living - she got by. I don't want you to get by. I want the best for you.

Even as a young adult, I can hear those voices.

Those sentences that they've once said ... throughout my life. Small incidents and then the brain formulate their general statements ... and creates these things. The thing that sounds so much like them.

I want to tell them.

"I understand. It's your money and you want what's best for me. Super cliche by the way! However, I see myself doing this every single day for the rest of my life."

When do I tell them?

When will this semester be over? I've completed a lot of my general education. I'm sure transferring to another institution will be a pain, but it's a possibility. I'll make it possible.

"You made it!"

The voice breaks my thoughts.

I'm leaning against the white chip-painted brick wall. People are running back and forth down the corridor, the halfway point between contestants and watchers. Shoes pound on the emerald and cream floor. Today's the big day: The Battle. Three weeks goes by too quickly, I continue my studies as Cupid's Boy Band rehearse and practice their songs. I glance up to see Noah. His face is flush and his blonde dishevel in all different directions.

"Yes, now what is that so important to interrupt my study-"

He grabs my shoulders.

"You heard Take Me by Aly & AJ, right?"

I nod.

"Yes. Please tell me Girly reworked his improv bit. It's close, however he needs a little more sass to match the lyrics - less staccato more legato-"

"Perfect."

His right hand grips my left bicep and starts to walk me down the hallway.

"Wait - what are you doing?! Arky you better tell me what's going on or I'll bite you!"

I kick. I scream.

I even flail my arms and somehow, he still has a grip on me.

Why is he dragging me back stage?

Over the years The Battle has grown in numbers, Graystone High School could no longer have the competition in their five hundred seat auditorium. Instead the New Hope Baptist Church invite the competition there. With the upper deck and ground floor, there are seven hundred, maybe eight hundred, seat venue. Free and open for the students to participant.

I would have hesitated if The Battle was at the high school.

Too many memories. Gross, shudder memories of an awkward and unprepare self. I know it's been two years. I've changed a little ... probably not much. It's just - I've moved on. I don't want to go backwards. I would visit the place again for the teachers. Nothing more.

I let my heels smear and scratch the church's floor. Black marks are left behind me.

Gosh! Sorry Lord, I'm trying to stop my annoying brother. No disrespect!

Noah pushes a door open.

Other students are in their huddles. One girl is in the middle of the room, she stretches her arms above her head. Another person paces in an oval, earbuds playing metal/hard rock. I hear it when we pass by him. In the corner, there are the other two.

Girly.

And Cameron.

Girly sits on a black foldable chair. His face towards the ground. He leans forward as his right hand holds onto his left arm. Chest expands and exhales.

"How much have you been practicing?" Cameron says.

He bends over to get a closer look at Girly's arm.

"An hour after rehearsal."

Cameron squints.

"Fine, I do another three or four hours."

Then Girly winces. He throws his head back.

"What's happening?" I raise my voice.

Also, I push off Noah's hand. His grip loosens enough for me to move it.

"Why are you - cr - pooh, Girly let me see your arm."

I walk closer to him.

Reaching out to inspect the injury, there are no visible signs. His flush skin has small batches of irritation. Muscles are tight.

"Can you move your fingers?"

Girly nods.

He shows me. His fingers do a small wave. But he bites his lower lip.

"You've strained your muscles. You need rest."

I glance around and see a girl about to leave the room. "Hey you - can you get me ice? He's hurting pretty badly."

The brunette girl stares. Her emerald eyes watch Girly groan. Sweat is on her forehead, she probably got done doing her performance.

"Yes, of course. I'll be right back."

She leaves.

"I'm fine. I can play-"

"You're not fine, Girly" Cameron cuts him off. "You can barely raise it above your head."

"I've been practicing - we need to win this. This is the last year before we graduate. This - this - this-"

Girly starts to cry.

Yes, he's off tempo.

Yes, he can be over cocky.

But here, I know what he's feeling.

"You've done great. I have to say - you've improved Girly. I didn't hear any off tempos this last week."

He glances up at me.

I can tell he doesn't want me to see him cry.

His eyes move right to left.

"Thank you, Beats."

I smile.

He blinks. "Wait - Noah - you called her to-"

"Yes."

Noah grins.

"She'll do great I know it!" Girly exclaims.

"Do what great?"

"Beats," Cameron says, his dark brown eyes stare into my blue eyes. "You'll play with us."

Noah's question. The phone call. Girly's arm hurt.

Goodness, I'm slow!

"I can't," I say, "I'm not a student. You'll get disqualified. I have to recall your rock vision, I-"

Hands push my tensed up shoulders down.

"We know you've memorize the entire song," Cameron declares, "I know - and we have nothing to lose. You're our only hope. We want to play."

Girly can't play.

That means the band can't perform.

If I help then they'll be able to do so.

But then they'll not win the competition.

Isn't that what they wanted? Why they've stayed up all night practicing, after school rehearsals, and asking for feedback?

"You've worked so hard. Why throw it all away to play?"

Cameron raises his eyebrow.

"You should know Beats," he says, "A musician, of course, wants to win but that's not the purpose. We want to share and inspire others."

"And to get girls."

Of course, Girly has to devalue the most beautiful thing I've heard. Especially coming from a guy. A guy who cares about music ... like me.

Crap.

My hands start to shake.

I feel like that little girl again asking Dean Smith to kiss me.

But this, this is even bigger. Something I can't quite explain. Realizations come flowing in my mind. He's not afraid of me. He leans into my space. He listens and asks about me. The wink. He's flirting, I remember from those magazines.

"That's true," Noah says.

I roll my eyes.

"When do we perform?"

Noah and Cameron high five each other. Girly smiles and tries to shimmy in his seat. He groans from the arm pain.

"We're on in twenty minutes."

I start thinking of the first measure.

One. And. Two. And. Three. And. Four. And.

"Is that plenty of time for you?" Cameron asks.

One. E-ah. Two. E-ah. Three. E-ah. Four. E-ah.

"Yes."

One. And - ah. Two. And - ah. Three. And - ah. Four. And - ah.

"Need any help-"

"Cam," I hold my hand in the air, "I'm thinking the rhythms. I can't do it unless you stop asking questions."

The rhythms stop.

I look up at his face.

Crap! I don't mean to snap at him - I -

He smiles. "Amazing."

I look at him, and then at my brother. He seems to be ... smirking? His thumb runs over his chin as if he knows something I don't know. He's standing behind Cameron; he leans towards his neck and whispers.

Cameron turns around and punches Noah in the arm.

"I'm waiting," he says.

"Waiting for-"

"My drumsticks are in the bag."

Girly points to the black carrier on the ground.

"Thanks."

I grab them, not as flexible as mine, and start to go back to the rhythms.

Twenty minutes disappear, I pull on my black tank top down; the stretchy fabric clings to my stomach instead of around my waist. I'll be taking my denim jacket off with the stage lights would be da-darn hot. Good thing I'm wearing jeggings, the soft and elastic material gives me enough room to loosening up. I'll be able to play with no hiccups.

I'm holding the drumsticks in my hand. Noah and Cameron stand next to me, I'm in the middle. The person before us has finished their performance. We're given five minutes to double check sound and microphones before we play our song. Each contestant has only five minutes to do their act. That gives each contestant equal and share time.

Girly now has the brunette girl, who went and got ice, to care for him. She's putting ice in a baggy then placing it on his arm.

Well, he gets what he wants.

The stage crew, two men, who check the wires and microphones wave us on stage.

I climb into the plastic box. The walls are see through, the drum set is caged inside this self constraint thing.

"Let's remove this."

"We can't do that," the one guy says. A black ear piece is in his right ear. The battery pack wire is clipped on his belt.

"Why not?"

"The drums can drown out the guitar, bass, and vocals."

"Isn't that the point of drums? To be the concrete sound to hear?"

"I'm sorry. We don't have enough time."

"I highly doubt that-"

"Beats," Noah walks over with his guitar in his hand, "Go with it. You've never played in a band before."

"I've been in concert band. I won't drown you out."

"We believe you," Cameron chimes in. "We don't have time to take it down."

The way he looks at me. Not through me.

"Okay."

Cameron smiles and nods.

I close the small door and then get comfy. The seat cushion is deflated, I'm basically sitting on the frame. My hands loosen up and I roll my shoulders forward and then back. I start laying down some rhythms, nothing to give away our song choice. I can hear the bass, Cameron stringing and loosening his fingers up. Noah picks and makes staccato noise on his guitar.

I take a deep breath in.

Out.

In.

Out.

My hands shake.

It's been awhile. I smile.

I've missed this.

A knuckle knocks on my plastic wall.

"You ready?" Cameron asks.

Am I?

I nod.

Noah sees my nod. He holds the microphone.

"Hello ladies and gentlemen!"

I start with a loud drumroll, but then I go soft.

"We're Cupid's Boy Band. - Hello Diana!"

He continues to say what we're going to play, makes jokes, and points out more people in the audience.

I crescendo, the drums get louder.

"Here we go!"

I watch Noah and Cameron, their backs are toward me.

Noah vocalizes the first words of the lyrics and then the stage is ours. I create the tempo. Noah's fingers strum overtop of his guitar, leaning towards into the microphone. I bet his spit will be all over it. I observe their body language, thinking the rhythms and complimenting their instruments.

I glance down to focus on the rolls, cymbal, and hanging toms. Moving my body to the beat, my hair clings on my forehead - sweat already there. It's only the first verse. Licking my lips, I glance up to make sure the tempo transition goes well.

Noah steps away from his microphone, arching his back to bring his guitar closer to him. He glances over at Cameron.

The bass is lower on his hip. His hands reach up to the microphone. This is the one measure there's no bass notes.

He eyes the crowd. The seats full on the top and ground floor with men, women, and children all on their feet. Off claps try to pair with our song.

Cameron takes a deep breath and sings.

"I've been spending my attention on you

I don't wait long 'cause I got better things to do."

His raspy, deep voice fades away.

Turning around, his dark brown eyes slide over to me.

What is he doing? Shouldn't he be facing the crowd?

We all hit the beat together. His fingers pluck the strings as he continues the stare down.

What is he -

Cameron winks.

There's the wink again.

It can't mean -

I mean - well - yes.

Maybe?

Those lyrics.

He sees me.

He listens.

He understands me.

I listen to him.

Should I?

What if he says no? This is silly! Purely silly. I mean, this can be all in my mind. Imagination really.

I go on autopilot as my muscle memory takes over.

Oh gosh! This is bad! What'll my brother say? He'll be upset that I'm interested in his bandmate - well, friend. This is messed up.

I turn my gaze towards Cameron once more. He has his hands in the air to clap, encouraging the audience to join our song.

Before I know it, we are at the last measure. We add this to emphasize the chorus one more time.

Noah and Cameron sing into the microphone:

When you gonna take me out?

He's saying it to me.

Isn't it the guy who ask out the girl?

Why is that?

Gosh! I'm thinking too much!

Just ask him.

It's not a full commitment. It's one date.

One time. Unless I and Cameron, both, enjoy it.

Ugh. I'm not prepared.

I stop moving. My arms are sore, wrists have a small throb in it. The throb goes up my arm and to my shoulders.

One. Two.

Breathe.

One. Two.

Breathe.

It's that beat again.

The freakin' waltz that pop up when we last spoke.

The crowd chats our band's name. I hear it more when I open the plastic door. Cooler air hits my face, I stretch out of the plastic prison.

Leaning too much on my right side, I lose my balance.

A hand grasp onto mine.

"I got you," the warm breath tickles my ear.

I lean into his body.

Normally I would lean away because the sweat on me and on him.

"Cameron."

My voice shakes.

Why am I like this? Ugh, this is annoying! Just say it! Just say it!

"Will," I cringe at myself, this is moving too slow. "Gooutwith-"

"Yes."

He moves his hand behind my neck.

And then he kisses me.

Everything washes away.

What'll I say when I tell my parents I'm transferring colleges, pursuing my goal ...

A musician.

A drummer.

I don't hear the cheers increasing in the background. Or the fact, my brother claps too loudly and yells into the microphone. "Finally!"

Right now, all I can do is be here.

I stop to look in his eyes.

"How long have you waited?"

"Since the day you caught me."

This time, I pull him in and kiss him.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

For this story, I've went with first person narrative in present tense. Normally I write with third person omniscient or limited narrative in past tense. It was fun writing two stories at the same time. My brain had to switch in different "settings" for each story.

This story does contain three segments from "Take Me" by Aly & AJ. That's their song and it inspire me to create this plot.

Beats is an unique, strong independent woman who doesn't fully understand these romcoms. I enjoy writing this piece. I've always wanted to write about a girl drummer because I wish I had the passion and skill. Therefore you go, Beats! You're awesome! Also, we have a "badboy." I've explored that with Cameron. What are your thoughts?

Enjoy this short story near and dear to my heart!

If you enjoy this, I highly recommend checking out my ChickLit story called Fake It.

Love,

Fallon Elizabeth

CAST

♥ Elle Fanning as Amber "Beats" Ross

♥ Alex Pettyfer as Noah "Arky" Ross

♥ Jordan Fisher as Cameron Flores

♥ Asa Butterfield as Doug Girly