I drop my bag by the wall and roll my eyes. “I didn’t chicken out. I just had to finish that theory worksheet Hale dumped on us last minute. Some of us actually care about our GPA.”
“You and I both know your GPA is fine. And besides, you won’t need it when you’re some bigshot on stage and the hot drummer’s counting you in.”
“Oh, it’s ahotdrummer, is it?”
His grin spreads. “Well, it’s going to be me, so yes. A hot drummer.” He spins one stick like a baton, then points it at the throne. “Sit. You’re learning drums today. No more excuses.”
I scoff, but it’s mostly for show. Dmitri has been begging to give me a drumming lesson for months now, and I finally caved a few days ago. It’s mostly to humor him, but it’s also some weird, silent apology for the horrible things I said to him during our fight.
The stool is set up for his longer legs and feels a little too high, but Dmitri steps behind me before I can think too much about it. His warmth arrives a half-second before his voice does, and his cedar shampoo cuts through the drum-polish haze until it’s all I can smell.
“First lesson: posture. You’re sitting like you’re afraid the kit’s gonna bite you.”
“I’m sitting like a normal person,” I argue.
“You look like you’re waiting for the principal to call your name.” His hands land on my shoulders, firm but not rough, and he adjusts my position. “Scoot up. Hips forward. You want your center of gravity over the pedals, not behind them.”
I shift, trying not to think about how his palms are still resting there, or how his thumbs brush the tops of my shoulder blades. “This feels weird.”
“That’s because you’re doing it wrong,” he says with a quiet laugh. My fingers are clumsy as he passes me a stick, then leans over my right side to tap the snare. “Your right hand will go here. Grip loose… don’t strangle the stick. You’re not trying to kill it, you’re coaxing it.”
His chest brushes my back as his fingers close around mine to guide the angle. “Like this. Wrist relaxed. Your motion comes from here—” He flexes our wrists together in a small, controlled snap, and the stick hits the snare with a clean crack. “Not from your elbow. You’re not chopping wood.”
He releases me to try it again on my own, and suddenly I feel like I have two left hands as I try to imitate what he just did. The drumstick taps the snare, but it’s softer, and a hell of a lot muddier.
“Not bad,” he says, but there’s a laugh in his voice he’s trying to hide. “Although that sounded likeyou’re knocking on a door asking permission to come in. Hit it like you mean it.”
I roll my eyes even though he can’t see it. “Imeanit. I just don’t want to break your kit.”
“You’re not gonna break anything.”
He repeats his instruction on the left side, guiding me to the floor tom and going through another hands-on demonstration at how to properly use the sticks.
“Feet now,” he says, and his left hand slides down to tap my knee, guiding my leg to one of the pedals. “Foot here. Light pressure.” I press down, and the hi-hat closes with a snap.
“Light, dude. You’re not stomping grapes. Just tap.”
“Just tap,” I mock in a whisper, but obediently soften my motion so it forms a hiss instead of a clap this time. He shows me the bass next, and chuckles when I press it so softly it barely makes a noise. We work on rhythm, and how all the sounds work together. After a few minutes, it starts to make sense.
“See?” He’s still right behind me, voice low and amused. “You’re a natural. Now put it together. Slow. One… two… three…”
I try.
I mean, Ireallytry, but the rhythm is clumsy. The snare is too loud, the hi-hat too late, and the kickis barely there. It sounds like a toddler throwing a tantrum on kitchen pots.
Dmitri bursts out laughing, head tipping forward so his forehead rests against the back of my shoulder. “Oh my god. That was beautiful. Truly avant-garde.”
“Shut up,” I say, but I’m grinning despite myself. “You’re a terrible teacher.”
“I’m an excellent teacher. You’re just a terrible student.” He straightens, but his hands stay on mine. “Again. Slower. Andbreathethis time. You’re holding your breath like you’re about to defuse a bomb.”
I inhale and try again. This time the snare lands on beat, the hi-hat opens cleanly, and the kick thumps underneath. It’s still messy, but it’s… something.
Dmitri lets out a low, pleased hum. “There it is. You’re finding the groove. Do you feel that?”
The vibration runs up my arms and settles in my chest. “Yeah. Kinda.”
“Only kinda?” He squeezes my hands once playfully before letting go and stepping around to face me. “Really committing to that shitty teacher comment, aren’t you?”
