“Do you think the drummers up there care if they’re technically perfect? No. Because it’s more about the show and taking the listeners on a journey. Stop playing to the teachers. Or to me. Play like you’re on a stage playing to all your adoring fans. Your job isn’t to be a star student. It’s to be a star.” I was starting to understand what her playing lacked. I wanted her to be excited to play, to be filled with that fire I had once.
“Nice speech.”
“I’m serious. What are you afraid of?”
Cath beat the sticks against her thigh. “I just want to play what I’m supposed to. Get into college and start my life. That’s the plan,” she said.
“Fuck the plan. You’re what, seventeen? Here’s a secret: nobody has a plan.”
“Miss Mitchell does.”
“Mari is the exception. Just play something you’d play if nobody was here.”
Cath cracked a tentative smile. “What should I play?”
“The first thing that comes to mind.”
She pursed her mouth in thought, looking into space for the answers. After a minute, she went to my phone, which was connected to the sound system, and selected a song. Her foot tapped as she counted off a beat in her head. After a second, she started to play, sticks hitting the cymbal and snare in tandem. The drum intro to “Rock and Roll” by Led Zeppelin was instantly recognizable. She even came in on the pickup to the fourth beat. Few drummers knew that correct entrance. This kid was so damn good.
“Nice choice!” I shouted. It was a high-energy song. The drums pulled the whole band through, as they should. The longer she played, the more her face remained impassive. She was still holding back. “Come on. Get into it,” I encouraged. I stood and moved closer to watch her. She was good but still acting like she thought she should. She glanced at the window where Mari was still working, not paying attention. Was she worried about what Mari would think?
“More,” I said.
She played louder but in the same energy, her face scrunching with the physical exertion of keeping the steady, almost Chicago shuffle–like melody.
“More!” I yelled.
Something was off, and I couldn’t figure out what.
I opened my mouth to shout when she slammed down on the cymbals, grabbing them so they stopped ringing through the air. “If you say ‘more’ onemoretime, I will scream.”
She was panting, and her face was bright red.
“Sorry.” I shook my head. “It just needs...”
“More? Yeah, I got that. Can you be more specific?”
My ears rang in the silence. I took a breath. What did I mean? “It’s a feeling. Are you feeling it? Are you really listening?”
“I thought I was.” She glanced again to the window. This time, Mari was watching us, the first furrow of concern on her brow. I smiled and gave her a thumbs-up, and she went back to work. “This isn’t why we’re here. We should just get back to the audition stuff,” Cath said.
“Hang on.” What about Mari being here was throwing her off? “First, just try to listen to this.”
I went to the sound system and queued up the song to play through our headphones.
“It’s meant to feel like a return to rock and roll. That urgency. Like just trying to catch up with that driving feeling.”
She raised her eyebrows. “I played it how it goes.”
“Technically, yes. But those accents in the intro, you hear how they are different once the guitar kicks in. That’s that feeling of rushing and rocking. Do you want to try it again?” I asked her.
“No.” She crossed her arms. “I can’t understand by hearing, obviously. I’ve heard this song a bunch. That’s how I learned it,” she said.
“But—”
“Just show me.” She tossed out her arms.
I froze, a sudden tingling in my palms. “I-I don’t really?—”
