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“Freshman year of high school. I learned to play piano as a kid, so I joined band. Emma plays the clarinet.” He paused with the drinks in his hand before we made our way over to the couches. “We kind of hated it. It was too uniform and not creative enough. After that year, we ditched band. Emma got into photography, and I taught myself how to play the drums.”
“Wow,” I said, astonished. A self-taught drummer. “That’s impressive.”
He rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Nah. I just wanted to learn. So, I did.”
It was obvious that Drew wasn’t aware of how big of a deal that was. I thought it was the coolest thing I’d ever heard. I wanted to ask him a lot of questions: why the drums? How did he teach himself?
Amy Winehouse’s voice sounded from the speakers around us. I noticed her unique vocals immediately. I often listened to bands with male leads, but I found as I got more and more into my secret singing adventure that there was a lot to learn from leading women, and Amy had become one of my favorites.
Drew sat next to Emma on the couch she occupied. Sean and his lady were on the loveseat, cuddled up and opening their beers with red-rimmed, glossy eyes. Ronnie sat on the other loveseat, already chugging his beer down. He had his phone out, and I knew he was more than likely texting his girlfriend. Seeing as Emma and Drew were on the largest couch, I sat on Drew’s other side.
Emma held up her Solo cup and beamed at us. “To great music and new friends!”
We all smiled, even Ronnie, who’d lost his energetic spirit after the concert ended. We held up our bottles and cups and clinked them together just as Amy Winehouse’s song ended and was replaced with the Beastie Boys.
The music posters all over the walls impressed me. The range of music that Emma appreciated was immense, as were some of her black and white photography shots of live shows that hung framed around the front door. I knew they had to be her work because of Drew’s mention, and because he was in several of the photos. My eyes skimmed her photographs before taking in the posters: Hendrix, Britney Spears, The Beatles, The Grateful Dead, Fall Out Boy, Dr. Dre, Fleetwood Mac, Creedence Clearwater Revival, Blink-182 (naturally) and so many more.
“So, where do you guys go to college?” Emma asked. She leaned forward over Drew a bit to talk.
I couldn’t help but snort. “We aren’t quiteincollege yet.”
Emma’s eyes bulged, and she reminded me of a young kid as her jaw dropped. “Oh my God! No way?” She playfully slapped my knee. “You have to at least be juniors or seniors, I hope? You don’t look that young.”
Drew looked amused and hid his grin underneath the rim of his cup.
“I just turned eighteen. Sean and Ronnie are a bit older.” I took a swig of my drink. “We graduate next month.”
Emma wiped imaginary sweat from her brow. “Whew. Good. We aren’t much older, then. We both go to community college, though Drew attends down in Fredericksburg.”
That caught my attention. “Yeah?” I asked him.
He nodded. “Yep. Almost halfway through with my associates. Not that I care at this point.”
I wondered what he meant by that. I parted my lips to ask him about it, but Emma beat me to it. “What about you? Are you going to college?”
“Well, if I do go to college, I’ll be attending with Drew.” Drew stared at me inquisitively. “I live in Stafford, so we’re really close. But I don’t know what I’m going to do after graduation. All I know is I’m going to get the hell out of my parents’ place as soon as possible.”
Emma cocked a brow, but luckily got distracted by a notification on her phone.
“Stafford, eh?” Drew asked. “We’re practically neighbors.”
I chuckled. “You aren’t kidding. What high school did you go to?”
We talked for the next twenty minutes about our high schools. He went to one closer to Fredericksburg, unsurprisingly. Drew told me about how he almost didn’t graduate without Emma’s help in Precalculus, and how he lucked out to have her at his school because she lived so far away. Apparently, Emma had begged her parents to let her attend elsewhere because she hated her middle school and wanted to be around different people. Then, he went on about how he used to sign up for the art electives because they were easier to skip out on. I told him about our school after that. We ended up sitting so close that our legs pressed up against each other while we talked. Emma had moved on to smoke a blunt with Sean and his girl outside. Ronnie paid no attention to us from where he sat on his separate couch, glued to his phone.
“Why did you say what you did earlier?” I asked. “About college, I mean?”
Drew looked down at the cup in his lap glumly. He smiled, but it wasn’t a happy one–it was a smile that looked like he’d come to terms with something.
“I don’t like it,” he said, matter-of-factly. “I don’t see myself becoming a lawyer, or a teacher, or a doctor, or any of that.” I could feel the distress rolling off of him.
“Well, what do you see yourself doing?”
He looked at me. Really looked at me. Into me. His eyes trailed over my face, down my neck and Adam’s apple, to my chest. They roamed over each inch of me like he was trying to figure out who I was and why I cared.
Finally, he shrugged. “A drummer. I want to be a drummer. I don’t have to be in a band that makes it big or anything. Playing local shows on the weekends with a small band would suffice, but I can’t tell my parents that’s what I want.” He blew out a breath. “At least not yet. I live with them on the condition that I stay in school.”
Ah. That made sense.
