Drum Roll, Please

by Lisa Jenn Bigelow

  When I mustered the guts to look at the others, Donna was bobbing her head to the beat and even mouthing the words. David swayed in time. Even Caleb’s scowl had smoothed out.

  “It’s rough,” Donna said, after Adeline strummed the final jangling chord and I rolled my sticks to a finish and struck my crash cymbal one last time. “And I’d want to increase the tempo. But it’s off to a strong start, Melly. Well done.”

  Somehow I knew those two little words—well done—were the highest praise Donna could offer, and they were all the more significant for their simplicity. I nodded back at her. Adeline believed in me, and now so did Donna. “Guys?” I asked tentatively.

  “It’d rock more with electric,” Caleb said. Call me crazy, but I think it was a compliment.

  “David?”

  David brushed his hair out of his eyes. “Yeah. I think it’s pretty good.”

  “Terrific,” Donna said. “In that case, you four have the rest of class to make something out of this song and practice the rest of your set.”

  In some ways this practice was harder than any of the ones before, because it was our last. If we weren’t ready for showtime by the end, we’d embarrass ourselves in front of our families tomorrow and, worse, our fellow musicians. But in some ways it was also the easiest practice, because after two weeks we worked together better than ever.

  Yeah, David and I weren’t as tight a rhythm section as Olivia and I were. And Caleb rushed and noodled all over the neck of his guitar even when the song did not call for noodling. But it sounded better than I’d ever hoped for. By the end, we were as ready as we could be without another week of practice.

  “Okay, people,” Donna said when her watch beeped. “It’s time to pack it in, but this is the time I’m supposed to take a few minutes to tell you how hard you’ve worked, what a great team you’ve become, how you should totally come back to Camp Rockaway next year, yada yada yada.”

  “Flattery,” Adeline said.

  “You think I, of all people, would exaggerate?” said Donna. “You have worked hard, and you’ve become a great team, considering the circumstances.”

  Everyone exchanged a glance. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Caleb said.

  “Yeah,” said Adeline, “considering what circumstances?”

  “You might have noticed that your musical interests are . . . diverse. We match people up as much as we can, based on what you tell us at your audition. So we end up with a ska band, a power pop band, a metal band or five. But sometimes we have one too many metalheads or Taylor Swift fans. Or someone who doesn’t care what genre they play, as long as there’s good lyrics. Or someone who just wants to make some noise.” Donna’s eyes met mine, and the corners of her mouth quirked up.

  “You’re saying we’re the leftovers,” Caleb said flatly.

  “That’s one way of putting it,” Donna said.

  “And you threw us together to see what would happen. Like a science experiment.”

  “Or a smoothie,” Adeline said.

  Donna shrugged. “Sometimes it works out. Sometimes it doesn’t. You four had a rocky start, but you pushed through. Play tomorrow the way you did today, and you can be proud. I’ll be proud, too.”

  “We still don’t have a name, though,” Adeline said.

  An idea popped into my head, and I grinned. “Yes, we do.”

  “We do?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Caleb said it. We’re the Leftovers.”

  For once there was no arguing. Everyone agreed it was perfect.

  Dear Melly,

  The bathroom is Perfectly Peach! Or imperfectly. I’m not going to quit my job to become a painter anytime soon. It will take some getting used to, but I’m already enjoying the results. It’s so fresh, so peaceful. As soon as the paint cures, I’m taking a good, long bubble bath.

  Your dad told me he tried to explain things to you. I wish he’d waited until we could all sit down together, but too late now. We’ll talk more when you get home.

  Speaking of which, we decided to drive up together to pick you up. There’s no sense wasting the gas. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea when you see us. We’re not getting back together. But we’re trying to be kind to each other.

  At this point I’m not holding my breath for a letter from you, but that’s okay. All I really want is to see you and give you a great big hug.

  Lots of love,

  Mom

  I leaned over the edge of my bed and crammed my arm as far into my suitcase as I could reach. My fingers brushed crumpled paper. I drew out the letters, one after another, until they littered my lap like crinkly snowballs. I didn’t read them again, didn’t even smooth them out. I cupped them in my hands and thought.

  Tomorrow I’d ride home in the back seat of my parents’ car, and in some ways life would return to its pre-camp state. But in the biggest way possible, things would never be the same again. If my parents were hoping I’d spent the past two weeks meditating and finding inner peace through the power of music, they were out of luck. Melly Mouse had left the building.

  I split the rest of the day between my two favorite people at Camp Rockaway. It meant missing yet another of Damon’s percussion workshops, but that was okay. There was always next year.

  After B-flat, Olivia and I ran through her group’s set list. I felt bad her band had become such a mess, what with the Noel drama. I guess, right or wrong, Candace never did apologize. But I was glad I could be there for Olivia.

  Next we headed to the lake, where Olivia hung out with the other sunbathers while Adeline and I borrowed a johnboat. We rowed out until the campers at the beach were only colored dots, the lifeguards specks of red on the distant white dock. Then we sat on one bench and held hands and kissed and only talked when we felt like it.

  Randomly, a question occurred to me. “You know this morning, when Donna was talking about how the four of us were leftovers?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, obviously Caleb’s the extra metalhead. And if I had to guess, you’re the person who said you like any genre as long as the song has good lyrics.”

  “Right you are,” said Adeline.

  “Then who’s into Taylor Swift?”

  “You mean it’s not you?”

  I gave her a look. She cracked up. “Guess not! It must be David.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Who else could it be?” she asked.

  “Until today, I thought it was you. Caleb sure did.”

  “And David didn’t ’fess up.” Adeline grinned. “I figured if Caleb was going to give someone hell, it might as well be me. Besides which, I do like Taylor Swift. Girl’s got talent. Anyway, that solves another mystery.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “By process of elimination, you came to Camp Rockaway to make some noise,” she said. “Well, congratulations, Melly. After tomorrow? Mission accomplished.”

  At firebowl, I sat squeezed on a bench between Olivia and Adeline. I leaned into Adeline a little and felt her do the same. I didn’t think anyone would notice, but Toni said, “I guess we were wrong about you and David, huh, Melly?”

  “Um, yeah,” I said, cheeks flaming. “You could say that.”

  “Just as well,” said Toni. “You two make an even cuter couple.”

  “Don’t say cute,” Shauna said. “It’s infantilizing.”

  “What should I say? Pretty? Beautiful? Drop-dead gorgeous?”

  Shauna winced harder at every word, and the rest of us laughed.

  “How about bold?” I said. I was sort of kidding, but sort of not. Because when it came down to it, there was no better word for the way Adeline made me feel.

  “Bold,” Adeline repeated. “I like it.”

  “Oo, Adeline likes it!” Olivia said. “But does Shauna approve?”

  “Shauna wholeheartedly approves,” said Shauna.

  We sang, a hundred of us and then some, our voices overlaying the chorus of frogs and crickets, toads and sh
eep. As the sun sank low, Olivia nudged me. “We still haven’t led a song.”

  “Damon said we’re slowing things down,” I said. “He won’t want a drummer now.”

  “If anyone can do quiet on drums, it’s you,” Olivia said. “Come on.” She pulled me down the side aisle before I could protest. I threw a helpless look backward at Adeline. She gave me a big smile, her braces glinting in the firelight, and a thumbs-up.

  “We want to lead a song,” Olivia told Damon in a whisper. “A song about friendship.”

  “I’m all about friendship,” he said. “Do you have a particular song in mind?”

  “Yes, we do,” Olivia said, “but it’s a surprise.”

  Once, not knowing would’ve made me panic. Now, I nodded in agreement. I trusted Olivia. More than that, I trusted myself. As the notes of the previous song died away, we walked in front of the fire, Olivia with a borrowed guitar and me with a djembe.

  “Hey,” Olivia said. “We’re Olivia and Melly from Treble Cliff. We’ve been friends almost all our lives, so, not to brag, but we’re kind of an authority on friendship. And if you asked me what keeps us together, I’d tell you the answer’s in this song. Key of C. Please join in.”

  She counted us in, and I started playing, hesitantly thumping the skin of the drum, slapping the rim where the skin met the body, still not knowing what the song was. Then she started singing “Lean on Me.” She was right. It was perfect as ever. Perfect for old friends, perfect for new—so long as they were true.

  Soon everyone was singing. Other campers and counselors joined us and played along. In the audience, people put their arms around each other’s shoulders and swayed.

  For the first time in my life, surrounded in that spiral of firelight and my fellow musicians and the trees and the first stars peeking out of the deep, dark blue, I got a sense of what it’s like to have a family you weren’t born into. It wasn’t like I was disowning my parents or anything. I might be angry, but it came out of love. But this—this was something different, bigger, something I’d discovered on my own, and that made it extra special.

  There were people at camp who drove me crazy, and people I’d quickly grown to love, and one person especially who—well, I didn’t have words worthy to explain how Adeline made me feel. She smiled at me from the audience, and my heart fizzed and sparkled like a firecracker. But at the end of it everyone was here for the music. Music was the ribbon that wove us together, and as we sang, I felt myself pulled tighter and tighter into the fabric.

  I couldn’t wiggle loose if I tried.

  Twenty-Six

  Saturday. I woke short of breath, as if I’d been climbing a rocky, steep hill and had just now paused to take in the view. Today was the show. Today I’d see my parents. I’d leave Adeline. I’d go home. I wished I could go back to yesterday and press repeat.

  After breakfast we packed up our belongings, stuffing our suitcases full of dirty laundry, taking down our mosquito netting, and rolling up our sleeping bags. We carried everything down the slippery path to the foot of Treble Cliff. The ranger would come by with his truck to pick it all up and take it to the parking lot.

  There was no time for last-minute practice, no time for soccer or arts and crafts, swimming or boating. Besides passing the toast and eggs at breakfast, there hadn’t even been time for me to see Adeline. We made one final hike to the lodge. Campers who needed to pick up their instruments for the last time did so. I carried my stick bag on my shoulder. Even though the big show was still ahead, camp felt over.

  Inside the dining hall was chaos. Parents stood in clusters with toddlers clinging to their shins, comparing notes on their children. Little kids raced around shrieking. Older siblings hung against the wall, looking bored. Right away, Olivia spotted her parents and grandparents and sisters. I couldn’t help it: I started scanning the throng for my own family. My own family, such as it was. I guess it was instinct.

  Adeline broke into a run at the sight of a tall woman with a cloud of black curls and a man in a wheelchair. He pushed himself out of his chair and held out his arms, and she fell into them. Two little boys piled at their legs. An older woman with a face as wrinkled and brown as a walnut scooped them against her. I felt a pang. Just like that, Adeline no longer belonged to Camp Rockaway, or to me. She belonged to her family.

  Then there were my own parents. Even though I’d spent the past two weeks alternating between being furious at them and pretending they didn’t exist, that tension went suddenly slack. Dad had grown a ridiculous beard, all streaked with white like a skunk’s tail, and Mom was made up more than usual. But their grins were the same grins I knew, splitting their faces in two, they were so wide. I stepped up, prepared to stand like a telephone pole, stiff and splintery. But it was only a moment before I softened in their arms and hugged them back.

  “Oh, it is so good to see you!” Mom whispered. “Longest two weeks of my life.”

  “Your mom and I agreed, you’re never allowed away from home again,” Dad said.

  I didn’t bother pointing out that home didn’t mean what it used to.

  The lights in the hall flashed, and up onstage Damon tapped the mic. “Attention, rock stars and rock star families. Thank you all for joining us at Camp Rockaway this summer. It’s been a challenging and productive couple of weeks. Now it’s time to see—or should I say, hear—the fruits of everyone’s labor. Please have a seat, and we’ll get started.”

  The grown-ups moved toward the rows of chairs. There weren’t enough, so all the kids had to sit on the floor in front. I scrambled into an empty spot between Olivia and Adeline as the houselights dimmed.

  “All right,” Damon said, “let’s give it up for our first band of the day: the Moose Farts!”

  The younger bands played two songs each. There was a short break for refreshments, and the second set began. I whispered my friends good luck beforehand. Clapped and cheered them onstage. Hugged them and clasped their hands afterward. Nobody’s band was perfect, but you wouldn’t have known it from the way they glowed as they returned to their seats. Even Olivia’s band managed to click.

  The Leftovers came last in the second act, naturally. Even having spent the past hour and a half watching all the bands who’d come before, I was surprised how magical it felt when Damon—goofy, pot-bellied Damon—came out and said, “Adeline, Caleb, David, and Melly, with their unique fusion of punk, pop, and metal. Please welcome the Leftovers!”

  The crowd cheered as we jogged onstage under the pink and blue lights. I adjusted my seat and the tension on the pedals. My bandmates plugged in and quickly tuned. There was no time to stall. Ten minutes—on and off. I imagined trapdoors opening beneath us if we went over our time limit. The thought was actually comforting. No matter what happened, in ten minutes it’d be history.

  “Thanks, everyone,” Adeline said, her breath puffing against the mic. She, of course, didn’t sound remotely nervous. “We are indeed the Leftovers, and we’re going to start out with a little Taylor Swift, as you’ve never heard her before!”

  This was it. I clicked my sticks together, and we launched into our rapid-fire, head-slamming rendition of “I Knew You Were Trouble.”

  Right away, things felt off. In the cavernous dining hall, my bandmates spread across the stage instead of crowded around me, I felt disconnected. They shimmered at the edge of my vision. In spite of the monitors, which my buzzing ears told me were cranked, the sound seemed to come from miles away, not from their fingers and lips.

  My brain worked frantically as Caleb snarled the first verse. Was I rushing? Was Caleb? Was I letting him? What about David? Were we in sync, or had I lost him? Was I supposed to put a fill there? In practice, I put a fill there. Would anyone know the difference? I was running through a dark wood, stumbling and staggering to keep my feet under me.

  Then all of our voices joined for the chorus, and everything changed. My panic evaporated. The path was clear. My hands unclenched, my shoulders settled back, and I sang—no
, bellowed—the words. The drums bellowed with me. My racing pulse caught its stride.

  I shivered as Adeline threw back her head and wailed. Only the tie-dyed bandanna kept David’s face visible as he swung his head in time to the music. Caleb was jumping all over the place. If he hadn’t been plugged in, he probably would’ve dived off the stage and tried to crowd surf. He wasn’t the only one. Down in front, kids were whipping their hair. Even the adults were standing, if only so they could see.

  This is what it feels like to be a rock star, if only for ten minutes.

  School concerts were so civilized. They were all about playing the notes exactly as they appeared on the page. Screw civilization. Screw perfection. Donna was right: rock was way more fun when I embraced my inner rebel. I laughed as we emerged from the final chorus. I beat what Grandma Schiff would’ve called the living daylights out of those drums. Caleb strummed the final chords with an arm so long he almost touched his toes. Ears ringing with applause, the four of us grinned at each other.

  But there was no time to waste. Caleb introduced “Enter Sandman,” and just as the audience was preparing to rock out again, Adeline surprised them by fingerpicking a delicate intro high on the neck of her acoustic. Then came her hushed, haunting vocals. Everyone sat in a hurry to listen. Cheering still filled the room when it was over, but it had a different quality—more thoughtful, somehow.

  We did that. We’d changed them; we’d literally changed them. We weren’t just musicians. We were magicians. I’d never felt so powerful.

  And then it was my turn. My turn to talk. My turn to sing. My turn to lead.

  It was time, finally, to send a letter to my parents.

  I pulled my mic a couple of inches closer with a trembling hand. My voice shook, too, as I said, “Our last song is an original I wrote with Adeline. It’s called ‘How to Feel.’ Please feel free to get up and dance.”

  The arrangement had come a long way. Caleb started this one alone, fast and bright—short bursts in a simple chord progression, no fancy finger work. A couple of bars later, the rest of us jumped in. The beat was cheerful, a beat made for tapping your toes as you did your math, for shaking your behind as you washed the dishes. I could see the audience begin nodding their heads in time. Ignoring the quiver in my voice, I leaned into the mic and sang.