Drummergirl

I knew something was different about me when I was ten. I rode the bus to school that morning, very excited. I was finally going to tell my best friend how cute I thought she was. I really didn’t think much about what would happen afterwards, except she would be so happy. She would smile, and…and I didn’t know what would happen after that. But it would be good. I waited all day, nervous, and finally slipped the note onto her desk just before I left class to go to band, where I was learning how to play percussion. The note said, “I think you are very cute.” Unsigned, because she would just know it was from me. I spent band class playing my heart out on my practice pad, gripping the drumsticks tightly and nodding my head to the beat. This was my favorite part about school. Well, except for the times I spent with Emily at recess. When I came back, flushed and excited, I sat next to Emily expectantly. She was even shorter than I was, with black hair in pigtails. “Amy,” she said. “Look at this note I got!” I took the note, in my own handwriting, and grinned. “I asked every boy if they wrote it, and they all said no! I have no idea who wrote this!” Wait…she asked every boy? Why? Emily snatched the note back and as the teacher started talking again I had the feeling that something wasn’t right. It gnawed at the back of my mind for the rest of the day. Finally, when we were standing in line at the end of the day to go home, I found my voice, standing in the middle of the line, surrounded by other kids. “Emily,” I told her in frustration. “I wrote that note.” The whole room fell silent. Even the teacher stopped talking. A few kids turned to stare at me. Something was definitely wrong. As Emily turned without a word and we all left to get on the busses, I realized something was wrong with me, and I must never let anyone know this secret about me ever again. And actually, that worked out for me for a while. The next day, Emily…and the rest of the class…didn’t bring up the note any more. No one questioned me, everyone just pretended it didn’t happen, and that was fine with me. That summer Emily moved away and I moved on with my life. I shoved any thoughts of her or any other cute girls deep, deep down in my mind and just tried to act natural. It was easy. Until I met her. * * * * First day of school, 1998. I was seventeen, it was my senior year, and band class was first period. I still played percussion, and band was still my favorite part of school. We were standing around, wondering if we would have to go outside and march, when the director, Mr. Allens, stood at his podium and told everyone to take their seats. Mr. Allens was short but tough; ageless to me, with graying hair. Everyone respected him. Even though he was married to a woman, whom we had all met, there were still unconfirmed rumors that he was gay, which gave me hope because…because of what? Shove those thoughts away. The whole class scattered to their seats, the rest of the drummers and I standing in the back of the room. We’d been having our school’s version of band camp for the past two weeks: nightly practices, and the past weekend we’d already marched in our first parade. So all of us knew exactly where to go already. Except for a new girl who stood awkwardly at the side of the room, holding an instrument case I didn’t recognize. She was tall and beautiful; long, curly black hair pulled back into a ponytail and blue eyes shy. This was intriguing. Our band was small and any new members were welcome, at least to me. “Everyone this is Becca,” Mr. Allens said. “She’s a sophomore and will be our first oboe. Go ahead and sit right here in front, between the flutes and clarinets. I have some music for you here; today we’re going to work on some new material for the next parade.” “I wonder why she didn’t come to band camp,” Jonah whispered to me, and I focused back on those around me. We only had four drummers this year, one per grade. I was the section leader for the second year in a row, and took this task very seriously. Jonah was a freshman, tall with sandy hair and glasses. He played bass drum when we marched. Sophomore Lilly played crash cymbals, Junior Tiffany played snare drum, and I played the tenors, which were five differently toned drums of various sizes. These would be our roles for parades and football games. But for other songs we would switch up and play all kinds of different instruments, everyone getting a turn to play a different percussion ‘toy.’ Some of the toys included the triangle, cowbell, and woodblock. One of my jobs was to delegate the parts and make sure everything was fair, and to help teach the others if there was a problem. I tried to be a good leader and make sure everyone felt included and appreciated. I got distracted again, and looked at the new girl, who had now put her oboe together and was shuffling through music. She was wearing a short skirt that looked like it was barely allowed according to the dress code. As a section leader, I felt it my job to be friendly to her, even though she wasn’t in my section nor grade. I could help her feel welcome and tell her if she needed anything she could come to me. It was just the polite thing to do, really. After practice, by the time I put all the drummer stuff away, Becca had disappeared and I was surrounded by my fellow drummers asking me questions, so I didn’t have the chance to talk to her, but I knew I would soon enough. I went to my next class, journalism, which was my second favorite class in school. I loved writing almost as well as music, but right now drumming took first place. As far as I was concerned, the rest of the day was pointless. I made good grades, and generally liked all my subjects, but I didn’t really fit in with the rest of my classmates, and hadn’t for years. I was very short, with long brownish-blonde hair, blue-green eyes, and a giant pair of glasses. The glasses I’d gotten two years ago, and honestly I just wasn’t a very good glasses-picker. But I soon realized many people judged me based on my glasses alone, saying I was ugly, so I continued to wear the glasses on purpose just to be a b***h. It kept the shallow people away from me. My real friends liked me for me, at least that’s what I told myself, and if anyone wanted to judge me on appearances they could just stay away. Ever since I’d gotten my first job I’d made sure to buy clothes I actually liked, like flare jeans and khakis. I felt pretty good about myself most of the time. Sometimes I felt insecure about my body, so I would exercise more or eat less to make myself feel better. I sometimes felt like I should push myself to try to have the perfect body, but perfection always eluded me, no matter what I did. I sat quietly through the rest of my classes, not really talking to anybody, until my fifth period class, Nutrition. This was just an elective I’d picked because I didn’t know what else to do, and I refused to take any more math classes if I didn’t have to. I didn’t know how to cook, so I figured why not? As I walked in the room, I realized I was one of the few seniors there, and surprisingly I saw Becca, sitting at a table alone. This was my chance. I felt nervous for some reason as I approached her. My heart pounded, and adrenaline rushed through my veins, but I forced a smile, and eased calm into my voice. “Can I sit here?” I asked. She looked up at me and nodded. “Sure.” “I saw you in band. I’m a drummer. Have you been making it to all your classes all right?” She nodded, and then two sophomore guys joined us at our table and we all started talking until the teacher finally interrupted. We didn’t do much besides go over the rules that first day, but I was having a much better time than I expected. After Nutrition was lunch. “Do you want to sit with me and my friends?” I asked Becca. She shrugged. “Okay.” “I’d rather get the salad bar, what about you?” “Sounds good.” I was more fascinated by her the more we talked, grabbing salads. Her height tricked me into feeling like she was older, but I guess two years isn’t really that big of an age difference, assuming she was fifteen. She could be sixteen. She smelled nice, I could tell that. Was her skirt really too short or were her legs just super long? I snapped out of it and scanned around for some people to sit with and saw what I was looking for: a group of band kids. “This way.” We sat at the crowded table. “This is Becca,” I re-introduced her. “She’s my buddy.” Her face reddened and she smiled as everyone started eating. I got carried away talking with the two guys I was in a garage band with. We called ourselves The Maniacs. I noticed Becca talking to some of the others, so she was getting a good start. I thought about asking her if she needed a ride home, but that might be too much for one day, so I forgot about it. My next class was stupid. Even though it was Honors English, it was full of the types of people who never talked to me. I found a seat in the back near a quiet, tall, brown-haired guy named Mark who I had gone to prom with last year. His face turned red as he said hi, and I smiled. The next class was a great end to the day. I’d decided to be an aid for Mr. Allens’ junior high band class. I would be helping teach the sixth through eighth graders. Really, why else did I even go to school? After it was all over, I got in my car alone and drove home. My dad was a mechanic, so he’d fixed up an old car for me. My parents were divorced, though. I lived with my mom and fourteen-year-old sister Erin in a duplex in town. Even though Erin was younger than me, she was taller. She had long blonde hair, didn’t need glasses like I did, and often liked to say she was the cuter of the two of us. I was the first one home. Our neighbor was blaring Spice Girls, as she’d been doing almost every day all summer long. I secretly liked that group, but hearing the same single day in and day out did get old. Erin and I complained to our mom about this, but there didn’t seem to be anything she could do about it. So we suffered. Erin and I also heard our neighbor having s*x with her boyfriend all the time from our room, but we didn’t tell our mom about that. We could tell when they were done because the boyfriend always started coughing a lot, and we could never figure out why. I didn’t have to work, so I started on some homework in my room. Soon Erin walked in, opened the window, and started smoking a cigarette. “You’re gonna get caught,” I said. “Hell, Mom’s the one who bought me the smokes,” she answered casually. “And what do I look like smoking outside where everyone can see me? Then I’d really get busted.” I considered this and shrugged. “Yeah you’re probably right.” “So anyway, how was your day, lezbo?” My skin prickled. “I’m not a lesbian!” “You have a gigantic half-naked poster of JLo on your wall.” I shrugged again. “I think she’s a good dancer.” Erin laughed and ashed her cig in an empty Mountain Dew can. “Whatever.” I pushed the thoughts away again. Erin was the only one who inexplicably called me out, and I just tried to ignore her. She’d been telling our parents I was a lesbian for years, which I always denied. Sometimes she forgot to bug me about it, and other times she was relentless. “I wouldn’t make fun of you if you’d just admit it, but you won’t,” she liked to say. But I really didn’t know what she was talking about. I still remembered the first definition of “lesbian” I’d ever heard, when I was in middle school. A lesbian was a woman who liked to have s*x with other women and who had completely turned her back on God. I didn’t want to have s*x with anybody, and even though I didn’t go to church as much as I used to, I still believed in God. So whatever I was, the word “lesbian” just didn’t sound right to me. I mean, it couldn’t be, right?