Out of Play

Okay. I love music as much as the next person, but I never pay attention to the drums.

Until he starts to play.

For the rest of my life, I will pay attention to drums. It’s unreal. The rhythm. Everything. It’s like there’s too much to take in at once. He can’t be thinking, just feeling. Pat’s grin spreads even wider as Bishop keeps playing. His hands fly so fast I can hardly see them. Every once in a while his eyes close, so lost in what he’s doing that all I can do is stare. I’m not an expert, but this guy has to be some kind of genius or something. I’m frozen on this stupid little stool made for people who play guitars, just staring at the guy. I know exactly how he feels right now. He’s in the zone behind the drums, just like I am on the ice.

The rhythm stops, and the room feels empty and flat, like I do when someone knocks the wind out of me. And I now understand why girls think guys who are in bands are hot. Watching the guy work, his head lost in what he’s doing, and something so amazing coming out of it? Hot.

He’s sweating when he stands up, his hair sticking to his forehead a little bit. “I’ll take ‘em.”

And then, Bishop actually smiles.

Pat moves to the register, and Bishop follows. He writes up a slip, and Bishop shifts his weight back and forth a few times, glancing over his shoulder at me. He went from happy to twitchy in about three seconds.

I move for the door, ready to be home. “I’ll back up the truck.”

Bishop snatches his credit card off the counter, but it slips from his fingers and drops to the floor.

You’d think he’d be more relaxed after drumming, but when I lean down to pick it up, Bishop half-falls onto the credit card, snatching it just before I grasp the edge.

I stare at him just long enough for us to both know that was odd. He breaks eye contact first without a word and shoves his card back into his wallet with shaky hands.

Something weird is definitely going on.

…

We pull out of the music store lot with a two thousand dollar set of drums in the bed of my truck. How can a guy my age just hand over a credit card for two thousand bucks?

Bishop’s gone quiet, staring out the window, his leg bouncing.

“You’re not like…in some kind of weird trouble or anything, are you?” I ask.

Bishop’s brows go up, and he’s looking at me a little like I’m crazy, but there’s unease there, too. I think. “Weird trouble?”

I start to ask about his card and his twitchiness, but as the words begin to form in my head, it sounds kind of stupid. “Never mind.”

He slumps a little lower in the seat.

I reach out to poke him, but stop because I don’t look for ways to touch guys who aren’t Mitch. And anyway, I just made the mood in the car strange, when it should be fine. “Looks like you found yourself a fan back there.”

Bishop pulls his hat down another inch. “He just appreciates mad talent.”

I snort even though I can’t even argue with his talent remark. My stomach rumbles, it’s black outside, and I still have stuff to do. And I can’t get the picture of Bishop playing drums out of my head. He’s definitely a puzzle. Who’s his uncle? Does he have rich parents? Is he some kind of prodigy? If he was in a band, he wouldn’t be here, but if he’s not, wouldn’t his talent be wasted? Or maybe it’s just a sideline to who he really is.

Or maybe I’m spending too much time thinking about a puzzle that really isn’t one.

“You’ve played a while?” I ask, wondering if he’ll volunteer any info without me tossing out another stupid question like weird trouble.

He nods. “A while.”

Frustration bubbles inside me at how perfectly vague he’s being. “You in school? Homeschool or something?”

“Homeschooled. Graduated.” He sounds bored, but his jaw is tight as he stares out the window.

I guess I really won’t get any info from him. Fine. I’m not fishing…at least not to his face. I’ll try Mom for information next. If we ever end up being home at the same time, anyway. I wonder again if money is tighter than I think it is because she’s been doing nothing but work for weeks now.

“What time is it?” I ask.

Bishop stops flipping his sticks just long enough to check his watch. “Seven.”

“Cool. Jeremy’s working the window at McDonald’s, which means my food’s free. I gotta stop. You want something?”

He pushes a strand of brown hair out of his face, showing off his eyes. He’s got a nice profile. Masculine. And after hearing him play, he’s a lot more than the guy with a crap attitude.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he says, and shakes his head.

“What?” Only I know what. And I might be showing off a little, but it’s been a long time since I asked a favor of Jeremy, and I showed him how to change his oil without making fun of him. I figure he owes me.

“You have a way to get everything you want. You’re, like, Miss Alaska or something. It’s sort of ridiculous.” For once, there’s no attitude in his voice. The guy is still lighter from just a few minutes on the drums. I actually get that—it’s why I play hockey. And ride snowmachines. And dirt bikes.

“If you compare me to a beauty queen again, forget the tampon, I’ll use one of your drumsticks.” I grin and bat my eyelashes. “And I get what I want because I’m nice to everyone.”

Since I know I don’t want to leave Alaska, it sort of changes how I act. Like these people are the people that I’m going to spend my life with. The weight of leaving for college settles over me again. I’m supposed to want to get out of here and go to school. But I don’t want to. Not yet. Maybe never.

“You? Nice?” The corner of his mouth turns up.

“It all depends on who I’m dealing with.” I narrow my eyes, only half-teasing, and nervous flutters start low in my stomach. This time, they don’t go away when I will them to.

“Oh. I see.” He’s still wearing his half-smile, like he’s not ready to give in yet and admit he’s having fun.

“You think I don’t see how you look at my house? At my friends? At where I live? It’s like you hate everything about the place that I love. You’re not better than me, and you’re not better than this place. So, yeah. It pissed me off a little. At first.” I keep my voice light, but it’s harder to breathe when I’m being honest like this, especially now that I’m trying not to think about how close and alone we are. I flick on my turn signal and join the line at McDonald’s. With only two fast-food restaurants in town, this place gets full.

“You don’t hold back, do you?” He twirls the stick between his fingers and I wonder for a second how he got to be so good. “I don’t think I’m better than anyone. I just know I don’t belong here, and I don’t want to. I have a life somewhere else. Plus it’s not like you didn’t look at me the same way.”

“I don’t hold back most of the time. I’ve known these people forever, and we can say almost anything to each other. And it would be that way with Mitch, too, if he—” The words are out before I can stop them, and I’m shocked because I never say things I don’t mean to.

He chuckles. “Lover Boy?”

Lover Boy? How the hell would Bishop know how I feel about Mitch? My stomach tightens, and my mouth gapes open—both aren’t like me. At all.

“He couldn’t keep his hands to himself.” Bishop chuckles. “Not that I blame him because his girl is—”

“Okay,” I interrupt, because the Lover Boy comment was because of Rebecca, and not because of me. Which actually feels worse than him realizing how pathetic I feel over Mitch. “Let’s not talk about Mitch and Rebecca. Cool?”

“Hit a bad topic?” Only his voice doesn’t have enough snark in it for me to fight back.

“You got your discount drum set, and you’re about to get free fries. I think we’re good on being nice for the night.” I give him a smile, so maybe he won’t take it as seriously as I mean it. Gramps was right. I need to be nice, even though Bishop just pointed out something I already know. I really am losing Mitch.