Our Beating Hearts

1

I DON'T MEAN TO BE dramatic, but God save me from Luke picking our set-list.

That boy is a suburban dad's midlife crisis in a high school senior's body.

Case in point: he's kneeling on the floor, using the keyboard stool as a desk, and every title on his list is a mediocre classic rock song. I'm a very tolerant person, but as an Australian, a musician, and a self-respecting human being, it is both my duty and my privilege to blanket veto that shit. I lean forward on my stool to peer over her shoulder. "No Bon Jovi. No Journey."

"Wait, seriously?" says Luke. "People love 'Don't Stop Believin'."

"People love meth. Should we start doing meth?"

Calum raises his eyebrows. "Ashton, did you just—"

"Did I just compare 'Don't Stop Believin'' to meth?" I shrug. "Why, yes. Yes, I did."

Calum and Luke exchange a capital-L Look. It's a Look that says here we go, he's about to dig his heels in.

"I'm just saying. The song is a mess. The lyrics are bullshit." I give a little tap on the snare for emphasis.

"I like the lyrics," Luke says. "They're hopeful."

"It's not about whether they're hopeful. It's about the gross implausibility of a midnight train going, quote-unquote, anywhere."

They exchange another Look, this time with tiny shrugs. Translation: he has a point.

Translation of the translation: Ashton Fletcher Irwin is an actual genius, and we should never ever doubt his music taste.

"I guess we shouldn't add anything new until Michael is back,"

Luke concedes. And he's right. School musical rehearsals have kept Michael out of commission since January. And even though the rest of us have been meeting a few times a week, it sucks rehearsing without your singer and lead guitarist.

"Okay," Luke says. "Then I guess we're done here?"

"Done with rehearsal?"

Welp. I guess I should have shut up about Journey. Like, I get it. I'm white. I'm supposed to love shitty classic rock. But I kind of thought we were all enjoying this lively debate about music and meth. Maybe it went off the rails somewhere, though, because now Calum's putting his bass away and Luke is texting his mom to pick him up. I guess that's game over.

My mom won't be here for another twenty minutes, so I hang around the music room even after they leave. I don't really mind. It's actually nice to drum alone. I let my sticks take the lead, from the bass to the snare and again and again. Some fills on the toms. Some chhh chhh chhh on the hi-hat, and then the crash.

Crash.

Crash.

And another.

I don't even hear my phone buzzing until it pings with a voice mail. It's obviously my mom. She always calls, only texts as a last resort. I don't listen to the voice mail, because Mom always texts me after—and sure enough, a moment later: So sorry to do this, sweetie. I'm swamped here—can you catch the bus today?

Sure, I write back.

You're the best.

Mom's boss is an unstoppable robot workaholic lawyer, so this happens a lot. It's either that, or she's at the bar, or on a date. It's not even funny, having a mom who gets more action than I do. Right now, she's seeing some guy named Wells. Like the plural of well. He's bald and rich, with tiny little ears, and I think he's almost fifty. I met him once for thirty minutes, and he made six puns and said "oh, fudge" twice.