Drumbeats into My Heart

1. Seth the Errand Boy

When my mom sent me to the farmer's market for avocados, I was expecting all sorts of things. Hippies selling homemade soaps with real lemongrass in them. Ten thousand kinds of jerky under one awning, including alligator jerky. Even actual farmers. But I never expected to find someone like her.

Hands jammed in my pockets, my head bobs to the rhythmic pulse of the trance music filtering through my earbuds. The cascading melodies almost transport me out of this suburb to someplace magical. Someplace where my domineering mother isn't barking commands at me. Get me four avocados. And pick nice ones!

I'm her errand boy. It doesn't matter than I'm a senior in high school. When Mom wants avocados, by golly I fetched avocados!

The song in my ears fades as I reach the outer edge of the market, and that's when I hear it. A catchy pounding beat, but not from any kind of speaker. I pop the earbuds out to listen.

Yup, that's definitely drumming, but it's not any kind of drumming I've ever heard before.

Curious, I follow the sound.

Rat-a-tat-tat pop pop boom.

It was really catchy.

I shoulder past a family crowding around an exotic jerky stall. See, I knew there would be jerky here.

"Ew, Mom, camel jerky!" says a little girl.

Camel jerky? I guess I shouldn't be surprised.

I continue hunting down the source of the beats, past colorful piles of vegetables and—ooh tacos! No, those will have to wait. I'm on a mission.

Boom pop boom boom pop.

What is that?

And then I see it. See her.

Just past the nursery display full of fruit trees, between two benches on a widened part of the sidewalk, a girl my age sits cross-legged on a big mat. Tight, honey-colored curls sway at her chin as she bobs her head to the beats she's creating. I stare, mesmerized by her nimble hands as they bang two wooden spoons on an odd assortment of pots, pans, and buckets.

I need to get closer.

"Ow! Get off my foot, you oaf," an annoyed bystander growls at me.

"Sorry," I mumble, never taking my eyes off the drumming angel.

Rat-a-tat-a-boom pop pop, boom pop pop.

She smiles at shoppers passing by, giving warm thank-yous to those who drop coins into her hat. Her smile is radiant, and her eyes practically glow with joy as she plays. It's obvious she loves this.

I stop a short distance away, transfixed. A few onlookers pause to watch this curiosity, but I'm the only one who stands there for all three sets. Because my feet are roots now. I'm a plant, and this amazing music she's playing is making me bloom.

Oh my god, why do I sound so corny? Seth, get a hold of yourself.

When she finally takes a break, she slides onto a bench and chugs half a bottle of water. Smooths her long, flowing skirt over her knees. And turns questioning eyes on me.

I blink at her, her percussive performance still dancing in my head.

"Please tell me you're not a serial killer," she says.

Those eyes are such a pretty shade of blue. Wait, is she talking to me? "Um, what?"

She pulls out her phone and snaps a picture of me. "If you follow me home, I'm sending your photo to the police."

"Police? Wait, no! I'm here for avocados."

She glances at my empty hands. "Oh, obviously."

"I haven't—I mean, I was going to, and then I heard—" Seth, what is wrong with you? Use sentences. Maybe I should start over. "Um, hi. Your performance was amazing. You are so talented."

The tension around her eyes eases, but only slightly. "Thanks."

"I really mean it. I've never seen anything like that before. So cool. It was like..." My hands make pointless gestures in the air. Words. Use words. You're an honor student for crying out loud. "Well, anyway, I enjoyed it. Thanks."

I'm pretty sure I've made a complete fool of myself, so I drop a five-dollar bill into her hat, do an about-face like a good little soldier, and march off search of the avocado stand.

It doesn't take long. I don't think there's a single farmer's market in California that wouldn't have avocados in it. "That'll be seven fifty, please," says the guy who looks nothing like what I imagine an avocado farmer would look like. Where's his straw hat? Wait, that's a stereotype, isn't it? Never mind.

I pull the remaining crumpled five-dollar bill out of my pocket.

Oh crap. My mom had sent me off with two of these, but I'd given one away to the beautiful drummer girl back there. Mom is not going to be happy about this. I'm going to get an earful when I get home, but—the unique beats from earlier pick up again, and I peer down the path trying to catch a glimpse—it's so worth it.

Like in my other work, I'll be adding little vote reminders at the end of each chapter, just in case you mean to vote but are so enraptured by the story that you forget. ;)