Drumbeats into My Heart

2. Jordi the Drummer Girl

My hands are so well practiced, they pretty much fly around of their own accord. The rhythm in my head is like a second heartbeat. When I play, nothing else matters. I forget about the hole in my shoe and the heat of the sun. I forget about the past-due medical bills piling up on Dad's desk. I forget everything. In these moments, I am rhythm.

I bow my head to the woman placing a dollar bill into my hat. Some people are so generous. I'm grateful for each and every one of them. Especially that odd guy. The awkward one with earbuds in one hand who stood there like a tree, just listening.

You are so talented, he'd said, like he really meant it.

My father has told me plenty of times that I'm smart and talented, but isn't that what parents are supposed to do? It's, like, part of the job description. It was different coming from a stranger.

Especially a stranger with eyes like that. It wasn't so much the color—they were brown—but their intensity. The way they followed my hands and took in my entire setup... it was almost unnerving. Like he saw everything. Not just my hair or boobs like most guys, but everything.

His compliments had touched me in an unexpected way. Drumming already lifts my spirits, but the enthusiasm behind his heartfelt words made me feel... appreciated. Even more surprising was the fiver he'd dropped into my hat. It wasn't like he'd flashed it at me like some kind of showoff, but I recognize Abraham's green face anywhere. People rarely gave that much, if anything at all.

A small boy approaches me, staring at the spoons in my hands as they knock a fast beat out of an old cookie sheet. I love this part. The unabashed awe that little kids express is a reward in itself. If only bills could be paid by mass quantities of awe.

The boy scurries back to his mother and yanks at her skirt, pointing at me. The woman drags her eyes away from inspecting a bunch of kale to glance at me, then digs a quarter out of her wallet to hand to him. With a gleeful grin he runs back and carefully places it into my hat. When I give him a huge smile of thanks, he takes it as permission to plop down right in front of a large pot. He watches me as he reaches toward the pot and taps a fingernail on it. Pleased at the sound it makes, he taps harder, grinning even more.

His mother, purchase completed, flashes me an apologetic look before gathering her son and bustling away.

"He's no trouble at all," I call after her, but it seems to fall on deaf ears. Shame. More kids need to learn about the joys of making music.

Then I notice him again. He's farther away this time, standing next to a huge potted tree with a bag in his hand, tapping his foot. Watching. It's the same awe that the little boy had expressed, the kind of wonder that tends to fade away as we get older, usually replaced by disdain right around puberty. He's maybe sixteen or seventeen, which makes his rapt attention unusual.

Despite his stalkerish first impression, he seems sweet. A bit socially awkward maybe, but at least he has good taste in music. His eyes finally land on mine, so I smile at him. This seems to surprise him, but he manages to give me a tentative smile back.

With a final musical flourish, I end the set with a loud bang on the large pot. While I stand up to stretch my legs and back, the guy watching me seems to have an internal debate with himself before finally approaching.

"Hi again." He lifts the plastic bag with some kind of produce inside it. "I really did come for avocados."

I can't decide if his jittery laugh is pitiable or endearing. I consider telling him that a smart stalker would buy avocados just to solidify their cover story, but the poor guy already looks nervous.

He lowers the bag and grips it with both fists, like he needs to do something with his hands, and lets his eyes rove over the pots and buckets. "I really can't get over how good you make those sound. I know I said this already, but it's, like, really amazing. I wish I had more money to give you, because I'd totally buy your album." He looks back up at me and flushes a little. "Sorry, I'm trying not to be creepy."

This makes me smile. "You're not."

"Oh good! I'm Seth. You know, when I'm not Creepy." He grins.

I grin back. "Jordi."

"Like... Geordi La Forge from Star Trek: The Next Generation?"

I laugh with delight, surprised at the reference. "I wish. If I was a talented engineer, I certainly wouldn't be here." I hear the edge in my voice and clear my throat. "It's short for Jordana." I pause briefly before adding, "McKay."

Seth nods. "You watch that show? I was kind of expecting you to go, 'Uh, who?' Because, you know, it's kind of an old show."

"Best show ever, by the way."

He nods again, his grin briefly exposing the metal glint of braces before he catches himself and closes his mouth. His self-consciousness seemed to double then, and he takes a step back. "Well, it was nice meeting you. I've got to"—he lifts the bag and takes another step back—"you know, get back. My mom's waiting."

So soon? I shouldn't be feeling disappointed that some random guy I just met has to go home, but he's really nice. And he thinks I'm talented. "Yeah, nice meeting you too. Will I see you again?" I almost wince at the question. Do I sound desperate? Because I'm totally not. I just like to have adoring fans around me, that's all. Good for the ego.

He stops fidgeting, eyebrows raised. "You'll be here next week?"

A strange mix of relief and eagerness makes me smile big and point a spoon at him. "Count on it."

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