Drumbeats into My Heart

5. Seth Appreciates Music

I tell myself it's merely music appreciation. That it was perfectly normal to suddenly rearrange one's work schedule for the following week so that Tuesday is clear. It's like planning to attend a concert. Yeah, that's it. A concert.

The farmer's market opens at two, so I get there at one. I'm a punctual guy, but when I'm excited about something, I become that guy. Mr. Early. I settle on the bench where she had performed last time. She's nowhere in sight, but vendors are setting up their awnings and unpacking their goods, so hopefully I'll see her soon. For the concert of course.

I watch them for a while, unloading box after box from trucks and vans, scurrying back and forth like ants on a trail. Then I get bored and decide to plug in. Earbuds in place, I crank up my music, close my eyes, and allow myself to be carried away by the beats.

My head dips with each thump of bass. My summer job as a tutor at the school fades. My mother's nagging voice fades. The argument between my parents this morning melts away. I float up, carried along the current of melody piped into my ears.

"What are you listening to?"

I jump and jerk my eyes open.

It was her.

She was here.

And she was smiling that brilliant smile at me. "Sorry, didn't mean to scare you."

I blink, trying not to be dazzled by that smile. "Oh, heh, hi! It's fine, I wasn't scared. And I'm listening to Paul Oakenfold."

She cocks her head to one side. "Never heard of him."

"No? He's a DJ. A really good one. Does a lot of trance music. This album's my favorite. It's called Tranceport." I'm babbling. I know I'm babbling but I can't stop. I need to make it stop. "Want to listen?"

"Sure," she says, sinking down next to me on the bench.

I yank an earbud out of one ear, wipe it on my shirt, and hand it to her. She smiles as she takes it, leaning in to listen. She smells like peaches.

She's still at first. Then her head begins to bob to the beat. Her eyes close, face relaxed.

She has freckles. A fine mist of them sprayed across her nose and cheeks. I want to touch them.

"I really like this," she says, opening her eyes.

So blue. I want to keep staring into them. I clear my throat. "Yeah? Most people think it's repetitive noise."

"Well it's not. I can't believe I've never heard this before. What was his name again? Paul... Oakenshield?"

I laugh. "Thorin Oakenshield is a dwarf from The Hobbit. Paul Oakenfold is the DJ."

She laughs too. "That's right! That was a cool movie."

"It was a cool book, too."

Her smile fades slightly. "Oh, I never got around to reading it. I'd better start setting up."

I watch as she unhooks two bungee cords from the makeshift trailer attached to the back of her bike. The frame is basically two tires bolted to three wooden beams. The plastic bin on top contains her assortment of buckets, pots and other kitchenware.

"So how did you start doing this?" I ask, intrigued how one gets into something like this.

She glances at me before extracting a stack of buckets. "We were walking along a beachside promenade once—my parents and me—and I saw this old guy with a tiny drum set. Like, made for a kid. He was playing these drums—badly—and singing into this microphone—well, I wouldn't call it singing—it was more like moaning in a flat voice. And people were giving him money! Maybe it was out of pity or something, but still. He got money for doing that. So I thought maybe I could too."

"What you get is so not pity money."

She stops and grins at me. "Thanks!"

There it is again. That dazzling smile. There's a small gap between her front teeth, but I would never make her wear braces. Not like my mom would. I run my tongue over the metal in my mouth. A few more days, and I would finally be rid of them.

Her setup this time includes a glass bowl and a whisk.

"Are you drumming or making pancakes?" I quip.

She flashes me another smile. "I can do both, you know."

I love her confidence, and that smile she keeps giving me makes me want to swoon. But guys don't swoon, so I make sure to sit up straighter. "At the same time, I bet."

"Always."

I stay on the bench this time, watching her drum from behind. I like how her golden curls contrast against the blue of her shirt. But once I'm done admiring her and get over wanting to reach out and tug on a bouncy curl, I settle against the back of the bench and relax. I close my eyes, tilt my head back, and just listen.

My hand taps along with her rhythms, each beat building, repeating, giving way to new rhythms. It carries me away like Paul Oakenfold. She is that good.

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