Drumbeats into My Heart

6. Jordi and Her New Fan

At the end of the set, I turn around, half expecting the bench to be empty. I grin with more elation than is proper when I see him still sitting there. "You didn't leave."

He had gotten comfortable, arms spread across the back of the bench, long jean-clad legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. "I have no reason to leave."

My smile broadens. Does he really enjoy listening that much? Or is he just hitting on me?

Does it matter? a small voice in my head whispers. The guy is cute.

Okay, yes, I won't argue with that. A little male attention is nice.

I stand and stretch, gulp some water, and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. "Seth," I test his name on my lips. "What do you do for fun? When you're not stalking street performers, I mean."

His brown eyes widen, as if surprised I'm asking about him, and sits up straight. "Me? Umm... well, I listen to music, obviously."

"Obviously."

"And... I read a lot. Sometimes I play video games." His eyes search a potted tree for more answers, then drop to his shoes. "I'm actually pretty boring."

I chuckle. "Who isn't?"

His eyes snap up to mine, almost fervent. "You are so not boring. I mean..." As if aware of his own intensity, he shifts his gaze to my array of buckets. "Look what you do on Tuesday afternoons."

"Practically every afternoon." Out of habit, I begin twirling a wooden spoon in one hand.

"Really?" His eyes spark with interest. "Where?" He clears his throat, as if to dial back some of his eagerness. "I mean, if I'm going to be a proper stalker, I'll need to know the other places you perform." He lifts his eyebrows and produces a goofy grin.

This makes me laugh, which seems to make him exhale with relief. Why is he so nervous?

From the corner of my eye, I spy a large crowd wandering this way. "Hold that thought," I say, shuffling backward. "Gotta reel in more fish." I reluctantly turn away from him and resume my position in front of the buckets.

Fifteen minutes and several donations later, I get up again. "Now, where were we?"

"Other performance locations," he supplies without missing a beat.

"That's right, well..." I start twirling the spoon again, drawing Seth's eyes. "The great thing about California is there are farmer's markets everywhere, almost every day."

"Why not drum at parks or grocery store parking lots?"

"Most people don't bring cash with them when they go to a park, and I really don't want to get run over by a car at the grocery store."

"Good points."

"Anyway, I like farmer's markets because it's full of people keen on supporting the little guy instead of chain stores. They're more generous." I eye another group down the way and begin speaking faster. "Plus, there's something about an outdoor market that gives the place a festive feeling. People feel more generous and are more likely help out a poor little performer like me. Excuse me." I spin around, long floral skirt whirling, and settle down again to play another set.

I rarely speak this much to people during my busking hours. It's usually limited to thank you and my dad taught me. Occasionally it's there's a bathroom in that restaurant down the street. Seth is pleasant to be around. A little unconventional and self-conscious, but that makes him different from all the other guys who usually approach me.

To my surprise, he stays for the entire four hours I'm there. I alternating between drumming and talking to Seth. Even when the vendors begin packing up their goods, he sticks around to watch me stack buckets and bowls onto the trailer and strapping them down.

I'm even more surprised when he walks alongside me as I push my bike to the street. I like talking to him, so I decide not to hop on and pedal away. I'll just keep walking with him.

"So where do you go to school?" he asks, kicking a bottle cap. "It's your final year, right? Like me?"

I stare at the front wheel of the bike, watching the reflector going round and round. It's how I felt in school. I just didn't get things, and was always going in mental circles, usually coming up empty. "Um, yeah, it's my last year, too."

"I knew it," he whispers to himself.

I give him a sidelong glance. "You knew what?"

"Oh, um..." He bites his lip. "I think I verbalized my internal dialogue. Sorry."

Quirky. And honest. "And what did you tell yourself?"

He avoids eye contact. "I thought we were the same age, but I wasn't sure. I just really wanted to have something in common with you." He clears his throat. "So anyway, what school do you—"

"Hey, I never did tell you my other performance haunts." I purposefully cut him off to avoid the subject. No need to clue him in on what a miserable failure I actually am.

He doesn't seem to notice. "Oh yeah! Not a very good stalker, am I?"

I giggle at that. "We can work on that."

Be a good stalker and slyly hit that Vote button, will ya...