Drumbeats into My Heart

66. Jordi Runs

It was a mistake.

I press my back against the brick wall, chest heaving from my rapid escape.

Why did I seek Seth in the tutoring center? Why am I seeking Seth at all? The way I treated him, he's unlikely to want anything to do with me.

And that little troll, Martin. Ugh. I shared one class with him once. It was enough obnoxiousness for a lifetime. I hope the boy never has offspring.

I hear the slap of sneakers on the other side of the small office building, followed by a muttered, "Crap. Jordi..."

It's Seth.

My heart reaches out to him, and one foot steps forward.

I stop myself, glaring at my traitorous foot, grip tightening around the little MP3 player. He's probably chasing after me to get it back. Why did I take it with me? Didn't I go in there to return it to him in the first place?

No. Not really. If I'm honest with myself, it had been a ruse. An excuse to see him. I know that. He'd looked so hopeful when I walked in, though. It had given me courage to speak.

But it had been a mistake.

I don't know if you act this way because you really are stupid...

I take a step back. And then another.

I know those words hadn't been directed at me, but it still stung. It made me wonder what he really thought of me and my learning disability. He's probably tired of dealing with people who don't perform up to his level.

But he's not like that.

The reasonable voice inside my head makes perfect sense. Seth has repeatedly proven himself to be attentive and interested in me, not my test scores. But wasn't all that before he really got to know me and all my problems? Isn't he now trying to fix all that? Instead of accepting me as I am?

Did you forget everything he said in the recordings?

I uncurl my fingers from the MP3 player and stare at it. Maybe I should listen to it all again.

I sneak to the other side of the school to pick up my assignment from Mrs. Martinez—further evaluations to determine what type of program might benefit me most—and then head home. I try to keep thoughts of Seth out of my mind as I work through the materials.

I'm on the couch when Dad gets home from work late in the afternoon. My phone starts ringing. My lips twist when I see Seth's name on the call display. He sure seems to call a lot for a guy who claims to hate talking on the phone. What would I say to him? My finger hovers with indecision over the screen.

"Jordi, are you not taking any calls anymore?" he asks as he sets his keys in a tray.

I pull my finger away. "I'm just—" Confused? Scared? Annoyed at myself? "Just not from Seth or Dustin."

Dad presses his lips together, contemplating his cowardly daughter. "Are you being a heartbreaker? Because I've been on the other end, and let me tell you, it's not fun."

I sag into the couch. "I don't know. Is that bad?"

"It is for Seth and Dustin."

I sigh and rub my eyes. "Am I a bad person?"

"Of course not." He closes the distance between us and plops onto the couch next to me. "I think you're just a little confused."

"Can you tell me what to do?"

He gives me a teasing, sidelong glance. "What's this, a teenager asking to be told what to do?"

"You know what I mean. I feel like—" I stop short, ears pricking toward the noise. "Is that... drumming?"

We both turn our faces to the open window facing the parking lot.

Dad's forehead crinkles. "People know better than to drum in an apartment complex. Well, except for that guy."

Curiosity propels us to the window, and we peer out, eyes tracking the source of the sound.

"There." He points to the nearest corner of the parking lot where someone sits on a car bumper, banging on a drum between his knees. "Needs some work, but he's not terrible."

I squint, recognizing Tai's peeling blue Honda. Then my breath catches.

It's Seth sitting on that bumper.

He didn't need a boombox after all.

"Hey isn't that—"

I don't wait for him to finish. Heart racing, I spin away from the window and rush out the front door. All my doubts about him vanish. I rush past the elevator careen down the stairs. I nearly tumble onto my face a couple of times, but I don't slow down until I throw open the building's main entrance.

Aware I'm being a bit frantic, I force myself to stop. To approach slowly. I listen as he switches from one pattern to another, alternating between three distinct patters in a beginner's solo. Hasn't it only been a month since I gave him that drum? He must have been practicing nonstop to make this much progress.

His eyes are half-closed, and he doesn't notice me until I'm about a car-length away. His hand falls off beat with an awkward thunk, and he stares at me, wide-eyed.

"You came." His eyes rove over my face, as if trying to gauge my mood.

"What if I wasn't home?" I try to keep my expression neutral, but I can't stop my nervous fingers from tapping against my thigh. I'm not sure what to say to him now that we're face to face.

"Well," Seth answers with a lopsided grin. "Then this would be a pretty odd place to practice." His hand lifts slightly as if to reach for me, but falls to his side instead.

I glance behind him into the car, where Tai is gesturing while talking on the phone. Probably to Winnie.

Seth eases the drum aside and stands.

My mouth suddenly feels like sandpaper. So many things tumble through my mind. I manage to catch one.

"I listened to—" I begin.

"Did you get a chance to—" he says at the same time.

We stop, a nervous edge to our chuckles.

My fingers tap faster.

"You go ahead," he says, inclining his head.

His eyes flick to my manic fingers, so I flatten them against my skirt. "Um, I listened to your recordings."

A flicker of hope lights his dark eyes, but he continues listening. His trademark intense gaze nearly unsettles me.

I convince myself to continue. "And..." My brain is full of feelings. Of faded outrage warring with affection. Of thoughts that this boy seems to know not-so-great things about me, but still wants to be around me anyway. He thinks entirely too much about school, yet he managed to spend the last month learning an instrument that I introduced to him. What can I possibly say to him? I've been so unkind, ignoring phone calls and avoiding him in public places. What could he possibly see in me?

But here he is.

Doing his best John Cusack without a boombox.

He watches me, doubt beginning to crowd the light in his eyes. I have to say something. I should tell him I want to be with him. That I forgive him, if he can forgive me. That I— The words jumble in my head.

Oh forget it.

I surge forward, wrapping my hands around his face, pressing my lips against his.

The ambivalence and confusion falls away, replaced by longing, companionship, acceptance. More.

As I twine my hands into his hair, I can't remember why I'd been so angry with him in the first place. Whatever it was, it can't possibly compare to this.

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