Paper Stars

14

Charlotte Hollins
Present
It's funny how the more you hate somebody, the more you want to impress them.
It's been four weeks since I got into Kaufman, and for four weeks I've been sweating blood practicing. As much as I despise him, Sullivan was right about a few things. I'm out of practice and the muscles in my wrists and forearms have deteriorated, making my drumming less precise and more muddled. After that first day of band rehearsal, I came home and went through boxes of my old music books in the attic. I found several drum exercise charts designed to strengthen my muscles, and I've been practicing them daily ever since. For the first week or so, my wrists burned from the exercises and I would ice them just before bed. The skin of my inner thumbs has chafed from the relentless practice, a sore reminder of my years in college when I practiced and practiced until my hands were raw and bleeding.
During rehearsal, Sullivan gives me the amount of attention that one would give a bug on your windshield. A pinch of annoyance, but easy to ignore. Besides, I'm only the second-string drummer. From 6pm to 9 pm every day, all I do is sit next to Owen and turn his pages, something he loves to remind me of. I've considered sabotage; maybe shuffle his pages in the wrong order, or adjust his seat lower, not low enough for him to notice, just enough for irritation. They're only considerations, of course. If I acted on any of them, Sullivan would kick me out without a second thought, something I know he'd enjoy.
We run an hour late in rehearsal today, because the saxophone players are "fucking idiots who can't count a 16th note to save your worthless little lives," as Sullivan puts it. By 10:15, they finally play their 16th notes at a beat and tempo that satisfies Sullivan and we run through Blue in the Air three more times before we're finally dismissed.
"No, not you, Rehab," Sullivan calls just as I'm exiting the room.
I stop in my tracks and turn around, confused. Sullivan hasn't acknowledged me in a month. "What?"
Sullivan is standing on the stage, head down and staring at music sheets in his hand. He glances up at me and makes a beckoning gesture. "I'm not done with you yet, get back in here."
Reluctantly, I step back into the room, approaching the stage. The rehearsal room doors shut with a slam as the last student exits. Well, last except for me. "What'd I do this time?" I ask in a flat voice.
"If you could tone down the attitude, that would be delightful."
I choke back a retort. Why do British people always sound intellectually superior? It's not fair.
Sullivan is still looking down, making notes on a piece of sheet music. "What happened to your hands?" he asks.
I cast a look at my hands. The rawness of the skin between my thumb and forefingers had irritated me more than usual this morning, so I put healing salve on the chafing and wrapped it in soft white cloth as a makeshift glove. Aunt Joan gave me a worried look this morning but didn't say anything. Besides her, I didn't think that anybody noticed. Even Owen hadn't said anything.
I hide them behind my back. "Practicing."
Sullivan glances at me. "You know they have gloves for that sort of thing."
"Gloves restrict my movement."
"Gloves protect your skin from chafing. I'd say that ones up your little movement dilemma." He flips looks back down at his sheet music and makes one final mark before nodding towards the drum set. "Blue in the Air. I want to hear you play it."
For a second, I think he's joking, until he looks at me again and raises his eyebrows. "Well?" he prompts.
I nod and step up onto the stage, sitting down at the drum seat. I take my music out of my bag, crumpled and marked up from weeks of intense practicing, and arrange it on the stand so that I don't have to flip pages. I take out my sticks and balance them loosely in the space between my thumb and forefingers.
Sullivan makes a vague, careless gesture in the air. "Whenever you're ready, Rehab."
I take a deep breath. The metronome starts clicking in my head, and I begin to play.
Setting Sun is a musical piece that pales in comparison to Blue in the Air. Setting Sun is a harsh tornado of notes, full or ridges and corners that can poke you if you're not careful. Blue in the Air is a more mellow song with a lulling tune that drifts and sways. . The percussion section is very soft and hardly noticeable, but incredibly intricate and vital to the song. Whenever I've practiced it, I find myself more exhausted than from when I practice Setting Sun. It requires much more concentration and precision.
About halfway through the song, I can feel the white cloth wrapped around my hands getting damp. From sweat or blood, I don't know. I push the distraction out of my head and stare intensely at the music, determined not to miss a single note. By the time I've finished the song, I can see the dark red that has bled through the white cloth.
I look up. Sullivan's eyes are squinted in concentration, watching me. The seconds drag by, and I can feel my cheeks growing warmer. I quickly look away and put my sheets and my sticks back in my bag.
"How many hours have you practiced that?" Sullivan asks, still watching me with that thoughtful and calculating expression on his face.
I shrug and sling my bag over my shoulder, standing up. I cross my arms, trying to keep my bleeding hands out of view. "You know, a bit here and there." It's a lie. All I've been doing is practicing, from the time I wake up to the time I go to sleep. And from the look of Sullivan's expression, he knows it too. "Not bad for a dropout?" I attempt, trying to get a scowl back on his face.
Instead of firing back some snide comment, Sullivan just shrugs and rubs his chin, looking more satisfied than his usual irritated expression. "Not bad at all."