Paper Stars

24

Present

I arrive 20 minutes early to Lincoln Center, and go up to the fifth floor. The attendant at the secretary desk tells me to wait outside the performance room, that they'll call me in when they're ready. I sit at one of the many uncomfortable chairs lined up outside the room. I'm the only one in the entire hallway, aside from the attendant, and the silence begins to dull my ears.

As the minutes tick past, I find myself getting restless - my left foot tapping to invisible drum beats, my thumb fidgeting with the material of the gloves Sullivan gave me.

The door to the performance room shudders open and I jump at the sudden noise. A man emerges from the opening. "We're ready for you, Miss Hollins."

I follow him through the doors, and lose my breath for a moment at the sight. The auditorium is enormous, much larger than Kaufman - the stage is vast and brightly lit, followed by dozens and dozens of rows of seating.

"If you could take your place at the drums," the man says when we reach the front of the auditorium. I nod, not trusting myself to speak, and climb the steps to the stage. The man and three others are seated in the front row, each with a clipboard and a purple fountain pen. Each ready to praise me or tear me to pieces.

The man says those three fated words: "Whenever you're ready."

I balance my drum sticks in my hands and flex my wrists. This is it. This is what I've sweat blood and tears for, a single drum solo of 180 measures. No charts, just the memory of Malaguena in my head.

1 2 3 4

I can do this.

***

September

The summer has come and gone, sticky weather, melting ice cream and all. 6 months clean, and 3 months as the lead drummer for second string Lincoln Center jazz ensemble. The practices are long and hard, and performances arrive as quickly as the beat of a march, but I love it. I love seeing Emma in the front row of the auditorium, watching the lead cellist as she mimics his notes on her arm. Aunt Joan and Uncle Kenny no longer have worry lines between their eyebrows when they look at me. The locks on the medicine cabinet at home no longer look as menacing as they did in March. At the end of July, I even drive Emma to Boston, Massachusetts for her Berklee audition - we stay the night at a hotel in midtown, and I don't feel the itch once.

There's just one thing.

I keep checking my phone for missed messages, texts, anything. Flet has been silent since I called him in a panic in June. It's become a bad habit of mine to write out lengthy text messages to him, only to delete minutes later without sending, in a fit of embarrassment. Sometimes I subconsciously trace the numbers of his phone number on the knee of my jeans while I'm on the train to Lincoln Center. It's not that I'm afraid he won't pick up - I'm afraid of what he'll say when he picks up. I'm afraid of what I'll say.

FliX, on the other hand, has been quite present in the media. He released his second album in early August, titled Brimstone, and sold over 500,000 copies in the first week. I listened to about the first half on my early morning jog - I stopped when I realized I was crying.

After that, I try to avoid FliX as much as I can. I've stopped watching the television all together, and I carry earbuds around with me at all times, so as to avoid hearing his music on the train or the streets. Aunt Joan and Uncle Kenny are oblivious, but Emma has noticed. Sometimes she rides the train with me, and I catch her watching me trace out his number, or turn my music up louder when his song comes on. She hasn't said anything yet. I don't think she plans to.