The Drumsticks

Chapter Two

2 months later

I pull into the empty parking lot of the stadium in my dad's 1967 Chevy Apollo at 2:30 p.m.

"So tell me again, why are we here so early?" Rose asks.

"Because," Isabella says, "being the first ones here, the usher may let us in."

"How often does that happen though?" I ask.

"Not often at all." She says.

Rose and I look at each other.

"So most likely we'll be stuck outside for several hours." I state, sigh, and get out of the car.

We walk up to the entrance of the stadium and sit down. We are there for ten minutes before someone pops their head out of the doors, one of the ushers I suppose.

"Wow!" he says, "we didn't expect anyone for another half hour."

"Well, looks like you got some earlier than you expected then!" Rose says.

"Since you're the first ones here, want to come inside?" he asks.

"Really?" all three of us say, but really and truly we follow him inside.

The stadium is just as big as we expected it to be.

"If you want, the sound check isn't for another ten minutes; you can go up on stage."

"Won't we get in trouble?" Rose asks, "Like with the head usher or something?"

"You shouldn't since he just let you in." he says, "I'm Al, by the way, if you need anything, holler."

"Thanks Al."

"Thank you."

We sit for thirty seconds before I get up. My eyes are set on the drums. I've played the snare since third grade, but never an actual set.

My fingers graze the drumsticks; so smooth and polished. I sit on the cushioned stool and look at the set. You can see where the drumsticks have repeatedly been hitting specific parts. I pick up the sticks and just start messing around, you know, because I've only ever played the snare. I'm jammin' for a while, but then I hear someone pull up a stool, not sure where, I keep playing.

But then, someone sits right behind me.