The Lost and Found

Donuts

yeah so i know i said this before, that i'm starting a new story (survival: the runaway) but it got deleted. i deleted it. i figured that it has too many plot holes and errors so i got that one out.

anyway, i'm starting a new story. yeah i know, i'm a nutcase, and you're probably thinking "oh no, it's probably just going to be deleted again" and i'm telling you, HOPEFULLY it will not be.

it's a the walking dead inspired story. meaning walkers, death, action and all sort of adventure will be packed in that story.

so yeah, that's all.

CHAPTER FORTY: Jack White

"I'm going to screw up, I'm going to be horrible, and this godforsaken concert is probably going to fail because of me and-"

"Shut up, man, I'm trying to practice here." My cousin, Edward, snapped at me as he fixed his clarinet pieces together. He and I aren't exactly close since I barely get to see him but I was extremely nervous and apparently, I needed to rant about it.

I sighed and picked up the cymbals from the shelf. I got the music book, set up a music stand, and flipped it to The Drummer's Countdown, which was basically The Little Drummer Boy song thing and The Final Countdown in one song. Since it was my first year in percussion (I practiced trombone and trumpet first), my nerves were on a roll. I was very nervous since I was handling the cymbals, where the crowd, the flipping audience would easily make out any little flaw that I'd probably make, and it was making my giddy and shaky that for one second I thought I was actually going to pass out.

"I want a donut." Shane, one of our twelve drummer boys and the lead, said as he entered the band room, tossing his drumsticks to the blue couch before downing my bottle of water.

My task was simple actually yet there I was, scaring myself half to death when my piece only consisted of stupid quarter notes.

God, you are such a wuss. Shut up, buy yourself a sandwich and calm your balls down.

I ignored it. I wouldn't relax. This isn't something to relax on.

Four bars before Z, before I would make my first epic crash. I repeated to myself. And then, there's five consecutive eighth notes at some point and don't fuck it up buy playing early. Wait for the last note and do it right. Got it.

That was my piece on The Drummer Boy march thing. Then when Shane and all the other eleven drummer boys are onstage, you stop, count twelve bars, then play the constant quarter notes.

That was five years ago, when I was twelve and Allison was ten. I peeked through the classic red curtain and saw Grandma Esther, Vickie, Allison and some of my cousins who probably don't even give a fuck were sitting three rows away from the front seats. Allison had a word search on her hands, her eyebrows furrowed as she continued to hunt down for the next word. Grandma Esther was scolding Edward, for messing up his tuxedo, while Vickie was flirting with our flutist, Maria.

"Settle down on your respective seats, ladies and gentlemen," Alex Baron, a senior from our broadcasting team said through the mike with a clear, suave voice, "the Frosted Christmas Jingle Concert is about to start!"

The crowd broke into an applause but somehow I concluded that it was forced.

"Percussionists take your places, now!" Elizabeth, the overall director of the concert, shouted from behind the curtain as she glared intensely at us. I couldn't blame her. We were
really loud with the drum set.

"Where the hell is my donut?" Shane whispered impatiently as he took his place on the drum set's stool.

I sat on the chair and got the smaller bass drum and positioned myself behind the lead bass drummer. I had nothing exactly assigned to do so I might as well rock shit up with the bass.