Iâm going to mess around on the drum kit. I know sheâs going to watch me through the kitchen window, checking on me every five seconds. She canât help herself. She has a real hard time letting me out of her sight even though Iâm sixteen now. Even though I figure the odds of anything awful happening to me again are a million to one.
Then again, the odds of the first awful thing happening to meâof Marty taking meâwere a million to one, too. And it happened anyway.
Maybe my mother doesnât believe in luck or chance anymore. She just needs to be sure.
Iâm biting my lip so hard I can taste blood. I wince and shake my head a little, and then without thinking about it too much I grab the sticks and sit down at the Ludwig and adjust the stool so Iâm at the right height.
Like I said, I messed around on the Pearl kit a little when I first got back, but I havenât really played the drums in over four years.
Four years.
A quarter of my life. Twenty-five percent of it lost.
I rub my thumbs up and down the wooden drumsticks. I nurse my bit lip a little with my tongue. I close my eyes â¦
And suddenly Iâm drumming. I canât tell if Iâm any good even though Iâm pretty sure my fills are for shit, and I wonder what my old band teacher, Mr. Case, would say if he were listening to me play right now. But all that really matters is Iâm drumming. Iâm drumming and Iâm a drummer and Iâm drumming. I hear Green Day songs in my head and Iâm pretending Iâm Tré Cool, and I give the kick drum a couple of smacks and whomps and wallops. I keep at it until I feel sweat starting to bead up under my hairline and my shoulders start to ache. And for the first time since Iâve been home, my mind blanks out but itâs not a bad thing. Not like the blanks from before, from when I was gone. These blanks feel good, actually. Almost peaceful. And, yeah, I probably need to build up my stamina, and maybe Iâm good, and maybe Iâm not.
But that Ludwig, man. Iâm telling you, it sounded fucking awesome.
Â
CAROLINEâ140 DAYS AFTERWARD
One of the good things about being the normal one is that I can get away with my room being an absolute shit show, and no one seems to bother me about it too much. Like right now I have what most geologists would define as a mountain of dirty laundry in the corner of my room, and my bookshelf is covered in empty cans of Coke Zero and stacks of old BUST magazines my cousin in Chicago mailed me, and my floor is decorated in spiral notebooks full of homework I might or might not do, depending.
My closet is a train wreck, too. The other day in some pathetic attempt to make room for the dirty clothes I might someday get around to washing, I tried to empty it out. I still had my sixth grade All School Spelling Bee trophy in there, which shows you how long itâs been since I cleaned out my closet. It also goes to show you how much Iâve changed since the sixth grade.
I shoved the trophy back on the shelf along with my favorite black Converse high tops and the teeniest, tiniest little bag of weed I bought from Jason McGinty, and then I covered it all up with some random T-shirt and a bunch of junk.
I really didnât have to cover the weed because no one goes in my closet but me. Like I said, there are perks to being the normal one. The one who met her milestones and didnât have meltdowns in public places. The one who didnât have to be carted around to a million doctors from birth only to have them all give the same diagnosis. Autism. Low functioning. Cause unknown. Therapy available but sorry, your insurance doesnât cover it. And anyway, the closest therapist is over a hundred miles away.
I remember when my parents told me I was going to have a little brother. I was five and in Ms. Sweenyâs kindergarten class at Dove Lake Primary, and when my parents sat me down in the kitchen
Then again, the odds of the first awful thing happening to meâof Marty taking meâwere a million to one, too. And it happened anyway.
Maybe my mother doesnât believe in luck or chance anymore. She just needs to be sure.
Iâm biting my lip so hard I can taste blood. I wince and shake my head a little, and then without thinking about it too much I grab the sticks and sit down at the Ludwig and adjust the stool so Iâm at the right height.
Like I said, I messed around on the Pearl kit a little when I first got back, but I havenât really played the drums in over four years.
Four years.
A quarter of my life. Twenty-five percent of it lost.
I rub my thumbs up and down the wooden drumsticks. I nurse my bit lip a little with my tongue. I close my eyes â¦
And suddenly Iâm drumming. I canât tell if Iâm any good even though Iâm pretty sure my fills are for shit, and I wonder what my old band teacher, Mr. Case, would say if he were listening to me play right now. But all that really matters is Iâm drumming. Iâm drumming and Iâm a drummer and Iâm drumming. I hear Green Day songs in my head and Iâm pretending Iâm Tré Cool, and I give the kick drum a couple of smacks and whomps and wallops. I keep at it until I feel sweat starting to bead up under my hairline and my shoulders start to ache. And for the first time since Iâve been home, my mind blanks out but itâs not a bad thing. Not like the blanks from before, from when I was gone. These blanks feel good, actually. Almost peaceful. And, yeah, I probably need to build up my stamina, and maybe Iâm good, and maybe Iâm not.
But that Ludwig, man. Iâm telling you, it sounded fucking awesome.
Â
CAROLINEâ140 DAYS AFTERWARD
One of the good things about being the normal one is that I can get away with my room being an absolute shit show, and no one seems to bother me about it too much. Like right now I have what most geologists would define as a mountain of dirty laundry in the corner of my room, and my bookshelf is covered in empty cans of Coke Zero and stacks of old BUST magazines my cousin in Chicago mailed me, and my floor is decorated in spiral notebooks full of homework I might or might not do, depending.
My closet is a train wreck, too. The other day in some pathetic attempt to make room for the dirty clothes I might someday get around to washing, I tried to empty it out. I still had my sixth grade All School Spelling Bee trophy in there, which shows you how long itâs been since I cleaned out my closet. It also goes to show you how much Iâve changed since the sixth grade.
I shoved the trophy back on the shelf along with my favorite black Converse high tops and the teeniest, tiniest little bag of weed I bought from Jason McGinty, and then I covered it all up with some random T-shirt and a bunch of junk.
I really didnât have to cover the weed because no one goes in my closet but me. Like I said, there are perks to being the normal one. The one who met her milestones and didnât have meltdowns in public places. The one who didnât have to be carted around to a million doctors from birth only to have them all give the same diagnosis. Autism. Low functioning. Cause unknown. Therapy available but sorry, your insurance doesnât cover it. And anyway, the closest therapist is over a hundred miles away.
I remember when my parents told me I was going to have a little brother. I was five and in Ms. Sweenyâs kindergarten class at Dove Lake Primary, and when my parents sat me down in the kitchen
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