I nod, and Mike starts tapping one of the cymbal things with his right hand. Just tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap . . . eight taps in an even rhythm. When he hands me the drumsticks, I lift an eyebrow at him, and he chuckles as he slides off the stool.
My grasp on the drumsticks this time isn’t as white-knuckled, and I easily keep the beat Mike set: tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.
“Nice,” he praises, taking the drumsticks I hand him and sliding back onto the stool I vacate. He takes his next turn, doing the same tapping beat with his right hand, but adding in one of the big foot pedal drums. Tap/thump, tap, tap, tap, tap/thump, tap, tap, tap. He repeats this a few times, then looks up at me. “Got it?”
I nod, and he hands me the drumsticks. He lowers the stool for me before I slide back onto it, and I carefully rest my foot on one of the pedals before taking a deep breath. Mike gives me a reassuring smile, and I try to mimic what he did: tap/thump, tap, tap, tap, tap/thump, tap, tap, tap. When I do it twice without messing up, I beam up at him.
“You’re a natural,” he praises, and I laugh as I slide off the stool, because he is so full of crap. But my insides feel all fuzzy anyway, and my cheeks ache from smiling when he slides back onto the stool.
“I’m going to add the snare to the bass and hi-hat this time,” he coaches, and I catalog these new terms in my mind, studying him carefully. “Ready?”
I nod, hoping I can get this new beat right, and Mike plays it out for me: tap/thump, tap, tap/bang, tap, tap/thump, tap, tap/bang, tap. He plays it a few more times, giving me time to memorize it, and my fingers start itching to take the sticks from him so I can give it a try. “Got all that?”
“We’ll see,” I say, and he chuckles as he relinquishes the stool. I slide back onto it and chew on my lip, my confidence fading as I replay the beat in my head and doubt my coordination.
“You’ve got this,” Mike promises, and the assuring look in his big brown eyes makes me loosen my death grip on the sticks. His hand squeezes my shoulder, and his thumb taps a beat against my skin: tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.
“I can’t concentrate with you doing that,” I confess, and his thumb stops tapping, but he doesn’t pull it away. It starts rubbing back and forth across my shoulder, and my thoughts turn into strings of yarn that tangle around and around and around themselves as my toes curl in my tennis shoes.
I stare up at him, and he stares down at me. No one speaks, and my heart sets its own beat: BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG.
“You’re cheating,” I breathe, and Mike’s mouth curves into a sly smile.
“How am I cheating?”
“If you keep that up,” I warn with my heart hammering in my throat, “you’re getting the H in horse.”
Mike laughs and lets his hand fall away, and I struggle to breathe evenly enough to keep a steady beat on the drums. Was he flirting with me just now? Was he only teasing? Does he know I like him?
Oh God. Does he know I like him?
When my toes curl inside my shoes, the foot pedal hammer whacks the bass drum and makes me jump. “That doesn’t count!” I squeal, and Mike laughs again. I poke him in the stomach with a drumstick. “That was an accident! It doesn’t count.”
“Fine,” he agrees with a chuckle, grabbing the end of my stick so I can’t poke him again. “It doesn’t count.” Holding the stick, he leans in closer, a playful smile on his face. “You’re still going to lose.”
When he lets go and crosses his arms over his chest, I turn back toward the drums and prepare to prove him wrong. My right stick taps the hi-hat, my foot pedal smacks the bass. Tap/thump, tap, tap/bang, tap, tap/thump, tap, tap/bang, tap. I continue playing, laughing when I don’t make any mistakes. I grin at Mike, in awe of the fact that I’m actually drumming. Ten minutes ago, I didn’t even know what a hi-hat was, and now I’m sitting here setting a beat like a legit drummer. “This is awesome,” I marvel with a laugh, and Mike’s smile brightens as he watches me.
“Told you you’re a natural.”
“Am I better than you yet?”
Mike tries to hide a smile and holds his hands out for the sticks. When I hand them over, he takes my seat and flashes me a playful smirk. “Let’s see.”
He starts by beating on the snare drums, and I try to memorize the order. But then, his hands start moving too fast for me to keep track of. His sticks dance over snares and cymbals while his feet pound on the two bass drums, setting a fast, loud, impossible beat. I stand there watching, in awe of him, in wonder of how many hours and how many nights and how many years it must have taken him to get to this level. He plays this wild beat like it’s easy, like it’s as simple as thinking, as breathing.
Eventually, my eyes stop concentrating so hard on his hands. They move to his arms, his chest, his face. I admire the curve of his lips, the shadow of his jaw, the shade of his eyes. Those butterflies start stirring inside me again, and by the time Mike finally takes one final hard swing at his drums, I’m no different than any of the dozens of weak-kneed girls who watch him from the front row of his shows.
“Your turn,” he says while I stand there breathless, and I finally come back down to Earth.
“Huh?”
He hands me the sticks and teases, “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
I sit down at the drums in a daze, and then I can’t help laughing. Because yeah, freaking, right. “How about I do something better?” I ask, and Mike’s eyebrow lifts in question.