Chapter 18

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Kennedy sat in the passenger seat of Charlie's car, tapping her foot against the dusty floor-mat. She was on her way to an unspecified destination and wasn't entire comfortable with not knowing where Charlie was taking her. He'd told her only that they were 'meeting up with some friends' and had refused to tell her more. He'd said that he didn't want her googling and over-analyzing the experience before actually experiencing it, and had told her to wear something that would be comfortable if she were sitting on the ground.

Kennedy shot Charlie a questioning look when he turned into the driveway of a local high school. He gave her a sphinx-like smile, but still said nothing. He drove behind the red brick building and into a quarter-full parking lot.

Behind the back seat of Charlie's car, visible through the slanted hatchback window, Kennedy had spotted two small-ish suitcases as she'd gotten into his car. Charlie took them now and walked with Kennedy into the building. Her stomach flipped when she walked through the door. She'd gone to a different high school in a different town, but each one had the same smell: industrial floor cleaner, hormones and angst. Kennedy hadn't attended high school, she'd endured it. She'd liked some of the people, but she'd liked them best hanging out in someone's basement on a Saturday night.

"We're hanging out at a high school on a Sunday morning...for fun?" she asked.

Charlie nudged her with his shoulder. "No algeb-- No Spanish class today, I promise."

"I didn't mind Spanish. It's a beautifully logical language. English is a mess compared to Spanish."

Charlie turned down a short hallway, moving through the building with the ease of familiarity. Kenned heard a noise coming from down the hallway, a sort of cacophony of banging. He stopped at a set of double doors, set down one of his cases, and pulled open the windowless metal door.

Inside was a small gymnasium. The center of a basketball court had been covered with gym mats, and the gym mat was covered in drummers. Most held drums the size and shape of small waste-paper baskets, though some had larger drums, or coffee-cup sized bongos. One man carried a drum that looked like an over-sized Frisbee and was softly tapping it with a double-ended drumstick. The drummers were both men and women of a wide variety of ages and clothing styles. If she ever needed a diverse population sample to survey, she knew where to come.

Charlie set down his cases as one man spotted him, then walked over to he and Kennedy. She guessed the man's original hair color as medium brown, but her only hint was the stubble at the sides of his head. The top was dyed in a rainbow of colors and messily spiked along the crest of his head. He greeted Charlie warmly, then turned to Kennedy.

"I'm Mortimer, and you've gotta be Melody. Charlie said you were cute, but he didn't tell me you were so *hot*. "

Mortimer wore wide black shorts that went down to his knees, a sleeveless white t-shirt, and several necklaces made of colorful thread, carved wooden beads, and aquamarine stones. His long, skinny arms were decorated in a riot of tattoos, and he held them wide to request a hug.

"Kennedy. Nice to meet you, too," she said, oddly pleased by his overly-familiar greeting.

Charlie stepped to Kennedy's side and put an arm protectively around her waist. "Of course I didn't tell you she was gorgeous. I don't advertise my best treasures." He gave her a squeeze that made her heart do a double-thump.

Mortimer held his hands up in surrender, but his eyes crinkled with laughter. "Point taken. So, Kennedy, are you a drummer like Chuckles, here?"

Kennedy spun to face Charlie. She found him blushing and giving Mortimer a sharp look.

          

"What, she don't call you Chuckles?" asked Mortimer.

"No," said Charlie at the same time that Kennedy said, "I will now!"

Taking pity on Charlie, Kennedy steered the conversation back to neutral territory. "No, I'm not a drummer. This is my first time."

Mortimer did a little happy dance with his shoulders. "Dude, that's awesome! You get to pippity-pappity-pop your cherry in the drum circle today!"

Caught up in his infectious enthusiasm, Kennedy couldn't help but smile. "I'm happy to join everyone, but I'm not terribly musical."

"If you can count to four, you'll be fine," said Mortimer.

"More than fine," insisted Charlie. "Drumming is all about patterns, with a few fractions thrown in. You should be in your element."

Charlie knelt down and opened one of his cases. "Besides, there's no wrong way to play this little beauty."

Kennedy dropped to her knees beside Charlie, drawn by the object he'd revealed. It was a drum, but like none she'd ever seen before. It was about as long as her arm, had a head the size of a dinner plate, and the body of it was tapered in the middle like an hourglass. Instead of wood or shiny gray aluminum, this drum was as intricately decorated patterns of blue and white triangles that wouldn't have looked out of place in an Arabian palace.

"That's your drum?" she asked.

"I borrowed it from Mortimer and picked it up ahead of time, just in case he didn't make it. For today, that's your drum," he corrected, then flipped open the other case. "That's my drum."

Charlie's drum was close to Kennedy's in size and shape, and the design was equally intricate, but where Kennedy's was cool and precise, Charlie's was warm and sinuous, all browns and ochres, curlicues and hundred-petaled chrysanthemums. Charlie had just pulled the drum from the case when a loud voice called for the drummers to gather for the opening of the drum circle.

Charlie and Kennedy carried their drums to the chairs ringing the gym mats, sitting just outside the circle of drummers who had chosen to sit while they played. Charlie shot Mortimer a little look when he sat beside Kennedy rather than Charlie. Charlie got up and sat on her other side. He showed Kennedy how to hold the drum between her legs, and gave her a mini-lesson on changing the sound by striking different places on the drum head.

A man with a banker's haircut and a Hawaiian shirt stepped to the middle of the circle.

"Everybody ready?" he called, holding his arms wide and turning on the spot.

"Yes!" the group called back.

"A-one, a-two, a-one, two, three, four!" he said.

En masse, the group began striking their drums in a monotonous beat at the pace set by their leader. Kennedy glanced to her left and her right and saw Charlie and Mortimer both slapping their palms against the center of their drums. Kennedy followed suit. Just when she was starting to wonder if the entire session would consist of this singular, pounding beat, someone changed the pattern, adding a more complicated rhythm on top of the established pulse. Some of the group took up the new rhythm and others kept the steady thump going.

A third pattern was soon added, which her companions took to with gusto. Kennedy could hear the more complicated rhythm, but couldn't make her hands move fast enough to replicated it, so she went back to pounding out the heartbeat of the room.

Kennedy was surprised to find that she was enjoying herself. She couldn't carry a tune, and she couldn't dance, but this, she could do. The part of the brain that lit up when doing something in concert with other people was shining like a beacon in Kennedy's head. It was like what dancing was supposed to be, but sitting down and you had an excuse not to make eye contact when you were looking at your drum.

After a time, the motion became familiar enough that, when she chose to, she could look around without hitting the hard edge of the drum with the soft part of her hand. The crowd was becoming more relaxed. People were smiling, dancing with the free parts of their bodies.

She took special pleasure in watching Charlie drumming. The muscles of his shoulders and arms slid under his snug gray shirt, and he rocked his torso in time with the beat. His long hair, which he wore brushed back from his face, was curling as dozens of moving, breathing bodies raised the heat and humidity of the room. The liberated strands hung down by his temples, shaken loose by Charlie's movements. The only other times Kennedy had seen his hair like that were when she was naked beneath him. The memory gave even more heat to his already sensual movements.

The energy of the room stayed high, but the drumming grew simpler. When the entire crowd was back to the simple beat they'd started with, a single player erupted in an explosion of sound. Other players cheered on the unseen drummer with "yeah"s and whoops. The solo ended and some people stopped drumming to applaud, while others kept the rhythm going.

Another player soloed, and then another. When the applause for the fourth soloist was dying away, Charlie and Mortimer leaned forward and had a silent, head-gesture conversation across Kennedy's lap. It ended when Charlie nodded. His hands and fingers flew almost too fast for Kennedy to follow. The sound was exotic, energetic to the point of passionate, and Kennedy couldn't help but tap her toes and nod her head at the infectious beat.

When she thought he was finished, Mortimer picked up the solo and Charlie played a counterpoint on the off-beats. Mortimer was, at least to her newbie ears, every bit as skilled as Charlie, though his body motions were less sensual and more focused.

Across the circle and behind the chairs, a woman dressed in a flowing skirt and red crop-top jumped up and started dancing. She had at least sixty pounds on Kennedy, and had a hundred times the stage presence. She danced with joy, popping her hips and shaking her soft belly to the rat-tat-pop of the drums. The skirt swirled around her, and she used it as an instrument, accentuating her movements. The effect was beautiful. Kennedy was entranced.

The rhythm switched to her other side and Charlie picked up the solo again. His fingers tapped an unbelievably complicated staccato across the head of his drum. No wonder he was so good at doing other things with his hands.

Charlie passed the solo back to Mortimer, and then they wound it up by playing together, finishing with a flourish of rolling fingers, which was followed by raucous applause. Slowly others drummers left their instruments to join the woman in red, moving their bodies joyfully, without thought to performance or style, but just because it felt good.

Kennedy wasn't thinking of joining them today, but she could imagine herself being tempted another day. The whole room felt energetic and alive, full to the rafters with positive energy. Despite the noise and the activity, it felt like a safe place. Kennedy thumped her drum until both hands were red and sore, and was still sorry when it was time to leave.

When they walked to the corner in which Charlie had stashed his cases, he slung an arm around Kennedy's shoulder. He smelled distractingly warm and sweaty, almost like he did after sex, but minus the addition of Kennedy's own mellow scent. She was feeling a bit warm herself, but her and him wasn't the same as her-plus-him on both their bodies. She planned to remedy that deficiency as soon as possible. Right after she soaked her hands in some cool water.


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