Drummer girl, p.1
Drummer Girl, page 1
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Also By Ginger Scott
About the Author
Copyright 2019
Ginger Scott, Little Miss Write LLC
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No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.
Ginger Scott
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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Cover information:
Cover photo by Chuck Weber
Cover model Kelsey Strandberg
Design by Ginger Scott
For Shaundi.
Drummer girls for life!
Chapter One
The moving trucks pulled in at about ten this morning. The house at the end of my cul-de-sac has been empty for two years, even now that the sold sign has finally been plucked from the ground; the weeds have grown so high, the tops have burnt off from dehydration and the hot California sun. Whoever’s moving into that place must not mind ugly houses. That, or they’re desperate.
“Any people yet?”
My best friend, Sam, flops on the bed next to me, her bounce exploding buttery kernels of popcorn into the wrinkled covers beneath us.
“You’re making a mess, and no. There hasn’t been anyone but movers so far.”
I work to pick up the pieces she spilled when she brought in the bowl from our snack fest last night. Sam’s parents are out of town for their anniversary, so she’s been staying with me for the fall break. Since there’s no school, we’ve pretty much slept our days away and spent the nights watching classic horror films that make sleeping in the dark impossible. We’re both exhausted now from last night’s second viewing of The Exorcist, but we heard the moving trucks rumble by an hour ago, and we haven’t been able to quit staring out the window since.
“I wonder if you’ll get murderers down the street,” Sam says, shoveling a palmful of popcorn into her mouth. She crunches it loudly, and I internalize a reminder that she’s going home tomorrow.
“Why would I get murderers? That’s not a thing. Maybe we need to switch to comedies.” I take a few pieces of popcorn in my hand and nibble on them one at a time. They’ve gotten stale, but I like the salt and the butter.
“Umm, murder is so a thing. It’s basically the only thing they show on Dateline, and people who commit murder are called…” she leads me.
I roll my eyes.
“Murderers,” I answer, giving her what she wants.
“Exactly.” She crunches down another mouthful of popcorn, which ratchets up my nerves a little more. That crunch—it’s her victory lap.
“Whatever, Sam. I’m not getting a cluster of murderers down the street. There’s a ton of furniture, and I saw some things that look like they belong to someone our age. It’s probably a family.” Specifically, I saw band posters. They were framed, in nice, glass-covered frames, not like the plastic ones I have or the rolls of paper that I pin to my wall. And they were good bands—classics like The Doors, Cream, Bowie, Joy Division.
“I bet it’s a guy,” Sam says, smirking through her words. My friend is terribly boy-crazy. It started at the beginning of our freshman year, and it got worse every single grade until she finally gave up her V-card before our senior year hit. I can’t imagine what she’ll be like in college. I won’t get to see it, I suppose. Sam’s going to Brown. I’ll be lucky to make it north, closer to Seattle—closer to music.
Honestly? I’ll be lucky to make it out of this county.
I scoot closer to my windowsill and rest my chin on my folded hands where the window meets my mattress. I like to fall asleep with my blinds raised so I can see the stars. There isn’t much about Orson that I like, but our suburban town is dark, so I can see a lot of the sky when the sun goes down. The cool people get to live closer to L.A., on hillsides or by the beach. Our street still has a bunch of empty lots that have been that way for years because of the housing bust. That’s why we got this place so cheap a few years ago. And it’s better than the apartment we were in before. We have a yard, even though the circle of grass is small enough to straddle. Almost everything around here is rock. Rocks don’t need water, and this place is short on water. It’s also short on life.
There’s Roger’s Convenience Store on the corner, which is where the stoners hang out and deal, then there’s the strip mall with my parents’ shipping store, the place that sells vacuums, and the ice shop that sells a little bit of ice but mostly ice cream and weird candies that are always stale. Everything else in Orson is either halfway built and abandoned or private land that people my age trespass on for kicks. Sometimes, late at night, a bunch of us climb to the top of the only real mountain nearby and throw shit at the condemned houses below. There aren’t any windows to break because mostly, construction never got that far.
Sam shifts her weight and the mattress shakes. Done with her snack, she sets the bowl on the floor and claps away the crumbs from her hands. She slides up the bed and rests her head just like I am, and together with our foreheads pressed to the window, we wait for something big to happen at the house down the street.
One truck leaves as another one arrives, like they’re making multiple trips to save money. Mattresses come out of the new truck along with dressers and headboards and things that look like they match my parents’ bedroom set. When one of the movers pauses with a heavy black box on wheels at the edge of the truck ramp, Sam and I both notice. We hold our breath, careful to keep the glass clear of fog from our hot exhales.
“What’s that?”
I don’t answer my friend, too curious, because so far everything about this arrival has been mundane. The mover whistles loud enough that I hear it faintly through my glass, and two guys jump up on the truck’s back end to help him maneuver whatever it is down a ramp. A second box follows, and they slide them both to the side in the garage. The movers stop after that, one of them sitting on the top of the mystery item while another paces down the driveway and lights a cigarette.
“Must be break time,” Sam sighs, sitting up and yawning as she wriggles into the fuzzy blanket she’s been sleeping in. I’m about to give up with her and give in to the heavy sleep weighing down my eyes when a minivan slowly passes my house.
“Wait,” I breathe out, lightly slapping the back of my hand against my friend’s arm. She jerks back to attention and is beside me again in a blink.
“Think that’s going to the house?” she asks.
“Where else would it go?” I whisper, as if the people in the van can actually hear me.
We both sit in near silence. I’m holding my breath, and I kinda think my friend is, too. When the van passes the only other driveways it could pull into, we press closer. I force my eyes wide, not wanting to blink and miss something.
The van stops behind the moving trucks, and when the door slides open, a little boy rushes out, running into the garage and disappearing while the driver, a blonde woman with tangled hair piled atop her head in a bun that’s probably traveled for miles or days, gets out of the van and walks quickly inside behind him. She looks stressed…maybe tired, and a little angry that the first thing she’s doing is chasing her kid inside. The passenger door opens, but it’s impossible to see around the van and through the glass. A young girl, maybe in sixth or seventh grade, pushes out from the side door the boy jetted from. She comes out feet first, reaching back in when her toes hit the ground. She grabs headphones and a small, pink backpack, then begins to walk slowly up the driveway, her chin raised while she stares at the house—her new house.
The red tile is dusty from the dry summer, and the windows aren’t covered yet. The inside of that house is laid out just like mine, though. I know it, because Sam and I broke in last year and wrote our names—the short versions: Sam and Ari—on the baseboard inside one of the closets. I hope they can find a way to make it feel homier than it did then. It’s always felt cold in there.
The person on the other side of the van closes the passenger door but walks the opposite way around the moving tru
“She looks really depressed about her house. We should say hi to her sometime or something,” my friend mumbles, sleep grabbing ahold of her again.
I nod in agreement as she begins to fade, but keep my mouth shut, still waiting for the last person to come into view. I see the drum set get handed out of the truck first, the movers on break stomping out cigarettes and coming to take pieces from the back of the truck one at a time. A base, toms and a snare catch my eyes. A few black guitar cases are next, and I get a strange patter in my chest as if maybe…just maybe, I’m about to see someone famous. Eventually, I rationalize that it’s not likely given our middle-class neighborhood and the crappy condition of the guitar cases.
Even so, though, there were drums. That set gets used by someone.
Someone…like me.
A giant green bin gets slid to the edge of the truck next, and I wait for one of the movers to grab it so they can move on to the next thing in the truck, only no one comes to take it. One of the guys turns to face the truck, obviously talking to whomever is in the back, and then finally, the mystery family member leaps to the ground and carries away the box. He’s a dizzying image of slim-fit jeans, a white T-shirt, and a red-and-blue plaid flannel tied around his waist. His black hat is backward, but I can see the curled ends of his hair sticking out under the bill by his ears and neck. He’s thin, but his arms are big enough to fill the sleeves of his shirt—big like a football player or one of those guys at our school that takes weightlifting like twice a day.
“Oh, Arizona. Jackpot!” My friend is suddenly wide awake, and she nails the exact sentiment suffocating my chest, even if it’s in her overly excited tone.
He’s our age, maybe a year older. He has to be. And he’s a musician! You don’t handle a kit like that if you don’t know it intimately. One of the movers hops in the truck they just emptied and pulls away, giving us a clear view of the entire garage. Everyone else has gone inside, so it’s just him—mystery neighbor—moving boxes around until he’s cleared enough space to set up the drum set and unwind a cord from what I now recognize as an amp.
“We should meet him,” my friend says, leaping from the bed and grabbing the brush on my dresser. She whips it through her hair and tosses off her enormous pajama shirt before smelling at her sides. I laugh at how crazy she’s being but then realize that she’s really doing this…and yeah, we haven’t showered in a full day. Maybe more.
“Sam…wait. No!” I sit up and fidget with myself, tugging at my wrinkled shirt and pulling up the legs of my sweatpants so they look like joggers.
“I’m going,” she announces, leaving my room for the bathroom where she pours a swig of mouthwash between her lips and begins to swish. She wanders into the hallway and stares at me. “Mmmmm?” She lifts her brows and points her thumb over her shoulder, wondering if I’m coming.
I glance back to my window, where the new guy is now lying on the ground, connecting something on his drum set. Then I flash back at my friend who looks pretty decent with her long, straight, brown hair and pink tank top over her sports bra.
“Shit,” I mutter, half to myself and half to my friend. I rush around my room searching for a better shirt than the one I have on, finally swapping out the enormous sleep shirt for the free Vista High tee I got during senior orientation. My curly hair never cooperates, so I twist the sandy-colored corkscrews up in one hand and flatten it all underneath my Angels hat.
“Move your ass,” Sam teases, already four or five steps down into our living room.
“I need shoes!” I bend over and peer under my bed, settling on the Adidas slides I’ve worn every day for the last month. They match my tan at least. Winter in this part of California isn’t normal winter. It’s more like most other people’s summer.
I nearly trip down the steps and manage to catch the front door before it closes behind my friend. We don’t even know his name or what he looks like—other than a few key triggers that mark both of our type—yet I feel this strange and overwhelming sense of competition for him. If that’s the case, I’m screwed, and not just because all I could pull together in seconds was a second-rate workout ensemble covering up zero makeup and sticky skin from the warm morning sun. It’s not just because Sam’s almost five-foot-nine and all leg, which she’s shown off with her barely-ass-covering running shorts. It’s because whenever there’s a guy around, I’m the person that gets asked the questions about my friend: “you know, the hot one? With the long hair and blue eyes.”
My shorter legs—by only two inches, I constantly remind myself—finally catch up to Sam a few houses away from my new neighbors. Our target rolls to his side and lets go of a wrench as he props his head on his elbow to get a look at the ridiculous pair of girls marching his way. I start to pray for him to have some massive flaw that will instantly make him unappealing to at least one of us, but it’s not possible. I can tell when he sits up and rests his elbows on his bent knees in that cool way older guys do. He’s wearing fucking Vans, and his jeans are midnight blue but ragged on the bottoms and the knees. He’s straight out of the Sam and Arizona Pick-Your-Dream-Boy catalogue.
His mouth lifts on one side, and the smile that spreads only makes it halfway. It’s cocky as hell, but it still wrinkles into a perfect set of dimples showing off the dusting of freckles that stretch from one cheek to the other. His hair is the same color as mine, maybe a little darker, and it’s literally the only physical thing I have in common with him that gives me some sort of edge on my imaginary scorecard with my best friend. His eyes are blue but muddied. He’s tall. And his confidence literally produces a sweet scent I am drunk on the second we’re close enough to speak.
“Welcome to the neighborhood.”
Sam has always been better at socializing, but something tells me her usual moves aren’t going to be enough here. My new neighbor has shifted his eyes to glance at her sideways, his body not moving a muscle and his mouth still curled in that strange smile that feels full of suspicion and arrogance. He doesn’t respond to her and after a few seconds, he flits his gaze to me. I, of course, look down at my feet, instantly feeling too big for the shirt I’m wearing and too small to act anything like a grown woman.
“Who are you?”
His question is pointed, and I peer up under my lashes to check who he’s asking. He’s staring at me, and his smirk has shifted, now lifting the other side of his lip. It’s less of a smile, too. It’s more of an…annoyed scowl, I guess.
“I live on the corner. We broke into your house last year, so I know what it looks like. You’ll like it.” I shrug, strangely proud of my answer. I’m normally the quiet one, but there’s something about him that makes me bold.
He slides one leg forward and leans back on his palms, the other knee still up. He tips his chin enough I get a clear view into his eyes and the way his lashes match his hair—like dusty golden flecks picking up the bits of brown mixed with the blue of his eyes. He breathes out a short laugh that pulses in his chest. I let my eyes dip to the necklace hanging over his T-shirt, and I nod at the old coin hanging from the end.
“Is that Canadian?” It looks like one of their dollar coins, a mix of silver and gold. I still have a few of them from the vacation we took last year.
“It’s fake, and I asked you who you are,” he answers fast.
My friend shifts at my side, thrown by his attitude, I’m sure.
“I’m Samantha. We both go to Vista,” she says, trying to get his attention back on her. It works for a second, but not in a good way.
“Yeah, I was asking her,” he says, leaning his head to one side and lifting a brow.
My gut flutters like mad, and for a brief second, I forget my name. Hell, I forget how I got to the opening of this garage. I’m a little defensive for my friend because he’s being a jerk, but I think more than that, I’m a little excited that he’s paying attention to me instead of her. It’s weird.
