Beep! Bee—
I snatched my phone off the nightstand and silenced the alarm with a swipe. Next to me, Christina stirred a little. Grabbing my backpack, I crept into the bathroom and quietly closed the door before turning on the light.
The counter was covered in, like, a half dozen different tools to dry or straighten or curl hair, along with a bunch of makeup tubes and brushes. The warm-up room for the snare soloists opened at 8:00, and I’d been on enough band trips with these girls to know how to avoid being late. Shower at night, wake up early, and get the hell out of there before the bathroom beautification rituals began. Sometimes they’d try to drag me into it, like at IPAC freshman year when Amy offered to rub some beige liquid goo on my face to “cover up all those freckles.” Other times, the torture was more bodily function related. Like last year in Orlando, when I nearly peed myself thanks to Nuri’s Lord of the Rings–length morning shower.
Maybe I hadn’t fully woken up yet, or maybe it was the hot water, but the pain in my palms didn’t register until I soaped up my hands and held them under the faucet. Wincing, I wiped them on a towel before examining the cuts. Nuri’s mom, one of our chaperones, had helped me clean and bandage them last night. I’d pulled the Band-Aids off before going to bed, and it had only stung a little. Now they felt sore, though. No blood, but the skin around the cuts was dark pink and kind of puffy.
Carefully, I pulled on jeans and my More Cowbell! T-shirt and left the bathroom. Nuri was still sound asleep. Amy hadn’t budged from the fetal position, but she had her phone close to her face. I could see her Instagram feed reflected in her glasses.
Christina was fiddling with the little one-cup coffeemaker next to the TV, her super-short black hair sticking up in every direction. She glanced over when I muttered sharks under my breath.
“What’s up?”
I dropped my backpack on our bed and wiped my stinging palms on my jeans. “Nothing.”
“Are your hands still hurting?” She flipped on a lamp, and Nuri groaned in protest. Ignoring her, Christina squinted at my cuts, then reached for her bag. “Here.”
She tossed a tube of Neosporin at me. I caught it, frowning. “It’s fine; Mrs. Hwang said they’re not infected.”
“Yeah, but your solo’s this morning. Drumming isn’t exactly going to make them heal faster.” Christina dug out her smiley-face Band-Aids and handed me a few. I noticed she had one wrapped around the middle finger of her left hand. “Rubbed off a callus yesterday during ‘Big Top,’” she explained with a grin, waggling the bandaged finger. “You’re not the only one who’s hardcore.”
I laughed. We all had calluses, but Christina practiced more obsessively than any of us, so hers were thick and hard as rocks. When they rubbed off, it was extra gruesome.
She had a point about my hands, too. They might not be bleeding now, but who knew what shape they’d be in once I started playing. As I smeared ointment on the cuts, Amy stood up and stretched.
“Geez, Phoebe,” she said, her voice hoarse with sleep. “Are you gonna be able to play? That’s got to hurt.”
“It’s no big deal. Thanks for these,” I added to Christina, tossing the Band-Aid wrappers into the trash can.
Standing, Amy held her phone up in front of Christina’s face. “Jorge texted me a list of incredibly insulting band name suggestions. Which one of us should kick his ass?”
Christina’s lips twitched as she read. “I don’t know, maybe we should consider The Menstrual Cyclists.”
Nuri, who was apparently awake after all, snort-laughed into her pillow. That set Christina and Amy into a fit of giggles. Smiling tightly, I double-checked my backpack for my sticks and practice pad, then grabbed the taxidermy bag and headed to the door. “See you guys down there.”
“Oh, hey, good luck!” Christina called.
“Thanks!”
They were still laughing as the door clicked closed behind me.
After waiting in a Starbucks line that included a Katniss, a stoned-looking girl wearing a green sleeping bag like a dress, and two bearded guys having a heated debate about doing stuff to a goat that I dearly hoped was taxidermy-related, I found room B-2. A woman with an IPAC badge stood outside the door with a clipboard. She squinted at my badge.
“Phoebe Byrd,” she said, checking my name off. “You’re on at 9:25. I’ll come get you at 9:20.”
Inside, I did a quick scan of the room and spotted Jorge in the corner. He glanced up from his practice pad, lifting one stick in a quick wave before continuing his warm-ups.
“Hey,” I said over the muffled, chaotic sound of several dozen drummers hacking away at their flat rubber practice pads. That noise always drove my parents nuts at home, but I found it comforting, like heavy rain hitting a rubber roof. “What time are you on?”
“Eight fifty-five,” he replied, stretching his arms over his head. I caught a whiff of the spicy cologne he always wore a little bit too much of. “Scott’s right after me.”
After sucking down half of my iced mocha, I opened the recorder app on my phone. This was a ritual I’d started freshman year, when my English teacher had suggested I write an essay about IPAC for the school newspaper. I’d given it a shot, but it didn’t come out great. No words could adequately summarize the experience. But audio recordings could. I’d edited the clips into a pretty cool two-minute mix, and it ended up on the newspaper’s blog instead.
I got a ten-second clip of the racket and labeled it IPAC Snare Solo—Warm-Ups. Then I pulled my sticks and practice pad out of my backpack. My pad was gray, with a Weird Sisters sticker in the center and a bunch of faded Sharpie signatures—my friends in band, guest artists at our concerts, clinicians—that I’d started collecting freshman year.
The nerves were starting to kick in now. I’d done a snare solo at IPAC last year, too—sixth place out of a few dozen, not bad for a sophomore. Scott had been fifth, and Jorge had been second. Everyone fully expected Jorge to win this year, especially since last year’s winner had graduated. I just wanted to crack the top five.
Okay, that was a lie. What I really wanted was to kick Scott’s butt. Our scores had only been half a point apart last year. And a little vengeance for the scalpel incident wouldn’t be the worst thing.
I warmed up slowly, trying to adjust to the odd sensation of the bandages separating my palms from the sticks. After a few minutes, the Band-Aids loosened a little, rubbing against the raw cuts. By the time Scott and the other guys showed up, my palms were burning.
“Yes.” Scott swiped my iced mocha and took an enormous slurp. I shot him a withering look but said nothing. Nick and Devon immediately pulled their pads out and started to warm up. Scott took his time, as if to demonstrate how not nervous he was. But as he drummed, he kept stopping to stretch his arms: his telltale sign of anxiety.
Scott and I had been friends since sixth grade beginner band, when our fight over who got the snare part to “Frosty the Snowman” at the holiday concert had ended with him stomping on my foot and me shoving my stick up his nose. Our director had given Christina the part while Scott and I got detention, and we were cool after that. We’d even gone to Homecoming together last fall. I’d found out later it was only because Amber Tanner had backed out on him. Which, whatever—it’s not like I’d wanted it to be a romantic thing.
Scott stopped and stretched his arms again. His face lit up when he noticed the taxidermy bag next to my backpack. He grabbed and unzipped it. “This thing is like a serial killer’s tool kit. Fleshing knife, toe probe, lip tucker … oh my god, this one’s called a membrane separator!”
I snatched the bag back and zipped it up, glancing at the moderator near the door. “Pretty sure it’s not cool to be walking around here carrying knives, so let’s maybe not wave them around. And my hands are fine, thanks for asking.”
I flashed my smiley-face Band-Aids at Scott. Jorge glanced up and winced.
“Why’d you make her play with scalpels?” he said, smacking Scott’s arm with a stick.
“I didn’t make her do anything,” Scott retorted. Devon leaned over to take a closer look at my hands.
“You knew she needed those mallets for the xylophone solo, though,” he pointed out. “Taking them for your part was kind of a dick move.”
Scott rolled his eyes. “How was I supposed to know she was going to use them?”
“What else would I use?” I said, leaning back against the wall. “My fingers?”
Before Scott could respond, the moderator called out: “Jorge Ramirez?”
We all wished Jorge luck as he headed to the door, sticks tucked under his arm. A few minutes later, Scott was up. Devon and Nick hacked away at their pads, their faces intent; this was their first IPAC, and they both looked a little nervous.
I would’ve been a lot less anxious if it weren’t for the stupid cuts on my hands. It wasn’t the pain; I’d drummed through plenty of busted blisters and blood vessels. It was the weird numbness from the Band-Aids, the way I couldn’t feel the sticks touching the skin of my palms. I wasn’t in control anymore. And the more I played, the worse it got: crushed diddles, popped flams, uneven rolls.
When the moderator called my name, a weird, buzzy ringing started in my ears. I grabbed my stuff and headed to the door, barely aware of Nick and Devon wishing me luck. The solos were next door in room B-1, which was a bit bigger than the warm-up room. But it was still no more than a hundred or so seats, about half of which were currently filled. Honestly, I would’ve preferred playing on a stage in front of a packed auditorium so dark I couldn’t see all the staring eyes. Performing in a brightly lit room with a bunch of friends sitting a few feet away was about a million times more intimidating.
Scott whistled from the second row when I stepped up to the snare and started adjusting the stand for my height. I did a quick assessment of faces: Jorge sat next to Scott, and behind them were Nuri and Amy, along with Mrs. Hwang and the other parent chaperones. Mr. Mackey was a few rows back, sitting with another director. I saw a bunch of kids I vaguely recognized from Bishop not far behind them.
Brian sat front and center with Christina, already taking video on his phone. He gave me a thumbs-up, and I tried to smile back, but it probably looked like more of a grimace. The announcer began to introduce me, and my heart started pounding so loudly it drowned him out. I was about to royally suck in front of everyone because of these freaking bandages.
Turning around, I ripped the Band-Aids off my palms and shoved them in my pockets. Then I faced the chairs, picked up my sticks, and started to drum.
The pain was immediate. The cuts, all raw and open from the ointment and my warm-ups, stung so hard I gasped. I stared down at my hands, trying to focus on the fact that now I could at least feel the sticks as I played. But after less than a minute, the ache was so intense that tears pricked my eyes.
Nope. No. Absolutely no way in hell was I crying in the middle of my solo. Not happening.
Desperate to finish, I sped up, and then sped up some more. Someone let out a whoop, but this wasn’t the good, adrenaline-induced kind of tempo change. It sounded like nothing but amateur nerves: flashy and fast, but total crap quality-wise. When I finished, I blinked a few times to make sure my eyes weren’t wet before looking up. I smiled as everyone cheered, nodded at the judges, then hurried offstage.
I grabbed my backpack and crammed my sticks inside before anyone could see the blood, then quickly put on my hoodie so I could shove my hands in the pockets. Yesterday this had been funny. Hardcore. But now … I wasn’t sure why, but I didn’t want anyone to see.
“Nice job,” Brian whispered when I sat down next to him. On his other side, Christina nodded in agreement.
I shrugged. “Thanks. The last half was pretty rough, though.”
“Nah, you sounded great.” He glanced up from his phone and adjusted his glasses, peering at me more closely. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
All I wanted to do was go back to my room and stick my hands in a bucket of ice. But I sucked it up and watched the next six soloists, which included Nick (good, but a little nervous) and Devon (pretty badass for a freshman) before ducking into a restroom and putting on new bandages. Then we headed as a group to the exhibit hall for a few hours of free time before we had to face the awards ceremony for yesterday’s ensemble catastrophe.
The exhibit hall was my favorite part of IPAC. A massive room filled with every percussion instrument imaginable, some of which I didn’t even know the names of. And everyone could try out whatever they wanted. The cacophony was incredible; within a minute of walking in, we passed a guy thrashing away at a drum set, a group of kids trying out Japanese taiko drums, an elderly man in a slick suit playing jazz chords on a set of vibes, a woman thumping out a samba on a Brazilian pandeiro, and a guy slapping at a set of congas with such intensity, my own hands stung even harder in sympathy.
For me, this was what IPAC was all about: the total chaos that could only come from a giant room filled with drums from all sorts of cultures and a few thousand musicians obsessed with banging on them.
I had my phone out and recording app on again, capturing clips of each new sound. Scott and Jorge made a beeline for some of the marching drums, Nick and Devon right behind them. Within seconds, it had devolved into a testosterone-fueled competition of who could play the loudest and fastest.
Christina hurried off with Nuri and Amy, and I thought I heard one of them say something about recording equipment. For The Menstrual Cyclists, I assumed, and felt a twinge of irritation. To qualify for IPAC, all percussion ensembles had to submit a recording in the fall, and this year Mr. Mackey had let me help him mix ours. I’d learned a little bit about sound engineering, and Christina and the others knew that. But they hadn’t asked me for advice or anything, even though none of them knew the difference between a condenser mic and a dynamic mic.
I pocketed my phone and sighed. Brian was studying his map of the hall, his eyes shining behind his glasses. He was planning on majoring in music and becoming an orchestral percussionist after college, so being surrounded by all these pros always made him giddy. Last year, he’d literally spent two hours at a booth that sold triangles, having a deep discussion with the company’s very enthusiastic representative about the effect beaters of various lengths and girths had on timbre. I’d honestly never heard so much unintentional sexual innuendo in one conversation.
But between my terrible solo performance and my aching hands, my current mood was a little less “stand in a noisy hall discussing the importance of the shape of a drumstick tip” and a little more “watch cartoons and eat vending machine junk food in a dark hotel room, alone.” Luckily, I actually had a legit excuse for sneaking out, at least for a little while.
“I promised Mackey I’d find that taxidermy girl and swap our bags,” I told Brian, patting my backpack. “I’ll text you later so we can meet up, okay?”
He nodded. “Sure!”
Relieved, I left him looking for the triangle booth and headed straight for the exit. The chaotic scene in the hotel lobby took a few seconds to register.
A mob of women and little girls surrounded the reception desk. None of the girls looked older than five, but I could have sworn a few were actually wearing makeup. And costumes. Disturbingly sexy costumes.
“Beige! Beige, get off of there!”
A woman dragging an enormous purple suitcase hurried over to the fountain in the middle of the lobby, flapping her free hand. Her daughter—Beige, apparently—had climbed up on the edge and was now singing at the top of her lungs and shaking her hips in a way no toddler should even know how to do. I stood there and gaped, not even bothering to hide my horror. Because this little girl was dressed like Sandy from Grease. And not good girl Sandy. Tight black leather, bright red lipstick, blond hair teased up with a can of hairspray Sandy.
“You’re the one that I want!” she crooned. “Ooh-ooh-ooh!”
Taking a few steps back, I tore my gaze away from Beige and finally noticed the sign above the reception desk.
Welcome
LITTLE MISS CITRUS
Oh sweet merciful cats.
Turning, I walked as fast as I could toward the elevators. Tracking down the taxidermy girl would have to wait. Hell, if this hotel was going to be swarming with crazy pageant moms, I might not leave my room for the rest of the convention.