Jesse is lying down on his bed pretending to study for an art history exam. I am at my desk actually studying for a biology exam. It’s all vocabulary. I think we should get foreign language credit for the class.

“Remember how you were a drummer in high school?” Jesse asks.

“Yeah. It would be hard for me to forget that I was a drummer. What with the kit in my basement and all.” I put down my pencil and swivel around in my chair.

“Well, good.” Jesse grins and clasps his hands. “Because I have a teensy-weensy favor to ask. My darling friend Marie plays with a band—she’s the drummer—and is ever so briefly out of commission. She sprained a finger playing ultimate frisbee, of all things. She’s not even on a team!  And I was wondering, well the band was wondering, if you would be willing to fill in.”

“When? How long?”

“Only for their next gig. And—don’t shoot the messenger—it’s this Friday. So it would be intense practice sessions for a while, but then you’d be free.”

“Do I have to sing?” I don’t sing. Technically I can sing, but not well enough that I feel comfortable doing so in front of people.

“Good lord, no. At least I don’t think so. Marie can’t sing for shit.”

I miss playing drums. And it’s not an academically challenging week; no major tests or graded labs. I even feel confident about this bio stuff. “Sure,” I say. 

Jesse jumps up and down and then gives me a brief hug, which takes me by surprise.

The first rehearsal is that afternoon. I have the address from Jesse and have no trouble finding the place. The guy who plays bass is a townie. He lets people store their equipment in his garage, including the drums. Jesse told me the drums came with the practice space; they belonged to some kid who graduated a while ago and just left them behind. I’m less disturbed about playing them once I find out they don’t belong to Marie. I can be very possessive of my equipment. I imagine most drummers are.

“Richie!”

I look up to see Jesse running toward me. Luckily this gives me time to brace myself for his exuberant greeting, so I’m ready for it. He gives me a tight squeeze and kisses me on each cheek. Which is unusual, but whatever.

“Darling! What are you doing here?” Oh. He’s being funny.

“You two know each other?” the bassist says. He’s taller than I am and has blond dreadlocks. I think dreadlocks look ridiculous on white people. But I manage not to tell him this. Tea would be so proud.

Jesse puts a hand on my arm. He fakes a southern drawl. “Yes Dave, Richie and I are quite well acquainted.”

The white chick with the guitar raises her pierced eyebrow. She has pale skin with freckles and long brown hair in two braids with bright green ends. “Oh, really?” she says.

“Yes. Jesse’s room is down the hall from mine.” I sit down at the drum set.

She gives me a knowing smile. “How convenient!” 

“Why is that convenient?” I look from her to Jesse. “Oh. You mean for sex.”

Chelsea makes a choking sound. Apparently my fantastic conversational skills are on full display.

Jesse pouts. “Sweet Chelsea, to my utter devastation, this one is straight.” 

“Ah. And here I thought you were developing better taste in men.” She shrugs and looks away. 

“I have excellent taste in men.” Jesse says. 

No one has any response to that. I wouldn’t know. But apparently they have some inside information on his previous connections.

It’s almost a relief to have sticks in my hands again, and my foot on the bass pedal. I didn’t realize how much I missed playing.

“No groupies. They’re a distraction.” Chelsea points at Jesse and then gestures with her thumb.

“But I won’t say a thing,” Jesse whines.

“Out. Significant others are the worst.” Nate says.

“He’s not…” I start.

“Fine. I’ll see you later, sweetie.” Jesse blows me a kiss.

Chelsea looks at me with both eyebrows raised.

“We’re really not,” I say. “Not having sex, I mean.”

Nate shrugs. “Okay, man.” 

They are an okay band. They play an eclectic mix of covers so it’s easy for me to fill in; I have an eclectic taste in music. And Jesse was right—practice is intense, but I have no problem with that. I like that they don’t mess around during rehearsals. When we practice, it’s all business. 

It’s a bit disconcerting playing someone else’s kit; everything is slightly off from what I’m used to. But what actually bugs me the most is that the snare drum sounds fucking perfect. Mine always bugs the crap out of me. I can never get it quite right.

Chelsea is a vocal major from Ohio. She has a powerful voice with a bit of a growl. Since it’s her major I’m surprised that she isn’t the main vocalist instead of lead guitar. She does a couple of solos, but the band leader and main vocalist is Nate. 

He is a very dark-skinned black dude from Chicago majoring in statistics. His regular voice is okay, but his falsetto is almost enough to make me cry. And I don’t cry. At the top of his vocal range he sounds like a combination of Prince and Freddie Mercury.

After practice Chelsea walks back to campus with me.

“So, you and Jesse are really not a thing? I mean I could see things going either way. You don’t necessarily put off a gay vibe, but there’s something about the two of you…” She squints up at me.

“Really not a thing. He’s cool, though.” I shrug.

Chelsea nods slowly. She doesn’t say a lot for the rest of our walk. Which is fine with me.