Page 280 of Silver Sweet
I drive us out of MVU and make a couple calls. One to Tom, letting him know we’ll meet them all back at the apartment. They’ve made it inside her dorm without breaking and entering (I asked). They go back and forth with Harriet to see what she needs from her room, and then I call Birdie.
“Future Favor,” I say. “I’m cashing in.”
He groans out of sleep. “Man, it’s almost three a.m.”
“I need it now.”
Birdie is how I gain access to a rehearsal studio space in the middle of the night. He’s friends with the owner.
On the drive there, Harriet and I blow out her car speakers jamming to The Offspring. “Fuck,” I curse at the crackle, then I park on the curb.
“We’re here?” she asks, peering at the dark building. “Don’t murder me.”
“I would’ve brought Tom for that. He would’ve been pissed he didn’t get to say he slaughtered his…whatever you two are.”
“Nemesis.” She steps out in her pajamas. It doesn’t take long to get inside with a passcode.Thanks, Bird.I flip on the lights, and all the instruments illuminate under the fluorescent glare.
Her puffy eyes land right on the drums.
I pick up a pair of sticks. “Let it all out.”
She doesn’t hesitate when I toss her the sticks. Harriet is behind the kit, and she unleashes on the drums. At first, it’s not a song. It’s just her rage. Her blonde hair whipping with thethrash of her arms into the toms and snare. Then she plays some blink-182 classics and eventually starts to tire out.
Tom was right. She’s amazing on drums, but I’ve known that. I’ve seen her play a few times now.
Harriet finishes with deep breaths. Her sweaty bangs stick to her forehead.
“How was that?” I ask.
Her face breaks with emotion. “You don’t even know.”
“I think I do,” I murmur. “Why do you think I brought you here?” How she plays reminds me of myself. Drums have been my gateway to releasing all the pent-up, choked feelings inside my body.
I need to play. I’ve realized that this year.
“Go on stage with us.”
“What?” Her eyes widen.
“One show next year. Play drums.”
“Seriously?” She’s about to cry.
“Seriously. Any song you want. Even ‘Hellbent’—but only one time. I do want to preserve Tom’s voice.”
Her lips tic upward. “Not ‘Hellbent.’” She wipes her runny nose with the back of her hand, then she says, “‘Dirty Rise.’”
I almost start crying. “Fuck, we really are emo.” The last noise we leave in the rehearsal studio is laughter.
67
PHOENIX ST. PIERRE
Multicolored Christmas lights are strung haphazardly on the walls, sagging over a Sapporo poster beside Tom’s left shoulder. We share a high-top table tucked away in the back of my favorite restaurant. Eating ramen during a very cold winter night is my type of holiday staple.
In New York, everyone seems happier this time of year.
The iconic Rockefeller tree is erected, festive music flows through Central Park, and laughter rises from ice skaters. It’s been so long since I haven’t felt like the only miserable Scrooge.
