When the Beat Drops Page 4

  Somehow, the fact that they’re being so nice only makes it worse.

  “I’m all right, thanks,” I say, glad they can’t hear my voice crack over the music. I even manage a wobbly smile.

  “You want a hug?” the guy with the bracelets asks.

  I shake my head. I just need to get away from this party and these way-too-kind people. I need to get outside.

  “Feel better!” he calls after me as I put my head down and tunnel through the throngs, limping toward the exit. It seems like a century before I’m back in the long, dark hallway, pushing past the line of people waiting to get in. Finally I’m outside.

  I take a few deep breaths. The fresh air dissipates the lump in my throat and whisks the moisture from the corners of my eyes. My sneakers slap cobblestone, the receding bass matching the throbbing in my knee. I turn right, then left, finding the LeSabre and sagging against its hood.

  A gust of wind rips off the river and ruffles my hair as I settle into the unfamiliar soundscape: the distant whoosh of traffic on the freeway, a truck engine idling with a gravelly chukka-chukka-chuk a couple of blocks away, an empty Doritos bag rattling down the sidewalk. I text Britt that I’m out here, but my message doesn’t go through.

  “Dammit!” I say out loud, slamming my hands against the hood of the car and wincing as the sound rings through the deserted neighborhood.

  “Damn what?” a voice responds, high-pitched and out of breath.

  My head shoots up. I guess I’m not alone out here after all.

  CHAPTER 6

  A girl around my age hurries toward me, lugging a pair of large, black flight cases that bang against her ankles with every step. They’re covered with stickers: unicorns, record labels, a Puerto Rican flag.

  “I thought I was alone out here,” I say.

  “Yeah, you and me both. I’ve been lugging these around for, like, hours.” She sets the cases on the ground and shakes the cramps out of her hands, jingling the gold chains around her neck. She’s short and plump and, I’m guessing, Puerto Rican, with a bow-shaped mouth and heavy cat’s-eye makeup surrounding velvety brown eyes. “Do you know where the party’s at? I’m running mad late. My mom was working late and I couldn’t leave my sisters alone and my ride left without me and I had to take the subway and … anyway, sorry.” She stops and wipes a trickle of sweat from her forehead. “I’m lost, is what I’m saying.”

  “It’s back that way.” I gesture behind me. “Go to the end of this block and then take a right, then a left, then a right …”

  Her brow wrinkles. “Left, then right, then … ?”

  “No, the other way around.” I turn and point.

  “Sorry. I’m all mixed up.” She removes a shiny gold ball cap and rakes her hand through candy-pink hair. Her expression reminds me of how I felt inside the warehouse: lost and stressed and all alone.

  “I can walk you back there, if you want,” I offer.

  Her face relaxes into a smile. “Really? Sweet!”

  “No problem.” I reach for one of her flight cases.

  “Oh, girl, no!” She tries to swat my hand away. “They’re heavy as fuck.”

  I lift the case and grunt. “What’s in here, rocks?”

  “Equipment.” She makes a grab for the handle but I shoo her hand away and start walking. I’ve spent enough time as a musician to know the code: if you have an extra hand, you carry someone’s case. “The gear at these things sucks, so I bring my own,” she continues. “I’m Shay, by the way. DJ Shay. And you are?”

  “Mira.”

  “Mira, Mira, on the wall, who’s the dopest of them all?” she singsongs. “Sweet name. Musical.”

  “Thanks.” I slow my pace so Shay can keep up. Her legs, like the rest of her, are short, her feet kid-sized in zebra-print high-tops with bright pink laces. “So you’re a DJ?”

  She grins. “Yep. I’m on next, actually. Which is why I’m freaking the fuck out about being late.”

  We turn a corner and the warehouse looms into view. Shay eyes the cluster of people outside the door and shakes her head.

  “That looks like a nightmare,” she says, disappearing around the side of the building. “There’s gotta be a side entrance somewhere.” She tries another door and it swings open, releasing a blast of drums and synthesizers. I follow her down a dusty passage and suddenly we’re backstage, approaching the DJ booth from the back. As Shay climbs a set of rickety stairs I look around for Derek, thinking maybe he’s hanging out back here again, but all I see are piles of cables and bolts of cloth.

  Shay disappears through a curtain at the top of the stairs.

  “I still have your gear!” I call.

  Nothing. I start up the stairs, the flight case banging against my leg, and peek through the curtain. Light pours into my eyes, temporarily blinding me. Music surrounds me like a flock of bats released from a cave.

  “There you are!” Shay grabs me and pulls me through, and suddenly I’m standing in the center of the world and everything is hot and bright and alive. The music vibrates my bones and I can feel the crowd below me dancing in the dim lights, their energy pulsing up to the stage. In the center of the booth DJ Headspin whips his waist-length hair to the beat.

  “Good crowd!” Shay sets her flight case down and rubs her hands briskly, her eyes shining. I can see the dance floor now: the clouds of dust and thick pockets of fog, glow sticks and LED toys like bioluminescent butterflies.

  She sees me looking. “Ever been in the DJ booth before?”

  I shake my head. I’ve been onstage dozens of times, for recitals and music competitions, but the rows of parents sitting quietly in folding chairs were nothing like this.

  “Oh, well, shit! You should hang here. You’ll have the best view.”

  “Really?” I ask. The DJ booth isn’t quite as appealing as my bed right now, but it’s a safe distance away from that cruel concrete floor full of flailing arms and deceptive backpack piles.

  “Sure!” She grins, revealing a gap between her front teeth. “It’s not like I have backup dancers.”

  “Thanks.” I back into a corner and try to make myself unobtrusive, keeping an eye on the dance floor for Britt or Yelena … or Derek.

  Shay snaps open one of her flight cases to reveal the fanciest-looking CD player I’ve ever seen: a giant slab of black plastic covered in screens, knobs, and buttons. CDJ, it says in big silver letters on the side. Her face softens as she sets it on the table next to DJ Headspin’s laptop, giving it a friendly little pat. The way she touches her equipment reminds me of how I handle my trumpet.

  DJ Headspin lifts his laptop and Shay slides the CDJ under it, then flips open her second flight case and scuttles around under the table with a handful of audio cables. A moment later she pops up and grabs a pair of pink, rhinestone-studded headphones.

  “This is the cool part,” she tells me, dropping back. “Ten bucks says you can’t tell when I transition in.” She slips on the headphones and turns a couple of knobs, her hand poised over one of the CDJs.

  If she hadn’t told me it was coming, I wouldn’t have noticed. But as soon as Shay’s hand touches down I hear a new beat layering in, running parallel to the song that’s playing. She touches a slider and the beat grows louder. Soon a funky bass line joins in, meandering up and down a five-note phrase like a happy bullfrog.

  DJ Headspin slams his headphones on the table and raises his hands in the air. Half of the crowd cheers, but the other half, the half that’s too busy dancing, doesn’t even notice.

  Shay gives the slider a triumphant push all the way to the right and a rich, flirtatious vocal fills the room.

  “Just a little lovin’, early in the mornin’,’” the disembodied voice sings over the beat.

  I spring forward. I can’t help it. Shay has one side of her headphones off as she squints at her equipment.

  “That’s Carmen McRae!” I exclaim. “From the Just a Little Lovin’ album in 1970. It’s a classic!”

  She turns to me
. “You know this sample?”

  “I’m kind of a jazz nerd,” I admit.

  “Cool! I wish I knew more about jazz.” Shay fiddles with a few nobs. “But hey, check this out.”

  She bobs her head, counting until the sample comes up again, and then presses a button that says LOOP.

  “Now gimme a few …”

  She spins a wheel, flipping through a long list of song titles. Finally, her face lights up and she selects one. She shrugs the headphones back on and I watch her react to the music in her ears.

  This time I’m listening for it. I hear the new track come in, a soulful, sweet instrumental with trembling electric strings. It seems to throw the dance floor into a trance, bodies moving dreamily as seaweed. Then the beat picks up, and Shay gives me a big grin.

  “Now, check it,” she says. She hits the LOOP button and Carmen McRae’s voice soars through the speakers. The crowd goes insane, leaping in the air, and I feel a smile spread across my face.

  “You want to try?” Shay asks.

  My mouth falls open. “Really?”

  “I mean, just the loop part. It doesn’t really matter where you put it, but it would sound better at the beginning of an eight-count. You know what that is?”

  “A measure?”

  She raises an eyebrow. “You know your shit.”

  “You’ll really let me try it?”

  “Go to town. I gotta find my next track.”

  Shay returns her attention to the digital readout and my heartbeat expands until it’s as loud and full as the bass shaking the speakers. I count four measures, and then another two, and then I go for it.

  I hit the button.

  “Just a little lovin’, early in the mornin’,’” Carmen croons.

  The dancers catapult to life. Their shouts echo through the warehouse, tangling in the rafters.

  A jolt of pure pleasure sings through me.

  I just made people jump.

  I just made people scream.

  I just made people dance.

  CHAPTER 7

  “So you saw your sister on drugs?”

  Crow leans forward, craning her head around the curve of her bass. It fills every spare inch of the LeSabre, and the three of us are folded around it like tissue paper tucked into a package. I’ve spent the better part of the trip to Windham telling Crow and Nicky about my night. It probably wouldn’t have taken so long, but they kept interrupting me with questions.

  “Was she super high?” Nicky crosses his legs in the passenger seat, dangling a loafer from his toes. “Did she act crazy? Did she even recognize you?”

  “Of course she recognized me.” I reach for my extra-large iced coffee and take a long swig. I ended up only getting three hours of sleep, and my head feels like it’s full of mosquitoes. “And she wasn’t acting that crazy. She was actually being really sweet.”

  I managed to find Britt and Yelena once Shay’s DJ set was over, after Shay texted me her number and said we should hang sometime before disappearing into a knot of well-wishers. When I finally ran into Britt again she gave me a huge hug and said she’d been looking for me for hours, which was a very Britt-type thing to say even if it probably wasn’t one-hundredpercent true. Then she fell asleep while I was driving us home and drooled on the window.

  Crow’s brow furrows. “You don’t sound that upset. Are you going to start taking drugs?”

  “Crow!” I slam my cup back into its holder. “Of course not.”

  “I don’t know,” Nicky says dreamily. “It sounds kind of magical … everyone acting all lovey and all those lights and a lady on a trapeze. I might try it.”

  Crow leans forward and smacks him on the arm. “No you would not. And it’s not like anyone’s asking you anyway.”

  “Touché.” Nicky says as I slow at a sign announcing the turnoff for Windham Music Camp. A low, mournful ache starts in my stomach, growing as I follow the winding gravel road into a parking lot jammed with cars and parents, campers and suitcases and instruments.

  “We’re here!” Crow opens the door and leaps out. “Oh hallelujah, this blessed day has … oh.” She stops mid-jump and looks at me. “Crap, I’m sorry, Mira. I forgot….”

  “It’s fine.” I chug the rest of my coffee, even though it’s definitely not helping the ache in my stomach. Crow’s still staring at me, her face creased with pity, when a blur of tangerine hair sideswipes her into a hug.

  “Regina!” Crow wraps her arms around her, smiling ear to ear. “Oh my god, your hair got so long! Are you in the same cabin again this year?”

  “Yes! You?” The sour note in my stomach becomes a deafening blast as they hug. I stand and stretch, trying to play it cool, but Regina sees me and barrels over.

  “Miraaaaaa!” she hollers. “You’re in our cabin too, right?”

  “Um, actually, I’m just dropping them off.” I examine my fingernails like they’re the most interesting things in the world. There’s a heavy layer of dirt beneath them even though I showered this morning, and I wonder if it’s from the warehouse. I also came home with rings of soot around my nostrils.

  “What?!” Regina bleats.

  “I have to work this summer.” My voice comes out froggy. “So. No camp for me.”

  “That stinks,” Regina clucks. “We’ll totally miss you…. Oh my god, Brian!”

  Her gaze shoots past my shoulder, and a moment later she’s bounding across the parking lot and launching herself into the arms of a surprised-looking cellist.

  “Come on.” Nicky appears at my elbow with a sympathetic grimace. “Let’s get our crap out of your car.”

  I try for a smile, glad to have something to do with my hands as we wrestle Crow’s double bass from the LeSabre. It takes several tries and sweat pools in my armpits, making dark crescents on my T-shirt.

  “One, two, three, heave!” Nicky cries, and I stagger back, the instrument nearly falling on top of me. I let out a dyspeptic oomph as I bang my hip against the side mirror, still struggling to keep the bass (and myself) upright.

  “Hey, you.”

  The voice stops me cold. It’s the voice that grew hoarse with desire in my ear last summer, the voice I spoke to on the phone every night for the first month after camp. After the first month every night turned into every few days, then every few weeks, and eventually just the occasional text message. It wasn’t that anything happened. It just turned out that a long-distance relationship required more maintenance than either of us had time for.

  “Peter.” I peek around the bass, my hands flying to my head in a useless attempt to tame the frizz. He’s thinner than I remembered, with pointy elbows and big, bony knees, dusky skin and thick black hair. His Adam’s apple is almost the size of a real apple in his skinny throat.

  “Uh, how’s it going?” He crosses his arms awkwardly over his red Forensics Society T-shirt.

  “Good?” It comes out like a question. I shift Crow’s bass so it leans on my shoulder.

  “Crow!” Nicky hisses, dragging her by the elbow. “Why don’t you take your instrument and we can, um … go bring it somewhere….”

  “What a swell plan!” Crow says with all the subtlety of a bulldozer, giving me a giant wink. I glare at her as I hand it off, then turn back to Peter. I’m waiting for my heart to start beating out of control, for my knees to jellify and my palms to pour sweat, but instead I just feel hot and tired.

  “So, uh, how’s it going?” Peter says again, clasping his hands behind his back.

  “Okay. You?”

  “Pretty all right.”

  I nod. I don’t know what else to say. I’ve been fantasizing about this moment for almost a year, but now that it’s here it doesn’t feel the way I thought it would. I don’t want to throw my arms around him and kiss him, or take his hand and drag him into an abandoned practice room and take his shirt off. And no matter how hard I try, I can’t help comparing him to Derek.

  “So, uh, I heard you’re not here this summer.” Peter leans awkwardly against my
car.

  “Word travels fast.”

  His laugh is a nasal toot. “So I guess we won’t get to … you know. Hang out.”

  He actually looks disappointed. From the way he says, “hang out,” I know he really means, “hook up.”

  Do it now! part of my brain screams. It’s going to be a long, dry summer. Fool around while you still can!

  But something’s changed since last summer—or maybe just since last night—and suddenly Peter Singh doesn’t look as appetizing as I remembered.

  “Yeah.” I shrug. “Too bad.”

  He leans closer, a spidery hand on my arm. His breath smells like Funyuns. “I missed you,” he says.

  “Umyeahmetoo.” I take a step back, leaving his hand dangling. “Listen, I have to help my friends unload this stuff, so …”

  “Yeah.” Hurt and confusion crease his face, and I instantly feel bad. It’s not Peter’s fault he’s gangly and awkward. Last year I loved the fact that we were gangly and awkward together. Maybe if I weren’t so tired and out of sorts, I still would.

  Britt would know exactly how to handle this situation; she was always politely fending off advances from guys. But I’m coming up blank. Finally I just shrug and turn away, grabbing Crow’s tweed suitcase from the trunk.

  “See you around,” I say, giving him a lame half wave as I practically run toward the cabins. I can feel his disappointment like a sunburn on my back as the camp spreads out below me, a deep green hill dotted with rustic cabins and a covered amphitheater that reminds me of all the recitals I won’t be playing over the next eight weeks. Seeing them only adds to the ache in my stomach, the feeling that I only have a few hours to soak up everything I love about being here and I am definitely blowing it.

  I catch up to Crow hauling her bass into the cabin.

  “That was quick!” she says brightly. “Are you still a virgin or what?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” The coffee isn’t working. I’m grumpy, and exhausted, and everything about being here seems wrong.

  “That bad?” She jabs me in the ribs. “I bet he’ll last longer next time.”