When the Beat Drops Read online

  Shay plops down on the roof, and I take a seat next to her.

  “There,” she says, pointing to Manhattan. “That’s where I’m going to make it.” Her lips thin into a determined line. “I’m going to play every club on the west side. And someday I’ll play Electri-City too.”

  “Electri-City?” I ask.

  “Yeah, there, on Randall’s Island.” She turns until her finger lands on a speck of green in the East River. “It’s like this giant, insane festival. It’s totally my dream to spin there.”

  “I get it,” I sigh, turning to Harlem and telling her about Fulton Jazz Conservatory—my dream.

  “Hey.” Shay sits down and crosses her ankles. “Play some more Miles Davis? I really liked his shit.”

  She doesn’t have to ask me twice. “This,” I say, pulling out my laptop and selecting Kind of Blue. “This album changed my life.”

  The first piano riffs float through the speakers, spare and searching and hopeful and sad. Shay gives a deep, contented sigh when the snare kicks in, and for a long time we sit there without saying anything, just listening to Miles and feeling the breeze on our necks and watching the sky grow dark.

  Hearing this album now reminds me of Derek, of the way his eyes hit a bass chord inside me so low I never knew it was there. I want to ask Shay about him, to see if maybe they know each other from the party scene, but talking about it will make this feeling real in a way that maybe I’m not ready for yet. It still feels too raw, too personal. Private.

  We stay on her roof, sometimes talking and sometimes just listening to Miles, until the sun has disappeared, leaving scraps of cloud hanging like laundry over the horizon. When the album is over I know it’s time to go; I’m tired, and I have to work tomorrow. We descend the dark staircase and get on the elevator, Shay hitting 7 for her and L for me. She’s just finished hugging me goodbye and is turning to leave when she stops the doors from closing with her foot.

  “Hey,” she says. “If you’re not doing anything next Saturday, I’m spinning a daytime party out in Bushwick. I’ll text you the info, k?”

  Before I can agree—or not—she releases her foot and the door springs closed.

  CHAPTER 9

  As late May melts into early June I spend my days at The Gym Rat’s front desk, frowning at half-written jazz compositions on my laptop in the long, empty stretches between swiping membership cards and washing threadbare towels. It’s been a week since I hung out with Shay, and even though we’ve texted a few times we haven’t had time to get together. She’s been busy prepping for her next gig, and I’ve been obsessing over my audition, spending every moment I’m not at work holed up in my room with my trumpet. I’ve FaceTimed twice with Nicky and Crow, who swear that Windham isn’t the same without me but somehow seem to be getting along just fine there regardless. I know I shouldn’t resent them for it, but sometimes I still do.

  The whine of a cheesy pop song slices through the gym. From the front desk I have a direct view of the dance studio, where Britt’s teaching her Tuesday afternoon Cardio Jam class. She spins and her smile flashes, her teeth extra white in the room’s harsh fluorescent glare.

  Behind her, a half dozen Connecticut soccer moms shuffle along. They’re the diehards who haven’t defected to the new Crunch across town, and my mom loves to point out that there are fewer of them every day.

  “Lookin’ great!” Britt calls over the music. “Now let’s see some attitude!” She bonces, struts, pivots. She looks like a motivational poster, like the body you’d see beneath the word: After. She looks easy, confident, content.

  But is she? Would a motivational poster really take drugs, even if she swears up and down they’re perfectly safe?

  Sighing, I drag my attention back to my laptop. I’m neckdeep in a new arrangement inspired by the warehouse party; I’ve spent the last hour adjusting the same six notes up and down and back again but nothing’s working. That wild, polyrhythmic energy feels stifled by my arrangement for trumpet, bass, and drums.

  I need a break—just something to help me refocus so I can come back to this piece with a fresh ear. If I were at Windham I’d take a walk, run into friends, grab a soft serve from the dining hall, or just sit by the lake and let the quiet hum of nature clear my brain. But here I’m stuck. There’s no escaping the whine of the treadmills, the bleat of overtaxed air conditioners, and Britt shouting, “Kick, punch, spin!” from the dance studio.

  I wish I could try DJing again. It’s the only time in the past week I haven’t been fixated on my Windham FOMO or my Fulton audition or my nagging worries about Britt. But I can’t do it without Shay and her expensive equipment.

  Or can I?

  Shay may swear by her CDJs, but the DJ before her at the warehouse party—DJ Headspin—was using a laptop.

  I have a laptop.

  I pop open my browser and google “free DJ software.” Suddenly I’m in in a tornado of options, swirling down a rabbit hole of features and reviews. As Britt leads her class in a mambo routine I select a program to download.

  Then I need music. Google comes to my rescue again. Within seconds of searching “free dance music” I find myself sifting through hundreds of songs in dozens of genres: EDM, IDM, Big Room House, Mellow House, Beach House, Electro House, Dubstep, Crunkstep, Chillstep, 2-Step, Garage, Speed Garage, Breaks, Bass, Booty Bass, Future Bass, Jersey Club, Baltimore Club, Techno, Jungle, Psy-Trance, Drum and Bass, Hardstyle, Downtempo, Glitch. I don’t know where to start so I just dive in, listening and downloading and filling my library with tracks from every genre, grabbing whatever sounds good. Some are forgettable, but others are so good it’s hard to believe they’re free.

  I’m floating in a sea of beats, buoyed by the thrill of trying something new, when the door to the dance studio door flies open, releasing a cloud of perfumed sweat. I can’t believe I didn’t think of looking for free DJ software days ago. It’s the perfect distraction, even better than playing mindless games on my phone.

  Britt grabs a towel and blots her face, plopping onto the stool next to mine. “How’s the front desk?” she asks.

  “Front desk-y.” I look up from my laptop, feeling disoriented in a dizzy, new-crush kind of way. I’d almost forgotten where I was. “How’s teaching?”

  “Tiring.” She massages her temples.

  “You looked like you were having fun.”

  “Yeah, well.” Her hand moves up her head, rubbing the shaved part. “You’re kind of supposed to.”

  Now that she’s not leading a class anymore, Britt’s lost some of her spark. She droops over the desk, elbows splayed, cheek resting against her palm. It makes sense that she’s tired. She went out with Yelena again last night, and didn’t come home until dawn.

  “Hey, nice job in there.” Dad jogs over and holds up his hand for a high five. Britt stares at it for a beat too long before offering a half-hearted slap.

  Dad’s grin falters. He doesn’t lower his hand. “Once more with feeling?”

  Britt forces a smile and tries again. The smack reverberates through the gym, making the lone guy on the treadmills miss a step and almost fall off.

  “That’s my girl!” Dad pretends to cradle his hand. “Hey, you talk to Coach Driggs yet?”

  “Not yet.” Britt looks down, kicking her heel against the stool’s metal leg. A loud clang echoes through the gym.

  “Better get on that.” Dad pretends to elbow her in the ribs. “Time’s a-wastin’.”

  “I know.” Britt kicks the stool harder. Clang. “I will.”

  “Atta girl.” Dad sprints across the gym to help one of the soccer moms adjust a stationary bike. I want to call after him that I’m here too—just because Britt’s back doesn’t mean I’ve ceased to exist. And yet, when it comes to my parents, it almost does.

  Britt kicks the stool again, louder this time.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  Clang. “Yeah, why?” Clang-clang. Clang.

  “You’re kind of kicking the crap out of th
at stool.”

  “Am I?” CLANG. “Sorry.”

  “What’s going on with you and Dad?” I ask. Normally she’d jump at the chance to kick soccer balls around with her old coach. Now she seems almost angry about it.

  “Nothing. Are you going to that party on Saturday?” she asks, not-so-subtly changing the subject. “I saw your buddy Shay is spinning.”

  I consider pestering her more about Dad, but decide to let it go. “I think so,” I say. The truth is, I’m actually looking forward to it. That’s how lonely I’ve been.

  Britt shakes her head. “It’s crazy that you’re friends with a DJ now.”

  I shrug. “Yeah, well … she was really nice to me after a certain someone ditched me to go be high.”

  “Shhhh!” Britt’s gaze shoots over to Dad, and her voice drops to a whisper. “I’ve apologized like a million times. What’ll it take to make you forgive me?”

  “You could stop?” I suggest.

  She laughs—a-ha-ha-ha-ha. “You worry too much,” she says, elbowing me in the ribs.

  I bat her arm away. “You give me too much to worry about.”

  “I’ll be fine,” she says, still whispering. “It’s totally harmless, you can’t get addicted, and you can’t overdose. And it’s not like I do it every day.”

  “But Miles Davis—”

  “That was heroin.” Britt shakes her head. “Seriously, I’m going to be fine. Unless I don’t go take a shower right this second and literally die of my own stank.”

  She grabs a towel and starts toward the locker rooms. Halfway there she stops, pivots, and comes skipping back.

  “But thank you for caring,” she adds, planting a kiss on top of my head. “You’re the sweetest.”

  Then she’s gone again, leaving me alone with a laptop full of new music and a head still full of questions.

  CHAPTER 10

  “We are painfully early.” Yelena fusses with her backpack as I pull the LeSabre up to a vacant lot surrounded by tall sheets of corrugated metal with the words This Is A Lot spray-painted across the front. We’re in Brooklyn again, in a neighborhood that’s all industrial buildings and street art and guys with beards riding bikes.

  “Shay’s performing first,” I explain. “I told her I’d be here.”

  “Performing! God, you are so cute.” Yelena pats my head. “You make it sound like a recital or something.”

  “That’s ’cause recitals are what she’s used to.” Britt climbs out of the car and stretches. “We didn’t need to come an hour early, though. Like, five minutes would have sufficed.”

  “We’re not an hour early. Just forty-five minutes.” I fetch my backpack from the trunk. “I told Shay I’d help her set up.”

  I don’t tell them the real reason I wanted to come early: I have my laptop with me, and I want to ask Shay some questions about my DJ software. I’ve been playing around with it when audition prep gets too tough, watching tutorials and beat-matching the free tracks I downloaded, but I know I’m just skimming the surface. Shay said she’d give me a hand, but we haven’t hung out since our DJ lesson and I’m pretty sure she’ll be bombarded with admirers after her set. This might be the only chance I get.

  “Such a Girl Scout,” Yelena tuts, shouldering open the lot’s plywood door. My feet slow as we enter, and my mouth goes slack. For a moment, I wonder if we’re in the wrong place. Wooden pallets litter the ground, surrounded by thick bundles of cables. There are flats of water and beer next to a pair of folded card tables, and a half dozen people rush around carrying bundles of fabric and bags of ice that leave slime-trails in the dirt.

  “Ugh, see?” Yelena groans. “If anyone finds out I showed up early, I’ll lose all my cred.”

  “Why don’t we go get a drink or something?” Britt suggests. “I saw a cute coffee bar like a block back.”

  “Brilliant!” Yelena throws her hands in the air, spinning in a circle. “Mimosas all around. Mira, you coming?”

  “Nah.” I bite my lip, hoping I’m making the right choice. “I’ll wait for Shay.”

  “Suit yourself,” Yelena says, taking Britt’s arm and blowing me a kiss. They disappear through the plywood door and the world’s longest minute ticks by as I wait for Shay, feeling more conspicuous with each second.

  When five minutes have passed I start to worry. Everything okay? I message Shay. When she doesn’t text back I sink onto one of the pallets and take in my surroundings: a hanging shoe rack filled with plants, rows of tables that look like they were scavenged from an old fast-food restaurant, and a decommissioned ice cream truck sitting on concrete blocks, flanked by massive speakers. A generator hums at its base, its throaty growl bouncing off the corrugated metal walls.

  The setup crew is starting to give me funny looks, so I try to play it cool, sinking onto a pallet and pulling out my phone.

  At another party, I text Nicky. Think this one might be a mistake.

  So go home! he writes back. Your trumpet probably misses you.

  No dice. I send him a sad-face emoji. I’m Britt’s ride.

  He messages back with a GIF of an elaborate shrug. Thanks, Nicky.

  A guy struggling under an armload of Astroturf nearly trips over me. I leap up, spewing apologies, and move to a table where I’ll be more out of the way. The party’s supposed to start in fifteen minutes, but I’m still getting radio silence from Shay and the lot still looks like a garage sale.

  Sighing, I pull out my laptop and start going through my new tracks. The longer Shay takes to get here, the less time I’ll have with her, so I want to have all my questions ready to go.

  “You can set up in there.” I turn to find Astroturf Guy looking over my shoulder. He points to the ice cream truck.

  It takes me a moment to realize what he means. “I’m not …” I start to say, but he’s gone before I can explain. I go back to playing with the distortion effect and another few minutes tick by. Suddenly Astroturf Guy is back, this time carrying a bundle of tiki torches. “I thought I told you to set up,” he says, a note of irritation in his voice.

  “I’m not Shay,” I explain.

  He answers with a blank stare.

  “The opening DJ?” I try again.

  “Well, he’s not here and we open in ten. Just play till he gets here, okay?”

  “She!” I correct him.

  He gives me a withering stare. “Huh?”

  “DJ Shay is a she.”

  “Whatever. Just go play some shit.” He hurries away, stabbing a tiki torch into the ground.

  I open my mouth to call after him that I’m not a DJ, but something stops me. Maybe it’s the way the generator’s purring like a cat, or the empty window in the ice cream truck/DJ booth daring me to step inside. If Shay isn’t here, and they need a DJ for a few minutes, is there any reason I shouldn’t do it?

  I gather my laptop and make my way to the ice cream truck. The inside has pink faux fur on the seats and old CDs covering the ceiling, making it look like a giant disco ball.

  I hope you’re okay!!! They want me to cover until you get here?! I text Shay before plugging in my laptop. I know how excited she was about this gig, but I also remember how close she cut it when I met her at the warehouse party. Maybe she’s just the type of person who’s always late to things.

  My heartbeat picks up as I thumb through my tracklist, looking for the right song. Even though the party hasn’t started yet and the fact that I’m even up here is a giant misunderstanding, I still want to put on a good show. Finally I pick a light, good-natured track that feels like summer sunshine and bunches of balloons. Maybe it’ll put Astroturf Guy in a better mood.

  I bring it in bright and strong, emphasizing the highs, and when the chorus starts I notice the staff outside pick up their pace. There’s a new bounce to their step; a girl stringing fairy lights looks up from her ladder and nods in approval. A flush of pride tingles through me. This is different from spinning in Shay’s basement or alone in my room, when all I cared about was gett
ing the technical part right. This feels like a conversation with the people here, almost like I’m improvising with a jazz combo—except instead of responding with instruments they’re giving me feedback with their faces and bodies.

  I bleed the next track in and Shay still isn’t here so I select another, rich with ‘60s-style psychedelic guitar riffs. From the ice cream truck’s window I can watch the party slowly come together. The crew stacks pallets and plywood to form a dance floor; the sodas and card tables become a bar. I’m still worried about Shay and I itch to check my phone to see if she’s texted, but between flipping through songs, matching beats, and tweaking levels, I don’t have time. All I can do is hope she’s okay.

  I find a track with a gospel choir singing about universal love, then one that samples a rocket blasting into space. As I lose myself in the music I forget to worry about Shay, forget to wonder if Britt is going to take drugs again, forget to freak out about the fact that I’m DJing in front of real people for the first time. Track by track, I build a story with music: a story that takes place in a world where it’s always the middle of summer and the sun is always shining, where there are no broke parents or greedy summer camps and my Grandpa Lou is still alive.

  I’m in the middle of a mix when I feel the ice cream truck shift with new weight. Relief washes over me, combined with a tiny dash of disappointment: I’m glad that Shay is okay, but I was just starting to get in a groove. I finish mixing in the new track and spin around, ready to hand over my headphones.