Written for the Passionate About Paul Contest. Bella, a drummer girl, can't stand her section leader, Paul, yet she's attracted to him. Will her knack for holding her own pay off, or will she be forever singing a song of paraddidles with her best friend, Jake? "Rhythm was in my bones, and I danced to the beat of my own drum, literally." All Human, P/B, M for language and adult themes.
Paul Trent was an asshole. And I didn't use that word lightly. In fact, I didn't usually use that word or any other words like it. But for some reason, Paul brought out the worst in me and the best of my playing. And I hated it. All of it. Including him.
"Sometime today, Drummer Girl."
I finished, stood, and strapped my marching snare back into place. When his back was turned I flipped him off. Jacob Black, my best friend, started laughing. He shoved his disgusting grubby mallet into his mouth to keep the noise from spreading, but it was too late. It spread, and then the whole of the bass drummers behind him were laughing because of him.
You couldn't help but laugh when Jacob laughed. His laugh was infectious, and it got us in trouble all of the time with our section leader. Our section leader, who was giving Hitler a run for his money.
"What the hell, Black! Ateara! Call, you too! Everyone. All you losers down now. Give me ten!" His face darkened, and his eyes narrowed. He was so pissed. And hot. So freaking hot. Just when I thought he couldn't get any hotter, he ripped his shirt off of his torso in a huff and threw it to the ground. When he got angry, he somehow always ended up shirtless. I didn't complain. It wouldn't be very sportsman-like to do so. At least, that's what I told myself.
A few of the guys grumbled as they set their quints, basses and snares down. He heard it, of course. He was worse than my mother and father put together. He had super hearing and eyes on the back of his head. "Shut up, or I'll make it fifty!"
Everyone did just as he said. We were all on the hard concrete in the blazing sun at 6:30 am doing push-ups, trying not to burn our hands. Phoenix heat was brutal. He walked around us, occasionally kicking someone in the gut, pulling on a leg to flatten someone out, all the while going on his usual tirade. "You think I want to stand here all day and watch you do damn push-ups? This is a waste of my time. You don't wanna play? You wanna act like a bunch of pathetic pieces of shit? Then fine. Just do it on your own time. This . . . this is my time. I'm in charge. Do what I say, or get the hell out of my drumline!"
We couldn't see him, but we heard his snare as he picked it up and attached it to his carrier. He tapped the side with his drumsticks.
"Up!" he commanded. "Eights. Now. Ten seconds to get strapped."
I heard the telltale rhythm of his tapping stick on the tight drumhead, and I felt at peace as I strapped on and took in his bare chest glistening with sweat. I began my own tapping to warm up my hands and got into the zone, trying to ignore what looking at his body did to my own. But that wasn't all that affected me. His looks, his leadership, his perfect grip around his neon green taped sticks, sucked me in. And watching him play drove me into a frenzy. He was an outstanding percussionist. That was where he shined, and where I shined. In fact, I think that was the problem, the reason why he hated me so much.
I was good, damn good, and I was a girl. A girl who played snare drum her freshman year in marching band in his drumline. A freshman making snare was unheard of, except for Paul, of course. So the fact that I was a female, freshman snare drummer really rocked some boats. But, what could I do or say about it? I wasn't going to quit, nor was I going to apologize. Rhythm was in my bones, and I danced to the beat of my own drum, literally.
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