Mature

I stride in with my chest puffed out. The room is small, stuffy, walls splattered with different paints and posters. It's difficult not to feel insecure. I had spent a good thirty minutes on my fit- not that I had much to work with- and managed to pull together a black denim jacket with the sleeves ripped off accompanied by navy cargo shorts. Everyone turns to me, a little shocked.

"I saw the flier. You wanna drummer?" A beat of silence follows.

"How good are you?" The guy who responds is probably around 20, 25. He's smoking, sprawled across a stained couch next to a dude painted with makeup. There's two beanbags occupied by another boy and a girl, plus one rolling chair which a girl spins on slowly.

"I'd say I'm pretty good."

He perks his eyebrows and points to a kit in the corner. "Prove it."

I sit down on the stool, adjusting the snare and bass pedal to my size. "Got any sheet music?"

He smirks, then hands me a copy of some song I don't know. I skim through it. Moderate swing on hi-hat, cross-stick on snare, triplet on toms. It's hard, but I've got it.

After tapping out the swing a few times and testing the pedals, I start around 120BPM. My whole body's rigid save for my hands, which I've trained to stay loose in case of rolls. I can tell it's going great, buzz rolls evenly spaced, fills staying in time. Swing. Has to be on a triplet count, not sixteenth. Trip-a-let, trip-a-let, trip-a-let. Tst, tst, tst-tst, tst, tst-tst. Open the hi-hat every downbeat. Crash, move the swing to the ride. Flam high tom, flam middle tom, flam floor tom, flam snare. Base-base-base. Snare every two beats, then break for one. Fill, and... crash!

Once I finish, the room is quiet.

"He's the best drummer we've seen so far," the spinning girl says. I raise my chin a little in pride.

"What's your name?" the first guy asks.

"Paradiddle."

"Which is a nickname for..."

"Paris Moran," I admit reluctantly. He considers this, then looks around at the other members, who nod in confirmation.

"Alright, Diddle. You're hired. You got a place to stay?"

"Not really."

"Not really?"

"I'm living in the library that burned down couple years ago. It's alright, there's a woman who shares food with me."

He shares a look with the makeup guy. I'm scared for a split second that they're going to kick me out. If they did, I'd have no hopes of a job, no hopes of living much longer. The food woman gets sicker and sicker each day, and soon she'll drop and my source of meals will be gone.

"You can stay here if you want. We've got room for another."

My nerves tingle. The library is alright, just covered in ash, maybe a couple chunks taken out the walls, but this is a real building with healthy people and warmth and food. I try to stay stoic despite the ecstasy running through me.

"Sounds cool. When do we start?"

The guy stands up and puts his cigarette out. The others follow suit.

"Now."

***

I'm coated with sweat, and yet I've never felt so amazing. I've learned everyone's names as well- the two girls are Ash on the keys and Scum on the electric guitar, makeup guy is Oxy, who plays the bass, the leader and vocals is Puck, and beanbag boy's Jonathan. He’s on the synth and hasn't chosen a nickname yet.

I ask Oxy for a lighter and he flicks it on without hesitation. I've only spent a few hours with these people and I already feel like they're my family. They grill me on my interests as their way of getting to know me.

"Top three bands?"

"The Ramones, Sex Pistols, and Culture Club."

"Favorite beer?"

"Coors Light, it's cheapest."

"Alt or Rock?"

"Are you seriously even asking that?"

The band is called The Smeared Queers because of that game kids play where they tackle each other, and cause most of us are homos. We talk about Bush in relation to the Afghanistan crap, the best vinyl stores nearby, and Ash's girlfriend. When dinner's over, Jonathan, Oxy, and Ash go to their homes. Scum sets the couch up, Puck pulls out a mattress, and I drape a blanket over the beanbags. As my eyes close, the realization finally comes to me: These people are my family now. And I'm theirs.

***

Puck and I are sitting on the stoop outside, smoking, when he asks me about my parents. It's been three months since we first met and I've managed to avoid the topic up until now, but everyone's shared everything, so I might as well.

"I dunno," I take a drag, "I guess I just got sick of seeing everything fall apart, so I decided to jet. Packed some scraps of food and a can of coke, then walked out. I was young, but I was able to get through it, you know? It was hard, sure, especially when I watched someone die. Overdose. Heroin. I should've known I would see it happen, but it was like a reality check for me. If I didn't get some food and shelter soon, I'd be that corpse. I started drumming with paint cans and buckets, just tryna take my mind off things, then I found some old books about music in the ruins. First word I saw was 'paradiddle', so I chose that as my name. I was squatting right by a sick record store, and I got to hear all this amazing music. Started playing along, too, even earned a few bucks. I’m not that smart, never went to school. I suck at math and history, but I know flams and double-strokes like the back of my hand."

Puck's solemn for a while. We just savor the nicotine, eyelids heavy from the exertion of playing music. He nods, quiet, in the way he does, the way that says he understands. He gets what it's like to grow up messy.

"What was it like for you? Leaving?" He glances at me sadly.

"Definitely not as bad as you. I mean, I guess I have a pretty crap family, but they didn't, like, hit me or anything. They just didn't really like me. As long as I can remember, I loved to sing. I dunno if I'm gay or not, but everyone thought I was. Got bullied and stuff. So when I turned eighteen, I got outta there as soon as possible. Had been saving up money for years, rented this place right here, and started playing music with my best friends. You already know Scum was kicked outta his house- his folks are real transphobic- so he's lived here since the beginning."

We're silent, then, pondering our lives, the strange balance of pain and love.

"What's the date?" I finally change the topic, starting to get sick of thinking.

"May seventh."

"Agh. My birthday's tomorrow. I knew it was soon, just not that soon."

He turns, surprised. "How old are you turning?"

I sigh. "Eleven. Not as bad as ten, I guess, but I still hate it."

"We gotta celebrate."

"Get me a beer and I'm down."

"Alright, Paradiddle, if you say so." He grins and slaps my shoulder. I smush the cigarette into the concrete and head inside, smiling to myself.