Anything for You (Blue Heron #5)(63)

Drum circle was exactly what it sounded like—a circle of people sitting on hard metal chairs with a lot of different types of percussion instruments to choose from, from bongo to Toca to maracas to Davey’s favorite, the cowbell. Jess generally went for the wooden block and stick, one of the less desired instruments each week.

Davey wasn’t the only special needs person here; Brody Tatum, a Downs kid, was here with his parents; Jess had waited on them dozens of times. Miranda Cho, who worked with Davey at the candle factory, was also here with her mother, who waved to Jess.

“Hi, Miranda,” Davey said, running up to her. “What’s your favorite instrument? Mine’s the cowbell. I love cowbell!” They had this conversation every week, verbatim. Well, Davey did. Miranda didn’t answer; Jess had never heard her speak. But she glanced at Davey with a shy little smile and went to the center of the circle, grabbed a big African drum, then sat down. Davey sat next to her, and Jess next to him, block and stick ready.

Tanner Angst—his real name—sat down on Jess’s other side, the better to bathe her in his tormented artist black cloud. Tanner felt he should’ve been the next Dave Matthews back in high school—and yes, she’d slept with him, once, and he hadn’t even been that good at looking out for Davey. He’d been the king of cool back then, but one semester at Berklee College of Music had shown him he wasn’t quite the special snowflake he thought. He now taught music at the middle school. Four years ago, he’d asked Jessica out and hadn’t yet forgiven her for turning him down, yet also couldn’t stay away from her. Some people could pull off brooding, Jess thought, picturing Connor. And some people just looked stupid.

She kept looking at the door. She didn’t have to wait long; Keith Dunn came in at two minutes before seven.

“Dad!” Davey was out of his chair and racing across the circle to greet their father.

“Hey, son!” Keith gave him a long hug, then tousled his hair. “Is it okay if I stay?”

“Yes! Yes, it is, Dad! Come sit with us. Come on! Get your drum. Or you can have the triangle! Here! Here’s the triangle! This is my best friend Miranda. Miranda, this is my father! Jess! Dad is here!”

“So I see.”

“Isn’t it great?”

“Yes.” She managed to smile at her brother, but her heart was thudding. “Sit next to me, why don’t you?” she said to her father. That way, she could smell if he’d been drinking. She turned to Tanner. “Do you mind moving over a seat?”

“Oh, Jessica. I didn’t see you there,” he said. “Fine. Whatever.”

Her father smelled like Ivory soap. Not a hint of booze, and Jess was an expert.

She felt a tiny stir of hope, then cut it off. Her father was here; he was sober at the moment; Davey was happy. That was all. Reading into it, or expecting it to last, would be idiotic.

“Thank you for this,” her father said quietly. She nodded once.

The circle was full now, and populated with some of the odder ducks in Manningsport, the creative souls who yearned to break free from the constrains of ordinary life. Jess stood out a little, as someone who had no rhythm—as shown by her aborted attempt at stripping—and as someone with no yearning to express herself artistically, someone who would quite love ordinary life.

“Gang, we’re here to express ourselves artistically,” said Debbie Meering, who ran the Art League. “This is a time for us to reach deep into our souls, envisioning our primordial roots in the swamps of time.”

Every week she came up with something weirder. Jess tried, unsuccessfully, not to roll her eyes.

“Let’s think back to the heartbeat of the brave little frog,” Debbie went on, “who decided to be the first to venture out of the slime of the past and bravely leaped onto the shores of today.”

Her father snorted.

Jess turned to look at him. He cut her a guilty smile, then looked at Davey. “I love cowbell,” he said. “I got a fever, and the only prescription is more cowbell.”

Well, well. Her father had a sense of humor. Same sense of humor she had, apparently, since she loved that old Saturday Night Live skit.

“Are you sick, Dad?” Davey asked. “Do you have a fever?”

“No, no, Davey. Just joking around.”

“Tanner,” Debbie said with a disapproving frown at Jess and her father, “will you lay down a rhythm for us, the rhythm of that brave little frog’s heartbeat?”

There was another small snort, and Jess almost smiled herself.

Weird, the idea of laughing with Keith Dunn.

Tanner started with a basic rhythm, which the drum circle picked up. Even Jess could follow it, so long as she didn’t think too hard. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. It was when people started getting fancy that she screwed up. Taptap. Tap... Tap. Okay, time to fake it.

Her father wasn’t much better, pinging away at a triangle at irregular moments. Davey was pretty good, though, and Miranda kept whacking out the, er, heartbeat, steady and loud. There were two actual drummers in the group who made them all sound pretty fantastic, adding beats and riffs and whatever else they were called.

After ten minutes or so, Jess put her block back in the center and grabbed finger cymbals. She took a seat across the circle so she could watch her father and Davey.

Davey smiled nonstop. He saw her watching and smiled even bigger. She waved, feeling a smile herself.