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Andrew doesn’t remember getting in the car, but Ryan Connolly is in the driver’s seat. Which means the only drummer still back at Dunellen is–-
“Fuck, did Tanner take over for me?” Andrew says.
“Yeah,” Ryan says. “You’re kind of out of it, man. Try to stay awake.”
“Where are my sticks?” Andrew says. He turns to look in the backseat and his vision starts whiting out. He turns back to face forward, slowly. They’re not there. Some part of him knew they wouldn’t be, but he had to check.
“Probably still onstage,” Ryan says. Something burns hot in Andrew’s chest, some lingering rage he hadn’t exorcised in front of the judges. Why would Ryan Connolly give a damn about a rival’s gear? He can’t bring himself to call it sabotage, but it must be a kind of calculated carelessness.
“We have to go back,” Andrew says. Ryan doesn’t even look over at him. “Jesus Christ, Connolly, come on.”
“Carl will get them or he won’t. You can buy new ones if he doesn’t. You can’t buy a new skull, which is why we’re going to the hospital.” Ryan’s voice is measured, even, like he’s trying his best to sound reasonable but having a hard time. “You still have your phone, right?”
Andrew shrugs, shakes his head, before remembering that Ryan (like a responsible driver) has his eyes on the road. “I don’t know. Probably not.” He doesn’t remember what happened to his phone. He doesn’t remember a lot of the past hour, doesn’t remember the impact of the truck against the rental car so much as he knows it must have happened, but he remembers the impact of Fletcher going down on the floorboards.
“Who’s your emergency contact?” Ryan says.
“My dad.”
“Do you have his number memorized?”
“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”
“You can use my phone when we get there.” Andrew closes his eyes, just for a second, and that must be when Ryan finally looks over, because he starts talking again. “Doing okay?” It’s a stupid question. Andrew doesn’t answer it. “That was really something back there. Intense as shit, bro. You still awake?” Andrew opens his eyes in the hope that it will make Ryan shut up.
“The sound of your voice is putting me to sleep,” Andrew says when it looks like Ryan’s about to start talking again. Ryan frowns. “You should’ve stayed. Better you than Tanner.” He doesn’t mean to say this out loud.
“Are you kidding me? Carl would have let you bleed out on the sidewalk before giving up his shot at being core drummer again.” Ryan grins boyishly, a little rueful. “Not like I was going to do any good sitting behind him.”
Andrew has a concussion and several sprained fingers, one fully broken, but no damage to the tendons. And whiplash, which might be funny if it wasn’t so goddamn pathetic. It could have been worse. He says this and his dad looks heartbroken but the nurse seems to agree. Ryan just nods. It’s good to have one person here who gets it.
Ryan’s dorm room is on a different floor but somehow he manages to show up when Andrew’s on his way out. Not for the very last time–-he hasn’t turned in his keycard yet. But he has to be out by the end of the week. Some of his stuff is at his dad’s already. Most of it is boxed up.
“Hey, Andrew,” Ryan says. He’s only got a couple of inches on Andrew but he carries himself like he’s conscious of the space he occupies and isn’t sorry about it. He makes Andrew’s room seem smaller just by standing in the doorway. “I heard what happened.”
“Who hasn’t?” Andrew snaps. He turns toward his desk like he’s looking for something, but the desk is bare. It’s an excuse to turn his back on Ryan’s pity.
“Yeah, well.” Ryan pauses. “I’m sorry it did.” Andrew wants to tell him to go fuck himself, or go the more primal route and hiss and spit like a cat, but he’s too tired for that level of spite. So he shrugs. He settles for not thanking the asshole for failing to celebrate his expulsion. “If you need help moving out, just let me know.”
“What would I need help with?” Andrew gestures around himself. The room is almost empty.
“I mean, I was thinking maybe your kit,” Ryan says. There’s silence behind Andrew for long enough that he thinks maybe Ryan has walked away. But he hasn’t, when Andrew turns back to the doorway. He’s still looming, looking sheepish. “Sorry. That was kind of a dumbass thing to say.”
“Kind of,” Andrew agrees. He meets Ryan’s gaze and holds it just a little too long. As Ryan starts to go, finally accepting that he’s not welcome, Andrew can’t suppress his own masochistic impulse to ask: “How’s studio band?”
“The same,” Ryan says. “Except the percussion section’s gone to shit.” It’s probably a joke but he doesn’t smile. His hands aren’t bleeding, though; he doesn’t look like he’s gone a week without sleep. Whatever’s up with the band (with Fletcher), Ryan will be fine. He won’t lose his cool. Maybe he’s not brilliant but Andrew has well and truly proved that he’s no genius, either.
Ryan drifts away down the hall and Andrew looks at the box he was planning to take to his dad’s today. There’s nothing in it that he can’t replace.
It’s three weeks into what should be Andrew’s second semester at Shaffer, two weeks into his new job. The café was only hiring part-time because they don’t want to have to provide benefits. Andrew is looking for a second job but everyone says he’s lucky to even have one. His only qualification is a high school diploma, after all. Some of his coworkers are college graduates. The customers are about the same, only they’ve had better luck: twenty- and thirty-somethings with degrees from good schools and jobs in start-ups, who drink from Mason jars for style and not because they’re cheaper than good glassware.
Ryan sticks out like a sore thumb, standing in line. He bobs and weaves, trying to get a look at the menu. It shouldn’t be that hard, since most of the people in front of him are shorter than he is. Or maybe he’s trying to get a good look at Andrew manning the cash register. Andrew keeps his eyes on each successive customer. Everyone gets their allotted attention when it’s their turn.
“Hey, man,” Ryan says. “Darien said he saw you here the other day.”
“Lucky it’s my shift,” Andrew says. He doesn’t know anyone named Darien. “What’ll you have?”
“Oh, uh, what’s good?”
“The rosemary scones sell pretty well,” Andrew says. The line behind Ryan is growing.
“You want to take your fifteen, Andy?” Carla says. She’s a very patient manager, and she says this cheerfully. Andrew gets the message.
“I get off in two hours,” Andrew says. “If you want to catch up.” Ryan smiles. He seems delighted. It feels like it must be a trick. The look of bewilderment on Ryan’s face a minute later as he bites into a rosemary scone makes up for it, though.
He doesn’t expect Ryan to hunker down in a corner with a tablet for the remainder of his shift. But he’s still there when Andrew clocks out. “The wifi’s pretty bad,” Ryan says. “Good thing I downloaded the reading before I came.” Andrew has nothing to say to this. “How’ve you been?”
“Fine,” Andrew says. He’s learned that this is what everyone wants to hear from him and it’s true, most days. “How about you?”
“Back in Nassau band,” Ryan admits. “It’s kind of a let-down. But it’s space to learn, you know?” He doesn’t. Andrew doesn’t know what it’s like to decelerate, only what it’s like to come to a full stop. He feels a gut satisfaction at knowing that Ryan didn’t replace him, didn’t surpass him. But then he feels guilty for that. Andrew is nobody’s protégé and nobody’s rival. He has no stake in Ryan’s success or failure. “Are you applying any other places for next semester?”
“I’m thinking about it,” Andrew says. He’s printed out some of the application materials for Juilliard but it feels like overreaching. And who the fuck would write him a recommendation letter?
“Cool, cool,” Ryan says. “I know you’ve got a job and you’re probably busy, but if you want to hang out sometime there are people back at Shaffer who’d like to see you again.”
“That’s funny,” Andrew says. “Since no one really saw me when I was there.” Ryan laughs like it was a joke, like Andrew was trying to be funny and succeeded. Andrew smiles a little because it seems like the only appropriate response.
“Seriously, bro. You’re being deprived of the college experience, and no one’s going to chase you out of the dorms. Fletch doesn’t even teach anymore–-oh, shit, I don’t know if you heard about that,” Ryan pulls himself up short. “He got fired, there was a hearing and stuff. But yeah. I think pretty much everyone who knew him wanted to punch him at some point. The other teachers might even turn a blind eye if you want to use the practice rooms.”
“No, I don’t think–-I don’t.”
“Offer’s open. Especially this Friday, some of the chamber orchestra guys have a concert and they’ll be in serious need of some relaxation afterward.” Ryan winks, honest to God winks, and it’s cheesy but not sleazy.
“I’ll think about it,” Andrew promises.
“You have my number?” Ryan presses.
“Probably not.”
They exchange information. Ryan dashes off, waving over his shoulder. Andrew waves back. By the time he gets back to his apartment, he has a text: who the f puts cheese in a scone tho, thats weird
Andrew texts back one word (hipsters).
And it’s strange, to have a social calendar, but he starts looking forward to Friday instead of thinking of ways to get out of it.