Page 104 of Switch!
“I get by,” Trixie says humbly, glancing at the money. “We have a long way to go. If I still had my amp… Then again, it was a pain to lug around. I’ve noticed you’ve got rhythm though. Wanna join me?”
“I can’t dance,” I sputter. Then I reconsider. “Can I?”
“We’ll figure that out some other time,” Trixie says with a laugh. “I need percussion. Here.”
She hands me the raisins. The canister is round and made out of cardboard. Only the lid is plastic. My mother used to buy the same kind. “I’m not hungry. Are you?”
“Nope, but you can use that as a drum.”
“I’ve never played an instrument in my life.” After doing a quick check, I add, “And neither has Patrick.”
“It’s easy. Come sit next to me.”
Trixie gets down on the ground. I join her, both of us sitting cross-legged.
“For this next song, the rhythm I need is simple. Put the raisins down between us.”
As soon as I do, she leans forward and bangs out a beat on the plastic lid and the container’s side, which functions surprisingly well as a drum. “See?”
“Uh…”
She repeats the same rhythm, except this time she says a word with each strike. “Left left right, left left left right right. Got it? Two one, three two.”
“Let me try.” It’s pretty easy actually. I’ve got the hang of it in no time.
“Not bad!” Trixie says, head bobbing along with the beat. “Hit it as hard as you can so the sound carries. Too bad we don’t have a bucket. That’s good though. Just a little faster…”
She stands, and I almost panic when she begins to play, but I focus solely on the rhythm, much like I do when needing to enter Phase Two. I keep my head down and close my eyes, which makes it easier for some reason. The music we’re making—together!—sounds pretty darn good.
“Not bad for your live debut,” Trixie says at the end of the song. “Now give me a little of this.” She drums out another pattern for me to follow. We perform the song right after, and even though I make a few mistakes, I’m loving how this feels. I’m too nervous to look at anyone’s reactions, but I already know that I want to practice this at home with her. On a bucket instead, or maybe a real drum if we can ever afford one.
“We should probably move,” Trixie says at the end of the set.
I don’t understand why until I follow her gaze and see a man wearing a vest and tie standing in the doorway of a nearby restaurant. The manager or maybe the head waiter. His frown and crossed arms reveal what he thinks of our performance.
“Everyone’s a critic,” I mutter while getting to my feet.
“Happens all the time,” Trixie says, gathering her things. “I used to argue until I figured out it’s easier to move on.”
She scoops out the bills and change before returning her violin to the case. She hands the cash to me so I can count it, which I do with my ridiculous raisin drum pinned beneath one arm.
“There’s nearly forty bucks here!” I exclaim.
“Not bad for an hour’s work.”
“Is that how long it’s been? That went fast. And it pays well!”
Trixie doesn’t seem as enthusiastic. “That’ll take care of gas, but we still have a long way to go. How much is rent?”
“Twelve hundred,” I say.
She whistles. “And you’re sure you want to keep the apartment? Even if we manage to raise that much, he still owes another two months, right?”
“Yeah. I think we should try. We need somewhere to live.”
“Okay.”
We choose a street corner at the beginning of the park. The other three corners are taken up by two bars and a restaurant. I’m hoping drunk people will be stumbling our way, since they’ll probably be looser with their change. Trixie sets me up with another rhythm and we resume playing. During the easier songs, I mentally crunch some numbers.
