Page 45 of Disharmony

“What’s going on?” Levi, late as ever, strolls into the studio and looks between me and McCallister. He is wearing black track pants and an oversized gray hoodie pulled over his head like he wants no one to notice him. I wish I took style advice from him today. “I thought everyone’s meant to be practicing?”

“They are,” McCallister replies, shooting him a withering glare. “But I’m reminding the campers of the expectations we have at Camp Harmony.”

“Shall we go from the top?” Tiffany simpers in a high-pitched girlish tone and taps the microphone. Her attempts to impress Levi are almost as lame as the fact she feels she needs to. “Why doesn’t Lucy stand in for Ashley while she changes into something appropriate?”

Levi glances at me quizzically. I’m wearing more clothes than all the other girls in the room. I hang my head, avoiding looking in his direction. Lucy, Tiffany’s friend and wannabe Locket member, nods in delight and clambers onto the stage.

“Great idea,” McCallister agrees, clapping his hands. He turns to smirk at me. “Why don’t you skip rehearsals today, Video Girl? Come back tomorrow when you’re ready to show me how committed you are. We start at nine, remember?”

I grab my backpack and curl my fingers around the straps to stop myself from swinging it at his face. “Nine, got it.”

I storm out, and everyone’s eyes burn into me as I go. Is this McCallister and Tiffany’s way of getting me out of the final show? When I come back tomorrow, will Lucy have replaced me for good?

No one gets it. But there is one person who might…

I pull out my cell, and my fingers fly over the keypad.

Me: It was great to meet you at your show. I think you may have been right about Camp Harmony. Where’s next on your tour? Ash x

I question putting an X at the end, but press send before I change my mind. Screw it. Chances are, it’s the wrong number and Ripper won’t reply anyway.

Whenever I feel this mad, I usually take it on my drum kit. Without an outlet, I stalk through an empty Rec Square filled with built up energy and no way to release it. I’m in paradise, but my music is caged. A pop song won’t let me unleash the fury I need to.

I remember Cookie telling me about practice rooms—which aren’t used for classes—that are available for campers to freestyle and rehearse. They’re kitted out with instruments and, most importantly, are soundproof. I head over to see whether a drum kit is available.

No one questions me as I walk through the building, acting like I’m supposed to be there. My Vans sink into the plush velvet carpet, and signed posters of stars line the hallway in gold frames. Their airbrushed gazes bore into me as I speed past occupied rooms until I come to a vacant one at the end.

Bingo!

I step inside and flick the switch on the inner wall to light up a red warning above the outer door to signal the room is in use.

“Woah,” I gasp under my breath as I look around.

It sure beats the practice rooms in high school. The space is split into two parts: a recording space for artists to perform and a mixing room. The recording space is filled with all the main instruments: guitars, keyboards, microphones… and gorgeous drums that practically have a halo-like glow omitting from them to beckon me closer.

I go straight to them and run my hand over the smooth surface of the drumhead, appreciating its gentle curved red shell. I pull out a stool and sit behind it. My racing adrenaline slows as I put on a nearby set of headphones and twirl the wooden sticks between my fingers, savoring how they feel. I don’t know when I’ll next get the opportunity to play.

I begin gently, adjusting to the strange kit, but it only takes a minute to feel at home. My anger dissipates and transforms to excitement as I play theThorned Roseby the Basilisks. I loosen my grip on the sticks a little; there’s been too many times I’ve broken out with blisters after a raging session.

I hit the rhythm on the drums surface and start to sing. The song is about how appearances can be deceiving. How you never know who people are underneath the surface, and how you have to grow thorns to protect yourself.

“A crown of rose,

The thorns of sin,

Blood falling down your neck, but tell me…

Are you blooming?”

I build to the climactic chorus, deviating from the original by hammering the snare and crashing the cymbal to unleash lingering feelings and a spill of fury.

She looks like a bull.

Fuck you, bitch! FUCK YOU!

My arms vibrate and ache, but I can’t stop. I put every ounce of energy into it and let the song pour out of me. I thrash my hair around like I’m performing in front of a stadium of thousands. I reach Ripper’s drum solo that I’ll never be able to emulate, but I try all the same…

Fuck the expectations!

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