Page 7 of Checking All Her Notes
Dax apparently can’t stop laughing. “The mighty Jude Blockton. Defender of the blue line. Master of the tiny metal ding-dong thing.”
Jude’s expression could melt the ice next door. He stares at the triangle sitting on the table in front of me like it personally offended his entire family lineage.
“You’re kidding,” he says flatly.
“Nope.” I pick up the triangle and the little beater stick, walking it over to him. “It’s the heartbeat of the ensemble.”
He takes the instrument like I’ve just handed him a live grenade. “It’s a piece of bent metal.”
“It’s amusicalpiece of bent metal.” I place the beater in his other hand. “You hit it once every four beats. That’s it. Simple.”
He stares at me. Then at the triangle. Then back at me.
“Four what?”
“Four beats. The metronome will tell you when.”
“Great,” he mutters, so quietly I almost miss it. “I love when robots judge me.”
It’s not actually a robot. You’ll appreciate it when you see how it will help you keep time. I set the metronome on the piano and the ticking fills the room, steady and relentless.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
“Okay, we’re going to start simple,” I announce. “Shakers on one and three. Triangle on four. Just listen and feel the beat.”
I demonstrate, tapping the rhythm on the table. “One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.”
Finn shakes on the wrong beat immediately.
Dax hits the drum somewhere between two and three.
Jett’s just rattling whenever inspiration strikes.
And Jude sits there, staring at his triangle.
“Let’s try again,” I say, keeping my voice patient and encouraging. “Listen first. Don’t rush. Just... feel it.”
We try again.
This time Finn’s closer. Dax is actually pretty good. Jett’s started paying attention.
Jude hits his triangle on two.
I walk over, crouch down beside his chair so I’m at eye level. “That was truly confident.”
He exhales hard through his nose, jaw tight. “I was early.”
“Or optimistic,” I offer, trying to lighten the mood. “Try again.”
He tries again. Misses again. Hits on three this time.
The guys are watching now, fascinated by the sight of their stone-faced defenseman struggling with a children’s instrument.
“Blockton, buddy,” Dax calls out, drumming a playful beat on the table. “Stay in your lane.”
Jude’s scowl could freeze fire. “Iamthe lane.”
I bite back a laugh and tap my fingers on his table, exaggerating the count so he can see it, feel it, internalize it. “One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. Don’t chase the beat. Let it come to you.”
