Page 48 of Not My Little Drummer Boy
I drop my face into the cradle. “I’m not blinking.”
“Noted,” Sam says, smug. “We’ll take that as strong interest.”
Haley taps her toes under the dryer. “He looks at you like he’s countingyou in.”
“He can click his sticks all he likes;I’m sitting this one out,” I mutter into the cradle. Good thing they can’t see my face.If only they knew—last night Teddy did a lot more than look.
Sam pats my shoulder and drops her voice to a conspiratorial hush. “See? Work can wait. Healthier already. Now practice not thinking about a certain drummer.”
My slot with Teddy is the last of the day. Of course it is.
I arrive early, buffed, polished, and glowing on the outside from the work of many hands, while inside I’m still caught in a stubborn funk. The heavy wood-panelled door to the makeshift studio looms, standing between me and what will probably be a disaster. This challenge is the last chance to win for Memories That Matter. For Teddy. Now, when I want to come out on top for all the right reasons—for others, not myself—I don’t have the skills to carry us across the line. Sound filters through the door, voices weaving in easy harmony, sending me deeper into the gloom.
It lifts immediately when Teddy strolls down the hallway towards me, his riot of red curls and sunshine smile lighting up the space.
“Hey,” he says. “Ready for this?”
“Sure am,” I say, summoning a confident smile. I crank it to full-beam when the door swings open and Liv and Garrett appear, high-fiving each other with satisfied grins.
“All yours, mate,” Garrett says, taking Liv’s hand as they head off.
“Right,” Teddy says, pulling out his phone. “I’ve had an idea for ‘Little Drummer Boy’. Watch this.”
He hands me the phone and ducks behind the drum kit. It’s a clip I’ve seen before—classic British telly. Bing Crosby and a young David Bowie, a mash-up of ‘Little Drummer Boy’ and ‘Peace On Earth’. One of the originals.
“What do you think?” he asks, reappearing with a drum like something from a Highland pipe band, the kind you sling around your neck. “I do Bing and you do Bowie.”
“You’ve got to be joking.”
“Come on, I heard you singing in the stables the other night, Rachel. Your voice is great.”
I arch a brow.
“Okay, maybe notBowie,“ he says, grinning. “But good enough for this.”
“You expect me to sing “Peace On Earth” with no accompaniment while you’re pa-rum-pum-pum-pumming?”
He laughs. “No. You sing and I’ll play piano.”
I blink. “You play piano?”
“My dad’s a pianist, for Christ’s sake.”
“Well, my dad’s an arsehole, but it doesn’t make me one.”
Teddy smirks. “Rachel, I can play. And I’ll do the Drummer Boy vocals, too. The range isn’t massive—I’ve got it. I’ll pre-record the drum and play it through a sampling bar. Easy.”
I glance around. “What piano?”
“In the ballroom. Corner by the window. You didn’t see it?”
I shake my head.
“Come on. Let’s go.”
“What about the Stellar Riot song? Younever chose one.”
“Leave that with me.” His mouth curves into an enigmatic smile. “We’ll deal with that tomorrow.”
