So they hauled the whole set from his house to hers, one or two pieces at a time, depending on how big the piece was. Luckily they didn't live too far apart so they were able to walk them from one place to the other, but it still took about two hours. Going upstairs was the worst part. Finally, they screwed the last piece together and stepped back to admire their handiwork. A high-five punctuated the endeavor.
"Give it a shot," Isaac said.
"O.K.!" Alexis scampered around the kit and plopped into the chair unceremoniously, but it was with reverence that she lifted the drumsticks. Slowly, into the air they went. She held them poised to go. The moment held its tension like a bowstring drawn to the cheek, and whatever would come after would have to be accepted for whatever it was. There would be no returning to pre-drumming once the deed had been done.
With a sudden intake of breath and a preparatory lifting of the sticks, she brought them down. A raucous blast of noises came screeching and bellowing from the instrument, including sounds that Isaac, in six months of playing, had never heard. His honor made him not slap his hands over his ears, but his ears made an excellent counter-argument. Alexis was really going at it with heart though, it had to be admitted, missing no element of the kit: Snare, cymbals, kick-bass, rack and floor toms—if thoroughness were sufficient, she'd have been amazing.
Then the door threw open without warning, and all sounds stopped at once, except for the crash cymbal which kept on for a long time. Shhhhh it went.
Alexis's drumsticks hovered mid-swing. Her father stood at the doorway, expression neutral, but that wasn't proof that they were safe. Slowly, making no sudden movements, Alexis set her drumsticks down on the snare and clasped her hands delicately in her lap. She smiled sweetly, but her lips trembled.
If only that cymbal would shut up! Shhhhh.
Aeons and light-years seemed to pass beneath Dad's relentless, steely gaze, and Alexis began to sweat, not knowing what he'd do. Her smile faltered, her heart-beat tried to match the volume and intensity the drums had achieved, her mind raced with the endless possibilities of how her father would slaughter her; but then, as if a specter, Dad eased back, slipping soundlessly from view. The door creaked closed of its own volition, and the latch clicked with foreboding finality, bringing both relief, and the exhaustion of sustained anxiety.
Shhhhh.
Alexis reached out and pinched the edge of the cymbal. It went silent.
They remained in thick, discomforting quiet, there among their breathing and the sparkling motes floating in the sun that was beaming in from the bedroom window.
The portent of a sharply drawn breath pierced the silence. "Should we move the drum-kit to the garage?" Isaac suggested tentatively.
"Let's move the drum-kit to the garage," Alexis agreed with reverence.