Five Flavors of Dumb - Antony John [16]
“Holy crap,” said Tash succinctly. “We need a drummer.”
Josh nodded vigorously, but his mouth never closed. “Yeah. And we need one now.”
I was still trying not to laugh, so they couldn’t have known how relieved I was that we all had the same idea.
Finally all eyes turned to Will, waiting for him to green-light the move, but he seemed overwhelmed by the attention. “I don’t know, man,” he mumbled, his gaunt face even more troubled than usual. “I mean, think about it. Where the hell are we going to find a drummer?”
I looked at Ed.
Ed looked at me. “Who? You mean . . . no, you must be kidding.”
Not the response I was hoping for. This would require another approach. “Does Tash look like she’s kidding?”
Ed glanced at Tash and turned pale.
“Good,” I said. “Welcome to Dumb, Ed. I think you’re the missing piece of the puzzle.” I couldn’t resist sarcastically adding, “You complete us.”
Ed scowled, but honestly it felt good to have the last word for a change.
If only I’d actually been right.
CHAPTER 11
Mom shimmied into my bedroom like she was auditioning for the cheerleading squad, waving a piece of paper before me playfully. I squinted at the title and couldn’t help smiling. It was the contract, chock-full of phrases like “in accordance with” and “legally binding” and words like “contingent” and “perpetuity.” It hadn’t occurred to me before, but lawyers really do a first-rate job of making English read like a foreign language.
Is it okay? signed Mom. Her face made it clear that she expected this to be answered in the enthusiastic affirmative.
I nodded, rubbed the edges of the precious document while I wondered how to break the news to her. It’s perfect . . . but I wonder if we could make one small change.
Mom’s eyes narrowed. She was suddenly the anti-cheerleader. What’s wrong with it?
We have a new member.
Some of the perkiness was back again, so I guess she’d been anticipating something more troublesome. Who is it?
I didn’t mean to, but for some reason I hesitated. Ed Chen.
Chess-playing Ed?
Yes. He plays percussion in the Seattle Youth Orchestra. He’ll be our drummer.
Mom grinned like a fool. So you’ll be seeing a lot of each other?
It’s not like that. I rolled my eyes.
She threw up her arms in surrender. Okay. So what name should appear on the contract?
I finger-spelled Ed Chen.
Which is short for . . . Edward? Edgar? Edmund? This is a legal document. I need his full name.
Edgar.
Certain?
I wasn’t certain. I’ll check. I’ll get back to you.
Mom still had a smile on her face, but she didn’t seem amused. Okay, you do that, she signed, then patted my head like I was the naughty puppy she loved in spite of herself.
The next day, Ed was squinting at the chessboard, as usual. He never really played with any rhythm—which is kind of ironic given that he was a human metronome with a drum set—but this time I really felt he was stalling. And to be honest, I couldn’t work out why.
“Did you hear me, Ed?” An unusual question coming from me, but he nodded distractedly. “So what is it?” He shook his head. “I have to know,” I said. “It’s for the contract.”
Ed sighed dramatically. He cast his eyes around like he was hiding quiz answers from a prying neighbor, then wrote one word on a scrap on paper and nudged it toward me.
I studied the name, and studied Ed. I may have repeated this process several times before I was completely sure he wasn’t just screwing with me. “Seriously? Your name is really . . . Edgard?”
“Shhh! Yeah. That’s why I go by Ed.”
“I get that,” I said, not trying to be too personal about it, but—really. “And I thought my name was weird.”
“I love your name,” he said simply.
I blushed, and he blushed, and his eyes went all puppy-dog, and then we both pretended to study the board again.
“I’ve never heard the name Edgard before.”
“Yeah, well . . . My mom’s favorite composer is this French guy named Edgard Varèse. He wrote these funky, large-scale percussion pieces. And I mean, only percussion.” Suddenly his