Fat kid rules the world by K. L. Going

beak of a nose and he leans back at the hips when he walks.
    “No offense,” he says, voice rising, “but how old are you?”
    It wasn’t the question I was expecting.
    “Seventeen,” I say. “I graduate this year.”

    Ollie runs his fingers over his scalp and scowls. He plays with one of his rings—a golden skull and crossbones. Scowls again.
    “And you’ve played drums before?”
    I nod, then pause. “In junior high,” I offer. My stomach jiggles. “Until seventh grade …”
    He squints and I wait for him to laugh. He doesn’t laugh.
    “You’re kidding. Please tell me you’re kidding.”
    I shake my head.
    “That fucker.” He punches his palm with his fist and I panic.
    “Listen, you don’t have to … I mean, I don’t really …”
    Ollie raises one tattooed hand. Dragons loop around his fingers. “A deal’s a deal,” he says, breathing long and deep. “I should’ve known, is all. It’s my own damn fault. Curt said he’d found a drummer who just needed a few lessons to get ready for next month’s gig. I assumed … Ah,
hell
.”
    His voice drops on “hell.”
    “Well,” he says, “do you want to play the drums, or what?”
    I nod stupidly. So far, as near as I can tell, Ollie Oliver is disconcertingly … nice. Throws me off guard.
    He leads me on stage and I stand behind the drum set pretending I’m actually going to have a lesson. It’s surreal, as if I’ve drifted out of my life and can’t get back in. I look around thinking,
Where am I? Where’s Curt? What’s happening
? I’m nervous and sweaty and it takes me a long time to sit down. I keep imagining how my butt will spill over the sides of the little drum stool. Ollie informs me that the stool is called a throne and that makes it even worse. Sounds like a toilet. Makes me feel like there’s something obscene about sitting down.
    Ollie’s patient, though. He waits while I reposition numerous times. He drags a chair across the old wooden floor then heaves it on stage and climbs up after it in an uncoordinated way. He sits down beside me and his long legs stretch a mile in front of him.

    “So, you’re the drummer,” he says, almost to himself. “Hmm,” he comments.
    I silently agree. It’s as good a commentary on my predicament as anything I’ve heard yet.
    “You like the drums?” Ollie asks at last.
    It’s a crucial question, so I lie.
    “Oh, yeah. Yeah.” Pause. “Curt and I are going to form this band, see—” Ollie cuts me off with the wave of one tattooed hand.
    “Mmm. Curt told me all that,” he says. “Rage/Tectonic. Good name. He told me your first gig’s in five
weeks
.” His voice goes up on “weeks” and he chuckles. “Quick turnaround. Typical Curt.”
    I think,
Where is Curt
? and stare at the door like a dog who has to go out.
    “
Erm
,” I say.
    Ollie agrees. “Got your work cut out for you, don’t ya? Of course, it’s totally doable,” he amends. “Five weeks is plenty of time and if anyone can do it, Curt can.”
    I look at my shoe and Ollie sighs.
    “Well,” he comments, astutely. “I meant,
you
can.” Silence stretches like taffy. “So, anyway … we might as well start at the beginning.”
    Yes
, I think,
might as well
    Ollie sighs again. “This,” he says at last, “is a drum set….”
    Ollie starts explaining stuff about drums, telling me great details about the components of a drum set and how to take care of them. He talks about the history of rock and names the most respected drummers past and present. I imagine most of it is pretty interesting, but I wouldn’t know because I can’t comprehend a word he’s saying. I keep staring at the door thinking,
Where is Curt with my hamburger
?
    He finally shows up just as Ollie starts “refreshing” me on basic rhythms. Curt skulks in like a kid sneaking home after a late-night joy ride. He slides through the creaky door, darts to the bar, cleans astray glass with his sleeve as if he’s been standing there for hours,