Read Drums Girls and Dangerous Pie Online

  Drums, Girls & Dangerous Pie

Jordan Sonnenblick

This one is for my son,

Ross Matthew Sonnenblick,

who invented Unsafe Pie,

and for my girl,

Emma Claire Sonnenblick,

who would happily have eaten it.

Table of Contents

Championship Page

Dedication

Dangerous PIE

JEFFREY'S MOATMEAL Blow

ANXIETY WITH TIC TACS

THE Fatty CAT SAT

JEFFREY'South VACATION

NO MORE VACATION

Take ME!

FEVER

TROUBLE

STARVING IN SIBERIA

POINTLESSNESS AND BOY PERFUME

THE SILVER LINING

FEAR, Mucilage, Processed

Proficient NEWS, BAD NEWS

Close SHAVES IN AN UNFAIR WORLD

THE QUADRUPLE UH-OH

A MEN'S Journey

I'Chiliad A MAN Now

ROCK STAR

THE Terminate

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Almost the Writer

Q&A with Hashemite kingdom of jordan Sonnenblick

Bonus Fabric

Preview

Copyright

Unsafe PIE

In that location'southward a beautiful girl to my left, another to my right. Hundreds of colored balloons are tethered downward behind me, baking in the June sun. I'm wearing a brown gown that's sticking to my sweat-drenched skin, trying to keep my caput straight so that my weird square cap doesn't fall off in front of the one thousand people who are watching me. And of form, because I'thou me, I'm spacing out. The questions are just tumbling through my mind.

"How did I get up hither? What have I learned since September? How could my life have possibly changed then much in only ten months?"

I'm not fifty-fifty sure I understand the questions, much less where to begin looking for the answers.

I guess a good starting bespeak would be the longest journal I've ever written in English language class. This was back in September, when I was pretty sure about life. The topic was "The near annoying affair in the world," and we were supposed to write the usual one-page response to information technology. I sabbatum there for a few minutes, staring at the dorsum of Renee Albert, who'due south the hottest daughter in the eighth grade, trying to concentrate. Unfortunately, all I could concentrate on was Renee Albert. Did I mention she's the hottest girl in the 8th course? Miss Palma is always going on and on about brainstorming and lists and "prewriting," and so I started a listing of truly annoying things:

Periodical assignments

Tiresome pencils

The pencil sharpener smell

Miss Palma's perfume

Why doesn't Renee Albert ever look at me?

Hot girls who never look at skinny geeks

Being a skinny geek

Being a skinny geek named Steven

Just and so I realized that Miss Palma was standing behind me, reading over my shoulder (I estimate that's why I was being asphyxiated by her perfume).

Thinking fast, I covered upward my list, turned to her, and asked, Miss Palma, can the journal be longer than a page?

Sure, Steven. Why? What are you lot thinking about creating here?

("Creating here." She actually said that. Don't English teachers just slay you lot? My mom is actually an English language teacher, but that doesn't mean I don't find my own English teachers a bit odd.)

Well, I'm having trouble crafting my prose.

(Yeah, "crafting my prose." Two can play this game…)

What's your topic? Remember what I always say: "F.F.F!"

(Stands for "Course Follows Function," don't ya know.)

Ummm…I want to write about a large topic. And information technology's not exactly a thing. It'southward…information technology's…

(Then information technology hit me. The near annoying matter in my world is…)

My little brother, Jeffrey.

Wow, that's an ambitious topic! Go ahead. If you need extra time, feel free to take the project dwelling tonight, too.

Cheers, Miss Palma. A lot.

Anyway, here's what I wrote:

Having a brother is horrible. Having any brother would be horrible, I suppose, but having my item blood brother, Jeffrey, is an unrelenting nightmare. It'southward not because he's eight years younger than I am, although that's part of it. How would you like to be King of the Planet for 8 glorious years, and then suddenly get demoted to Vice-King? Information technology's non because he'due south cuter than I am, although that'southward role of it, also. I have mouse-brown cowlick-y hair, spectacles that are about an inch thick, and braces that look similar I tried to eat a railroad train wreck. He has those perfect footling-kid Chiclet-white teeth, 20-20 vision, and little blond ringlets like the ones on the angels you run into on the posters in fine art class. Information technology'due south non even because he hates me—he doesn't. The truth is that he idolizes me. And that's the problem: The kid follows me effectually like I'g Elvis or something. And while he's being much too cute and following me around, he also destroys all of my stuff, including my cocky-esteem and my sanity.

Accept, for example, the "Unsafe Pie" incident. Jeffrey has known from an early on age that the worst possible affair he tin can practice to me is to touch my drum stuff. I accept some rules nearly this: He may not PLAY the drums, he may not pretend the cymbals are shields and he is a knight, he may not hibernate IN the bass pulsate, and pretty much whatever Jeffrey-to-drumsticks contact is a massive no-no. But on i fateful afternoon last year, Jeffrey threw the rules out the window.

On the tragic day, I came abode, said hullo to Mom, glugged downward some milk, and headed downwards to the basement to exercise. I was in a peculiarly good mood, I remember, because Renee Albert had told me in P.M. homeroom that she liked my shirt. As this was such a grand occasion, I decided to take the Special Sticks downward from their sacred perch and use them for my do-pad warm-up. In case y'all didn't know this, a practice pad is a thick, dense, flat slice of rubber. Usually it'south glued onto a piece of wood. You lot do playing drums on it, because it feels a lot like playing on a real drumhead. Anyhow, the Special Sticks would be but an ordinary pair of my favorite sticks—Regal Tip 5A's with nylon tips—except that they have been autographed by my all-fourth dimension pulsate hero, Carter Beauford of the Dave Matthews Ring. I once saved upwards all my babysitting money for a couple of months, got two tickets to a drum clinic Carter Beauford was giving an hour and a half away in Philadelphia, and begged my dad to take me for two weeks until he finally gave in. At the dispensary, during what I like to remember of as the 2 Glorious Minutes, Carter Beauford himself called me upward front to demonstrate a double-stroke curlicue. Later on I did information technology, he said I had "prissy technique" and signed my sticks, right in that location in forepart of a roomful of drummers! Then I had spent quite a bit of blood, toil, tears, and sweat in order to go the Special Sticks.

But the Special Sticks weren't on their shelf.

Jeffrey!

I ran upstairs at top speed, hoping I would be in fourth dimension simply knowing that the odds were stacked against me. I burst into the kitchen and establish Jeffrey doing his "cooking" thing on the flooring. Pots and pans were everywhere—don't ask me how I had somehow not noticed this on my way downstairs the first fourth dimension—and Jeffrey was stirring some pretend concoction in the deepest pot of all. With my Special Sticks.

I advanced toward him, with what must have been a disturbing gleam of violence in my centre.

Jeffrey! Give-me-the-sticks!

But I'm but COOKING.

Give-me-the-sticks!

But the Unsafe Pie isn't READY nevertheless.

I don't care about your stupid four-year-onetime makebelieve food. Give-me-the-sticks!

But this is Real food!

And it was. Jeffrey's "Dangerous Pie" was a zesty blend of coff

ee grounds, raw eggs and their smashed shells, Coke, uncooked bacon, and three Matchbox racing cars.

The Special Sticks STILL smell funny.

Or maybe I should tell you about the "Please kill me, Mom" affair. This fiasco happened later my All-City High School Jazz Band concert final June. Getting into the All-Urban center band is a big, big bargain, especially for a drummer—because there are six trumpeters, five saxes, four trombones, et cetera, just but two drummers. It was even a bigger deal for me last twelvemonth, considering I was the first seventh-grade drummer Always admitted into the All-City high schoolhouse band. They even had to send a special van to the middle school just to go me and this girl named Annette Watson, who'southward the fill-in piano role player. She's actually really good, but in that location's this twelfth-grade guy who'southward been the primary pianist since he was a freshman, and he'southward not about to go booted past a middle school girl in his senior twelvemonth. She's funny, and she may be the only kid in the middle schoolhouse who cares near music the way I practice, merely she's also kind of weird. Information technology's like she'southward figured out how to play Beethoven and Thelonious Monk but hasn't quite mastered the art of being a girl all the same.

It'due south not easy being the youngest guy in the band, by the way. They make fun of me all the time about my age, my size, my braces, and the way I stick out my tongue when I play. Also, anybody in the ring has a cool nickname. When I first found this out at a rehearsal, the other drummer, Brian, was telling me what to call all the different people:

Who's that?

That'south the King.

Who's he?

The Knuckles.

Who'south she?

The Princess.

What practise they call you?

The Count.

What does that make me?

Umm…how nearly the Peasant?

And the proper name stuck.

Anyway, my whole family unit came to the concert, and it was AWESOME. I had this huge drum feature in this Brian Setzer song called "Leap Jive an' Wail," and I nailed the whole thing. I unremarkably practice at least an hour a 24-hour interval on my practice pad and another half hour on my drum set, plus I play in the marching ring and the jazz group in schoolhouse, AND nosotros had been rehearsing twice a week for All-City for a couple of months, AND I used to take lessons once a calendar week, so I was playing swell that night. And so after the concert, my parents and Jeffrey came to the band room. They were all excited and everything, merely Jeffrey was bouncing off the ceiling.

You're a stone star, Steven.

No, I'thousand a JAZZ star, Jeffrey.

MY Blood brother IS A ROCK STAR! MY Brother IS A Stone STAR!

But then, Renee Albert stopped right adjacent to usa to congratulate her beau (we'll just call him Biff), a sophomore guitarist with an alarmingly perfect complexion and muscles like Barry Bonds. Jeffrey saw Renee and started to whirl toward her—she lives around the corner from us, and I guess not even four-yr-olds are immune to her charms and wiles. It seemed to happen in slow motion; events were simply crawling. Yet still, I knew I would never accept fourth dimension to run beyond town to the local zoo, steal an elephant tranquilizer gun, run dorsum, and burn down it into Jeffrey'southward buttock before he could blurt out something that would mortify me and destroy my social status forever.

Life snapped dorsum into full speed, and Jeffrey shouted: Hey, Renee! MY BROTHER IS A ROCK STAR!

Equally Biff looked on with a sneer, Renee replied, Oh, really? I didn't know that.

Yup, he IS. Did y'all Run across him? His arms were ZOOMING around the drums. But similar when he practices at home in front of the MIRROR.

Steven…ummm…practices in front of a mirror?

Aye, it's Absurd. In his UNDERWEAR. The Blueish ones! Right, Steven?

I sagged confronting my mom's shoulder and muttered, Delight kill me, Mom.

My dad tried at that point to control the situation, but by now Jeffrey had fatigued a picayune crowd of my bandmates, who were but waiting to see what else he would reveal most the Peasant.

My brother's GREAT! Hey, Renee, do you desire to hear a JOKE? What does I-C-U-P spell?

I surrender.

Close the bathroom door! Get Information technology?

I tried to end this torment. Come on, Jeff. Information technology's fourth dimension to become out for ice cream with Mom and Dad.

Just so Brian chimed in (he had dropped a stick during "In the Mood," and may take been annoyed by the big applause after my solo). Let him finish, Peasant.

To which Renee and my mom simultaneously turned to me and outburst out, They call you lot PEASANT?

Love Reader: Are you starting to see a pattern here?

Miss Palma gave me an A on the periodical entry—she called it "droll"—then I guess I actually managed to get some utilize out of Jeffrey'due south antics before the chaos of this twelvemonth started. Looking back on those days now, I'd have eaten the Dangerous Pie if I could have stopped October from coming.

JEFFREY'S MOATMEAL

ACCIDENT

If I live to be a hundred and seventy-ix, I will never forget Oct 7th of this year. Oh, I'll effort. I've been trying already. But I will never exist able to throw off the weight of this particular day.

The weird thing is, the day started off slap-up. I recall that I woke up early on, for some reason, and couldn't get back to sleep. So I got out of bed, tiptoed to the bathroom, peed, and did my usual irksome-motion Ninja walk to get down our squeaky stairs without waking up the 'rents or Jeffrey. I stopped in the kitchen to suck down some OJ, and then continued my silent journey to the basement. My dad has a split footling part down there. He'due south an auditor, and because he sometimes works really late hours during tax flavour, he had the walls filled with extra insulation for warmth and soundproofing. I figured I'd get some practice in on the pad earlier school, so I set myself upwardly in the office. I started to work my way through my usual warm-upwards routine—5 minutes of unmarried-stroke rolls (correct-left-right-left), 5 minutes of double-stroke rolls (right-right-left-left), and five minutes of paradiddles (correct-left-right-right, left-right-left-left). My easily were feeling particularly loose, and somehow it was dainty beingness up earlier anyone else, doing my own matter. Which, of course, meant that Jeffrey was jump to observe me.

Steven!

Yaaaggghhh! You almost gave me a heart set on, you little madman.

(This made him giggle hysterically, equally it always does when I pretend he's snuck upward on me. But today he really HAD snuck up on me; my drumming concentration can exist pretty fierce).

Steven, I don't feel good.

Lately, Jeffrey had been complaining a lot that his "parts hurt," which we hadn't been understanding besides well. I thought it was simply another one of his little-kid things, like the summer he turned three, when he convinced himself that he slept with his eyes open. I spent weeks trying to convince him that he slept with his optics closed, simply similar everyone else on the planet. I finally videotaped almost fifteen minutes of him sleeping, which I thought would settle the result. When I played the tape back for him, though, he insisted, "Of class my eyes shut SOMETIMES when I slumber. That's just what nosotros telephone call a tiresome glimmer."

So you lot tin see why nobody was running outside to flag downward an ambulance when this kid's "parts hurt."

What exercise you want me to do?

Can you lot make me some moatmeal?

Some oatmeal?

Right. Some moatmeal.

Jeff, gimme a pause. I'one thousand practicing here.

Merely I'm cold. I need moatmeal to warm up my parts.

I could see I wasn't going to become out of this one without a fight, and I am a pretty large oatmeal fan myself to tell y'all the truth. Nevertheless, I couldn't resist teasing Jeffrey a little, so I said:

Foam of wheat.

Moatmeal.

Cream of wheat.

MOATMEAL.

Cream of wheat.

MOATMEAL!

Okay, you don't have to call out the National Baby-sit. I'll make the oatmeal.

Yay! Moatmeal!

Up in the kitchen, I sat Jeffrey on a bar stool and so he could "assistance" by mixing the oatmeal with the h2o before I nuked it. My mom always tells me non to leave Jeffrey upwardly on the hig

h stools without me continuing right adjacent to him, but she's ridiculously overprotective. If she had her mode, he'd be wearing body armor to kindergarten. Anyway, he was babbling away about how our "special moatmeal care for" would "refix" his "parts" when I turned abroad for a second to get a wooden spoon. I heard a swish, a fissure, a thump, and a trivial whimper. When I looked dorsum, I realized that Jeffrey must have slipped off the stool and banged his confront on the counter. He looked up at me from the floor for that miserable split 2nd little kids always have before the wailing starts, and I saw a driblet of blood under his nose. Then two things happened at once: He started to scream like a banshee, and the drop of blood turned into a torrent.

I grabbed the hand towel off of the refrigerator handle and held it to Jeffrey'due south nose. He looked terrified in a way I hadn't seen him earlier, and he was nevertheless screaming. I found myself pulling him onto my lap, maxim things to him over and over, similar, Hush, Jeffy—I never phone call him that unless he's upset—it'south OK. You're all right.

When this didn't end his wailing, and I knew the 'rents were about to come flying into the room whatever infinitesimal, I started to get a fleck impatient. C'mon, Jeffrey! It's a piddling nosebleed, that's all. You've had a million nosebleeds before, right?

No, I've had TWO nosebleeds before. The fourth dimension yous permit me skateboard and—

Okay, two nosebleeds. Merely nosebleeds go abroad, Jeff. Yous're fine. Now end shouting before Mom and Dad—

Steven! What have you done to your brother?

Doh! Too late…

Naught, Mom. I was making him breakfast, and he cruel off his stool.

He JUST fell off? In that location was no pushing?

No.

No shoving, Steven?

No.

Did you drop him, Steven?

No.

Was this one of your wrestling moves, Jeffrey?

Finally, my parents were getting past the interrogation phase, and dealing with the injured child—who, by the fashion, was still receiving starting time aid from his heroic, wronged brother.

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