Page 10 of Banging the Drummer

“You little rebel. Using the pre-recorded bit for your message. So I still haven’t heard your sweet voice. Ahhh, Moonbeam, only a few more weeks before I’m back in Texas and get to meet you in person. I hope you’re as excited as I am. I suppose I should hangup now before I come across as an utter nutcase. Have a good sleep, love, and we’ll speak again soon.”

I hug my phone to my chest like an absolutely lunatic. Then I play the message three more times.

My face hurts from smiling so much, but it cannot be helped. He’s adorable. I mean the man is smoking hot, with his tall, muscular frame. He’s clearly strong, but not jacked. He’s more long and lean.

In the band’s younger days, he was clean-cut and clean-shaven. Now, he wears his blond hair long and rocks a trimmed beard. Gone is the stunning teen boy he’d been with his model good looks. He’s all man now.

I can’t help but think that he might be flirtatious now, but when he sees me… that he’ll be disappointed. That I’m not glamorous. That I’m like that little teapot from the song—short and stout. I know I’m a damn snack and someday my own prince charming will come and snatch me up. But more than likely it won’t be teenage Luna’s dream hunk from her favorite band.

So yeah, this road likely leads to heartache. But it’ll make a hell of a story to tell my grandkids someday.

With that thought, I open up my text window to send him some random facts.

ME: It’s time for the Luna’s Random facts, speed round.

ME: Did you know that sloths can hold their breath longer than dolphins?

ME: Did you know that there are two hundred and thirty-nine ways to make change for an American dollar?

ME: Did you know that the inventor of Corn Flakes did so as a way to prevent self-pleasure? He thought the blandness of the food would set the right tone for the day, and they even used “healthy, ready-to-eat anti-masturbatory morning meal” in their marketing.

ME: Did you know the little dot over a lower case letting I is called a tittle?

ME: Did you know the Pringles’s inventor had his ashes buried in one of the cans?

I went to sleep with a smile on my face and woke up to a series of random texts from Mason.

MAYBE_MASON: It’s hard to imagine a scenario in which a sloth would need to hold their breath, but I suppose if they fell into a body of water, that skill would come in handy.

MAYBE_MASON: Two hundred and thirty-nine ways? Truly?

MAYBE_MASON: I actually spit coffee all over Crue this morning reading that one about Corn Flakes.

MAYBE_MASON: Pringles can. Well, that’s rather economical of him.

ME: I guess so.

MAYBE_MASON: Good morning, Moonbeam.

ME: Morning.

chapter

seven

Luna

I look up at the new drama teacher sitting across from me in the teacher’s lounge. We evidently share a conference period. She was a mid-year hire and is brand new to our little town of Saddle Creek, Texas.

She picks at her salad, mostly just moving the lettuce and diced veggies around.

“How are you settling in? It’s Emily, right?” I ask.

She glances at me and smiles. “Yes, Emily. And you’re Luna, right?”

“That would be me.”

“The town is great, though it’s an adjustment considering there are apartment complexes in Houston that are bigger than the downtown area.”