Chapter 4: Roxy’s Dirty Little Secret

1998 summer, Costa Mesa, California

It was the summer of 1998 in Costa Mesa-the kind of California afternoon where the heat clings to the asphalt and every movement feels a little heavier. The plan was simple: pick up Roxy, then head to the park. Vexley stepped confidently onto the porch and rang the bell. Cayde stood behind him, board tucked carelessly under his arm, while Nova squinted into the blinding sun over the rim of her sunglasses.

When the door opened, Roxy’s mother was there. “Good afternoon, Roxy’s-mom-ma’am!” Vexley greeted her with his trademark, imperfectly honest grin.

The woman let her eyes drift over the motley crew-the worn-out boards, the sunglasses, and Nova’s flaming red hair-then spoke with such casualness, she might as well have been talking about the weather: “She’s in the garage. Go on ahead.” With that, she turned, hit the button for the garage door, and retreated into the cool of the house.

The trio started down the driveway. At first, they only heard a dull, deep thud, a rhythmic pulse vibrating through the concrete. Then, as they got closer, the noise split: snare, cymbal, kick drum. It was fast, ruthlessly precise, and shamelessly loud. This wasn’t a beginner’s attempt; it wasn’t some afternoon hobby. This was someone who knew exactly what they were doing.

Vexley faltered. Cayde stopped too, and Nova froze two steps behind them in the scorching sun. In the shadows of the half-open garage, Roxy sat behind the drums. Her hair was matted to her face from the humidity, her white T-shirt clinging translucently to her back with sweat. Her legs worked the kick drum with mechanical precision, while her hands blurred over the snare. She didn’t notice them; the outside world had ceased to exist. There was only her and the rhythm.

The Roxy who always stepped back in the school hallways, the one who went quiet in a crowd, didn’t exist right now. A stranger sat in her place-someone who knew exactly where she belonged in the world, and she was there with every fiber of her being. Nova blinked once, and in her shock, she could only manage to squeeze out:

– What… the… fuck…

No one answered. There was nothing to say. Then, Roxy suddenly looked up and saw them. The drumsticks froze in mid-air-a single missed beat, a single moment of silence. She watched them standing there with their mouths open, boards in hand, like people who had accidentally wandered into a forbidden zone. A flash of a thought crossed her mind:

“I love you guys so much.”

She didn’t say it, didn’t analyze it; she just felt that rare inner certainty that any further words would only ruin.

Then the sticks came crashing down.

What followed was no longer the music they had heard before. The snare grew wilder, the kick drum hit deeper in their chests, and the cymbals almost screamed within the garage walls. Roxy leaned forward, her body rocking with the rhythm, giving it everything she had. Finally, she wasn’t playing for the walls or for the loneliness.

To them.

Every hit was for these three idiots who had only come to take her to the park.

Finally, she stopped. She lowered the sticks, stood up, and walked out into the light in front of the garage. She was drenched in sweat, her hair a mess, the white T-shirt clinging to her skin everywhere. Cayde slowly took off his sunglasses. Nova sensed the danger and tried to intervene immediately:

– Cayde, don’t, plea-ease!

But Cayde had already spoken. He used that calm, British confidence he reserved only for Roxy-the kind that made even his simplest sentence feel like an invitation to a dangerous dance.

– So, this is why you were in the garage… you gorgeous dewdrop born at dawn. – With his index finger, he casually brushed a bead of sweat off the girl’s shoulder.

A hot tingle shot through Roxy’s body after every single word-words that started exactly where sane thoughts ended. She subconsciously crossed her legs, then looked down at herself. On the damp white T-shirt, the “girls”-as she called them-were defined sharply and inevitably. They were round, perfect, and shamelessly visible. She looked back at Cayde.

– Now look what you’ve done, asshole.

Cayde didn’t look away. Grinning, he bit the temple of his sunglasses.

– I see it.

Nova let out a tired sigh.

– You two, seriously…

Vexley, however, didn’t budge. He just kept staring into the depths of the garage, looking at the gear that spoke more about Roxy than all their conversations over the last six years combined.

He saw the snare drum head, scuffed so badly in the center it had worn nearly translucent. There was a hairline crack running through the cymbal, held together at the edge with strips of gaffer tape-someone, clearly Roxy, had applied it with meticulous patience to keep it from splintering further; because there was no money for a new one, so it stayed cracked. The kick drum pedal had been wrapped twice in heavy-duty duct tape just to keep the worn-out hinge together, and in place of a missing cymbal stand stood a piece of iron pipe and a bolt-it wasn’t pretty, but it worked.

This wasn’t just a drum kit.

It was a life. A monument to years of quiet, isolated struggle in this garage, where no one ever saw Roxy tear the world apart every afternoon. This battered set was the only place where she didn’t have to consciously play the part of the shy, small girl-the disguise she wore at school just to stay invisible to every hungry pair of eyes.

Vexley spoke slowly, almost with reverence:

– Roxy…

…dirty little secret.

Silence fell. Cayde was the one to break it.

– How long have you been doing this?

Roxy gave a careless shrug, though her heart was still hammering in her throat.

– Six years.

Nova nearly let her board slip from her hand.

– Six years?

– It just… never came up – Roxy looked down in shame, answering a question that hadn’t even been asked yet in her confusion.

Time stood still for three seconds. Then Vexley gestured toward the drums.

– Play it again.

Roxy smiled. She stepped back into the shadows, sat down on the throne, and tapped the air:

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Then the garage exploded with music once more. Roxy drummed, and she only looked up at them once.

Vexley studied the gear as if he were trying to read a fate from the wear and tear.

Nova was already mentally calculating the prices at the music store…

…and Cayde just stood there, with that stupid English face of his, unable to take his eyes off her.

Roxy smiled and looked back at her snare.

For six years she had known this about herself.

For six years only she had known.

She was happy that now they finally knew

Roxy’s dirty little secret.