Drums. He slowed his pace. The beat of drums pounded up through the earth, through the flattened grass, through the soles of his Converse and into his calf muscles. The drums tugged at him, calling him to dance. No. He wasn’t being pulled back to a life of poverty and mental illness, a life of being trapped between two worlds and not belonging to either. Not belonging to the tribe because he looked so all-white American. Not belonging at school because he wasn’t a jock: he was a writer. The small kid in kindergarten whose only friend was a girl; the high schooler with the crazy parent.
Again, readers get to the heart of Will's demons.
