Mudpedal’s cousin Corky was four years older, six inches taller, and always seemed to know what was cool before anyone else did. He wore a black wristband on one arm, even when he wasn’t sweating, and liked to tell people that drums weren’t just an instrument, they were a lifestyle.

Mudpedal thought that sounded pretty cool.

They didn’t see each other often, but whenever Mudpedal’s family visited Corky’s house, something fun happened – like Nerf wars in the backyard or epic Ping-Pong battles in the garage. This time, though, Mudpedal had something special to bring along.

He slung his guitar case over one shoulder and hugged his little amplifier to his chest. He waddled toward the front door like a kid trying to carry a sleeping walrus.

“What’s all that for?” Corky asked as soon as Mudpedal arrived.

“I brought my guitar!” Mudpedal announced proudly. “I want to show you what I’ve been working on.”

Corky raised one eyebrow like he was inspecting a science fair project. “You play now?”

“I’ve been practicing every day for weeks,” Mudpedal said, puffing up like a blowfish. “I can play real chords and actual songs.”

They headed straight to the game room, which was Corky’s sanctuary. There was a pinball machine that made laser sounds whenever you bumped it too hard and a pool table covered in bright blue cloth with cue balls permanently missing under the couch. In the far corner sat Corky’s drum set: a black-and-red five-piece with shiny brass cymbals and a stool that spun around if you weren’t careful.

It looked like a spaceship control center made entirely of buckets and floating metal discs.

Mudpedal plugged his little amp into the wall and then connected the guitar cable with a satisfying click. He sat cross-legged on the rug, tuning his guitar with the little digital tuner he clipped to the headstock. It blinked green when each string hit the right pitch. Corky twisted his drumsticks in his hands like a cowboy warming up his lasso.

“Whatcha got?” Corky asked, tapping one drum lightly.

Mudpedal launched into the opening chords of You Can’t Always Get What You Want, the first song he had learned to sing and strum at the same time. His fingers found the chords easily now and he didn’t have to look at them every second. He counted the rhythm quietly to himself.

“One and two and three and four and—”

Corky joined in without missing a beat. His drumsticks danced from snare to hi-hat, giving the song a heartbeat. The rhythm was steady and, for the first time, Mudpedal felt what it was like to play with someone else. It was like riding a bike downhill with the wind pushing behind you. Easier, faster, more exciting.

“Whoa,” Corky said when the song ended. “You’re actually kinda good.”

“Thanks!” Mudpedal said, grinning so wide his face might fall off. “It’s way easier to play when someone’s doing the beat.”

“I bet,” Corky said. “Drums are the best part of any band.”

Mudpedal rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Corky could believe whatever he wanted as long as he kept playing like that.

Over the next hour, the cousins tried a few more songs. Corky pulled out a playlist of 1980s rock hits on his phone and started rattling off band names: Journey, The Police, A-ha, Queen.

“Wait, Queen?” Mudpedal said, lighting up. “I’ve heard of them!”

“Everyone’s heard of Queen,” Corky said. “Even grandmas.”

They worked out a version of We Will Rock You that was more enthusiastic than accurate, but it didn’t matter. The drums thundered. The guitar growled. Mudpedal was having so much fun he forgot to be nervous about hitting the wrong note.

They played until Corky’s mom shouted that dinner was ready and the lasagna was starting to dry out. Even then, Mudpedal couldn’t stop smiling.

On the drive home, as the sun dipped below the hills and painted the sky orange and purple, Mudpedal stared out the window window and said, “Dad, I think I want to start a band.”

His dad raised an eyebrow. “With your cousin?”

“Yeah. And maybe a singer. And a keyboard player. Maybe even a triangle if we find someone good.”

His dad chuckled. “That sounds pretty serious.”

“I think it is,” Mudpedal said, clutching his guitar case. “I want to write songs. Make music. Like a real band.”

They drove the rest of the way in thoughtful silence, the way people do when something important has just been said.

The next day after school, Mudpedal was halfway through his math homework when he heard the front door open.

“Hey, champ!” his dad called out.

Mudpedal ran to the front room. His dad was holding a long cardboard box under one arm, the kind usually used for shipping hockey sticks or garden rakes.

“What’s that?” Mudpedal asked, his eyes already wide.

His dad set the box on the table and opened the top flaps with exaggerated mystery.

Inside was another guitar – but it was different. Longer, heavier-looking, with just four thick strings and a flat black finish.

It was a bass guitar.

Mudpedal leaned in. “Is that…?”

“Yep,” his dad said, trying not to grin too hard. “I figured if you’re gonna start a band, you’ll need a bassist. Might as well be me.”

“Whoa!” Mudpedal squealed, forgetting all about math. “You’re gonna play with us?!”

His dad nodded. “I already started reading up on it. I watched a few videos. Turns out, playing bass is a lot like playing rhythm guitar, only groovier.”

Mudpedal examined the bass like a museum artifact. The strings were thick like bridge cables and the tuning pegs looked like silver propellers. He could already imagine the sound it would make, deep and thumping like a dinosaur heartbeat.

That night, they plugged both instruments into the amp – one at a time, since they only had one input jack – and started practicing together.

It was a little clunky at first. His dad kept playing notes too late or too early. Mudpedal accidentally played in the wrong key. They laughed every time it sounded like two raccoons fighting over a bucket of chicken.

But little by little, it got better.

By the weekend, they were playing actual songs together. They went back to Corky’s house, this time as an official band.

Corky greeted them with his usual dramatic flair, spinning a drumstick in each hand like a ninja twirling nunchucks.

“Let’s make some noise,” he said.

They ran through three songs they all knew. Mudpedal strummed and sang. His dad thumped out bass lines. Corky added flair with drum fills between verses.

None of them were great singers, but they each took a turn on the mic. Corky had the loudest voice. Mudpedal’s dad sang like he was reading ingredients off a cereal box. Mudpedal sang in a quiet, wobbly voice that got stronger every time.

Then, one Saturday, something big happened.

“I wrote a song,” Mudpedal announced, bouncing slightly on his toes.

“You wrote one?” Corky asked, blinking.

“Yeah! I’ve been messing around with these chords all week. I figured out a rhythm and I even wrote a few lyrics.”

“Alright,” his dad said, setting down his bass. “Let’s hear it.”

Mudpedal sat on the stool and showed them the rhythm, playing it slowly at first – just a loop of A minor to C major, with a pause in between. He hummed the melody and sang the lyrics he’d scribbled in his notebook the night before. Something about flying through space and crashing into a star. It didn’t all make sense, but it had feeling.

Corky tapped the beat gently on the rim of his snare. Mudpedal’s dad jumped in with a walking bass line. By the time they reached the chorus, it sounded like an actual song.

They finished with a clumsy chord and burst into laughter.

“It’s not bad!” Corky said, genuinely impressed.

“We should play that one every week,” his dad added.

“Really?” Mudpedal asked.

“Really.”

From then on, Mudpedal wrote a new song almost every week. Some were slow and thoughtful. Others were fast and silly. One was about dinosaurs playing hockey. Another was about an alien dog lost on Earth.

They added the best ones to a list Corky titled ‘Official Band Jams’ in a notebook they left in the game room.

Sometimes the songs flopped. Sometimes nobody could remember the rhythm. But it didn’t matter. They were creating something together.

Mudpedal had also started learning new styles. Since his dad was into blues, they listened to records by Muddy Waters and Buddy Guy. Mudpedal liked the way blues guitar didn’t just stick to strumming chords, it danced between melody and rhythm like a conversation. The guitar spoke.

He practiced a shuffle rhythm until his hand felt like it might fall off. He studied scales in his guitar book, memorizing the pattern of notes that matched certain chords. When played in the right order, the notes climbed up and down like staircases. They looked like puzzle pieces across the guitar neck.

“One, four, one, three, one, three,” he muttered to himself, repeating the pattern of finger placements like a chant.

At night, he’d sit cross-legged on his bed, his guitar in his lap, the amp unplugged so he wouldn’t wake anyone up. He practiced blues scales in silence, his fingers dancing along the frets in the shadows.

It had been weeks now since his fingers hurt from playing.

His calluses were thick. His hands were stronger.

And the music was flowing.