Nakamura grimaced at the mention of his name, unceremoniously awoken from his dreams of flowers and fame and glory, whatever achievements he wanted to accomplish in his life. Pushing away from the stand, Nakamura wiped a large strand of dribble away from his face and glared at the brown-haired american drummer who sat behind him. 

"Could be worse," he said with a stretch and a yawn. "My name could be *Billy* or *Ian*, or worst of all *Matthew*." Nakamura gave the American a sly grin. Despite not ever talking to him, Nakamura knew of this kid, hell, most everyone did. Word was this American couldn't stay away from the principles office.

"You know, I've heard of you," Nakamura leaned over and gave the drummer's snare a quick tap. "If I recall correctly, you're the one they say has yet to show up to one of Uzusuki's classes all semester. Pretty respectable, anyone who can give that paranoid old bore the slip is bound to be pretty crafty. What's your name, drummer boy?"