by Kata Čuić
It rocked the band world. Anytime people talked publicly about it, there was a sense of disbelief that a bunch of band geeks could even come up with such sick games. Everyone assumes we don’t have sex at all. We’re just a bunch of slightly older dorks still taping the bridges of our glasses, wearing pocket protectors, and emptying our spit valves onto the turf.
Which led to sort of an unintended side effect. Ramped-up efforts to prove band nerds are cool within our own tribe. We don’t fit in everywhere, but we fit in with each other. And we like to party. Hard.
Except me. I don’t do that anymore, and I’m glad I didn’t join ITK. I don’t even attend their weekend parties. It’s not just that I don’t want Jimbo’s antics ruining my Saturday nights., It’s that I don’t really want to participate in wet T-shirt contests, or Suck Me/Eat Me parties, or drink bandie juice, or any of it. Also, I’m pretty sure I’d suck at beer pong, and there’s no way I’m giving James another thing to beat me at.
Everyone else is thinking about how this new strict anti-hazing policy is going to affect the band off the field too.
“Have meetings been scheduled for all band organizations to go over the new policies?” Jake asks.
All the presidents of said organizations are at this meeting, so they nod. Grimly.
“If anyone smuggled alcohol to camp, dump it out and dispose of the evidence tonight.” I volunteered to announce this last point to the others’ glee. They figured everyone would hate me the most for this, but the way I see it, I’m giving them a heads-up, so they don’t get in trouble. They should thank me. “Starting tomorrow, there will be random searches of any property that is being used for official State band camp. That includes dorm rooms, personal bags contained in those rooms, and the bathrooms. And we won’t be conducting the searches. The staff will. Your off-campus apartments are considered private residences though, so don’t worry about your personal bars there.”
No one breathes a sigh of relief at my last ad-lib. No one shares their appreciation for being given plenty of warning. Instead, this last item on our checklist of business ignites a firestorm.
“Are you fucking serious?”
“That’s it. I’m quitting.”
“I didn’t stick with band until senior year just to be treated like a fucking child!”
Jimbo shoots me an evil smile.
I mouth, I hate you, because … reflex.
He winks at me. The bastard winks. At. Me.
But he still wants to be head drum major, so he spreads his arms wide like he’s about to part the Red Sea and bellows, “Calm down. Calm down. Technically, everything we’ve said tonight is already in the band member handbook. None of this is new information. They’re just going to start enforcing it instead of turning a blind eye.”
“You’re going to pay for this.” Jared points at our outnumbered group of five sitting in a row at the front of the room. Like we’re already lined up for the firing squad.
Jimbo rolls his eyes, obviously not feeling threatened. “Hey, it wasn’t our decision. The directors are just making us the messengers. Be grateful you’re getting advance warning instead of getting kicked out of band before you even play a single halftime show.”
Hey! That was my shtick!
“Why are you the messengers?” Kim glances suspiciously between us. As much as she’s been wearing that expression lately, her face is going to get stuck that way. “If this is so important to them, why aren’t the directors addressing the whole band themselves?”
Jimbo opens his mouth, but I barrel right over him. Sadly, only figuratively. “Because they want our support, and they’re trusting us to get it for them with the upperclassmen. We’re the leadership of the band. If we’re going to change the culture for the incoming freshmen who have no idea what State Band was like in previous years, then it has to come from us.”
“Well, I still think it sucks.” Shannon crosses her arms over her chest and pouts. “The camp rookie-initiation ritual wasn’t dangerous or sexual or anything bad. It was the kind of team building you can’t get from stupid icebreaker games. The freshmen bonded with each other as a class, and they also bonded with their student leaders who helped them through the experience.”
“Except our sophomore year when one of the rookies tripped in the dark, broke their nose, and started a domino effect of falling bodies down the line,” Nate reminds everyone. “It almost got canceled last year, too. This was always going to happen. Eventually.”
No one can argue with that.
Jimbo claps his hands together. Whether it’s fake enthusiasm, or he just wants to get back to running the show doesn’t matter. He takes the reins. “Okay, so let’s make band camp not totally suck for our rookies. What kind of drum major competition do you guys have in mind?”
Shannon bristles. I just know it’s because Jimbo used guys to refer to a group of mixed gender and sexuality.
“Oh.” Jared chuckles. “After the bomb you just dropped on us? Yeah, we’re gonna need a few minutes to regroup.”
Kim produces several sheets of paper from her bandie bag, and the entire group of section leaders huddles together to revise whatever they’ve obviously already come up with.
Et tu, Brute? I’m starting to rethink the reason for Shannon’s bristling.
“I can’t believe you,” I yell across the room. She damn well knows I’m talking to her because her shoulders hunch up, and she visibly winces. “You knew about this competition and didn’t even tell me? I gave you a heads-up about the random alcohol searches, and I know you’ve got a fifth of vodka in your duffel bag!”
“Hey,” she volleys back, recovering quickly. “I told you about the secret drum majors’ meeting, so don’t act like I never give you anything!”
Jimbo actually gasps. “That was you? What the hell? You’re my vice president! You can’t betray me like that!”
Shannon shrugs. “She’s my best friend. You’re just my president. She’ll be the maid of honor at my wedding, and I’ll only think of you after graduation when I tell my grandkids a story about that time you pissed off the balcony of the house because you were too drunk to make it upstairs to the bathroom.”
Yep. That’s right. Jimbo is the president of ITK this year, and my bestie is his second-in-command. If that’s not bad enough, they both are also now living in the ITK house since they’re officers. The world is such a screwed-up place.
Once everyone recovers from all the revelations of betrayal, a far more sinister threat invades the room.
“Cross that one off,” Shannon advises. “We’re not allowed to do anything sexual.”
Oh my God! Sexual? What were they going to make us do?
“The wet T-shirt contest has to go too.” Kim scribbles with her pink gel pen.
Wet T-shirt contest? I’m not even in ITK!
“I know we all agreed we didn’t wanna go this route because it would seem boring, but put the push-ups, suicides, and deadlifts back on the list.” Jared glares at us. “I wanna see them suffer.”
I don’t even know what a deadlift is! Except that it has the word dead in it, so that gives me a clue. I glance at the four guys sitting next to me, who are leaning forward in their chairs with only slightly concerned furrows in their brows. They all have matching postures. Elbows on their knees, asses on the edges of their chairs, feet spread apart for stability, and visible biceps from the tension in their bodies.
I can’t compete with them physically! Jimbo has the muscliest build, but all of them are probably a foot taller than me! I’m a shrimp! I don’t even run unless I’m late or something is chasing me. Band is the most athletic thing I do, and a trumpet isn’t exactly heavy, so it’s not like I’ve ever even accidentally done weight training like a drummer or tuba player!
Once the list of certain death is finalized, Jared crosses the room and hands me the papers.
Not gonna lie, it buoys my spirits a little that he thought to hand it to me instead of any of the other guys.
I’m fucked.
Chapter Ten
“This is so exciting! Do the drum majors do this every year, or is this new, like the voting?”
Some people can meet for the first time, and their personalities just instantly click. They go from being strangers to being friends, bypassing the whole acquaintances limbo.
Emily is one of those people for me. And she is my favorite rookie by far even though I’m not supposed to have favorites.
“It’s new this year. Fucking hell.”
She doesn’t gasp in horror or give me a side-eye for not behaving like a leader should. She just chuckles and squeezes my hand.
Ever since the section leaders dropped their bomb on us, I’ve been forcing a smile, faking State bandie spirit, trying to be the best drum major I can be while pushing the looming failure of the competition to the furthest recesses of my mind.
But today is Friday. It’s the last day of camp, and we’re all heading toward the gallows. Well, everyone else is heading toward the scene of the crime—I mean, the field! We’re going to the field where the competition is going to take place!
No one is going to die, except me.
Sadly, I’m not even really bothered that much by my imminent death. At least I’ll be free from Jimbo’s reign of terror. No, what I’m really terrified of is making a total ass of myself. No one is going to vote for the drum major who can’t even hack a competition that’s supposed to be a fun replacement for the initiation ritual that’s been banned.
Dr. Kimball sidles up to me with a much more excited clip to his clop. “It’s working, Sophia! Everyone’s really in the spirit! I can’t believe how easily everyone adjusted to the drum major voting! And then to come up with this idea to give the new students who aren’t familiar with anyone yet an easy way to make up their minds? It’s like the bandie equivalent of a town hall before elections!”
I do a little mental polling, and there are about one hundred rookies who reported to camp. Freshmen almost always make up the biggest class because people tend to drop band instead of sticking it out until senior year. It’s a huge time commitment, and the further you get into your studies, the more you have to burn the candle at both ends to do it all. Emily’s been campaigning for me, but she’s new too, and not comfortable reaching out to her fellow classmates in other sections. So, that means I’m going to easily lose a third of the votes after this disaster.
“You look nervous.” He chuckles.
Remembering the guys’ secret meeting when they implied I could use harassment as an unfair advantage, I bite back my sigh. “No, just tired. I’ve given it my all this week, and I still have to move into my new apartment this weekend. I guess now that camp is basically over, I’m just dreading all the last-minute prep before the first day of classes on Monday.”
“You’re moving? I thought you liked your old apartment?”
Yes, my band director knows all about my life away from band.
“I did, but the landlord raised the rent to cover the cost of all the repairs he was constantly having to make.”
“Victorian homes are beautiful, but they are a real estate nightmare,” he agrees. “So, where are you moving to this weekend then? I’m sure your fellow bandies will be willing to help with the heavy lifting.”
“You know the new apartment complex they just built on the eastern side of campus?”
“Yes.” He doesn’t say this like he’s as excited about it as I am.
“It’s great! Rent really isn’t any higher than what I was already paying, everything is brand-new and modern, I won’t have to constantly be calling for repairs, and utilities are included! I’m going to be living the high life for my senior year!”
He tsks—definitely not excited. “Just be careful. These big companies come in and entice students with glamorous pictures and promises of the moon, but they aren’t a part of the community. They prey on those who can’t defend themselves against corporate entities. Your landlord might have had to raise prices to keep up an old house, but you knew his name. You had his phone number. And he always came when you called. Guys like him have owned houses here since their kids were students, and they’ve rented them out ever since as an easy way to make an income in their retirement.”
This is why I love Dr. Kimball. We call him Band Dad in secret. This isn’t just a job to him even though everyone wants to use that excuse for why he’s cracking down on hazing this year. Staying employed isn’t really his main reason for the broader hazing bans. He cares. He wants what’s best for us, and he never fails to help us step up and find that best for ourselves. We might be adults, but we’re still learning. We still need mentors.
“Yeah, but there are also plenty of slumlords around campus who charge an arm and a leg for rent and don’t maintain their properties. Remember that house fire last year? Totally preventable.”
“That’s true,” he admits. “There will always be both good and bad in anything. You had a good thing, Sophia. You have a smart head on your shoulders, so I just want to remind you not to forget the trees while you’re in the forest.”
I grin. That’s the other thing I love about Dr. Kimball. He tries so hard to relate to us on our level, but he’s always throwing around these old-timey sayings that most of us are too young to even know the meaning of. We keep a running list of them, and everyone throws in their guesses for what they meant in the context of the conversation. It’s a band tradition. One he doesn’t know about.
When we arrive at the field, Dr. Kimball joins the other staff on the sideline, and I go to the center of the field where Jimbo is already stretching. Shirtless.
“Trying to give your main constituency what they want, James?”
He grins then flexes even more obviously. “Are you nervous because it’s working?”
“I’m nervous because we aren’t supposed to be engaging in anything sexual on band time.”
“You find me sexual?” He clucks at me. Like a damn hen. “I could report you for harassment, you know. That could be construed as an insensitive comment by some of the good Christian band members who believe fornication is a sin.”
I hold my breath, count to ten, and channel the perception change Shannon suggested.
“Sin can be such a purge for the soul though. Purifying. Cathartic. A release.” My sultry tone of voice hides that I’m fantasizing about the sin of murder.
“You look a little constipated, Sophie. I have some laxatives in my room that could help with that.” He drops his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I was going to prank someone by slipping it in their morning coffee, but I didn’t want to get kicked out of band for hazing.”
Yeah, and that someone was probably me. Suddenly, all the stomach bugs I’ve ever suffered through in the past three years are suspect.
He smiles, affable, easy. Fake. “But since we’re friends now, and friends help each other, I wouldn’t mind running back to my room real quick in the name of making you more comfortable.”
“You’re so good to me. I love you so much.”
Even my completely sarcastic tone isn’t enough to take the surprise out of a string of words I have never uttered to this man.
I think it surprises both of us. I never knew I had it in me, and if my phone wasn’t back in my dorm room, I would absolutely take a picture of Jimbo’s expression right now.
Preserving the moment in time I shocked the hell out of him for all eternity.
This thought really does make me smile dreamily at the imaginary life-sized poster that would be the first decoration to go up in my new apartment.
“You don’t want me to be good to you.” He steps closer, his chest glistening with sweat under the afternoon sun, his voice containing a gravelly undertone, dripping with innuendo.
I should have known he’d figure out my game of hiding the hatred in the love so easily. And that he’d make it into another competition. And be good at it.
At the very l
east, I’m grossly eager to see how low we can both go. We’ve never competed before over something both of us have wanted so much and for so long.
I tip my face up to him. “I would absolutely love to get you filthy dirty, James.”
With a shovel. In a grave.
“And I would love to make you scream.”
Oh, he already does. Into my pillow every night.
We step back in unison to a more respectable distance as the other drum majors jog to the center of the field.
“We’re still doing this?” Nate glances between us with annoyance all over his face. “Really? Haven’t we already established Sophia overheard everything? I thought we all agreed to call off the dirty plays?”
Jimbo beams. “You heard the man, Sophie. No dirty plays for you.”
My disappointment is obvious. I don’t bother to hide it. Putting Jimbo six feet under is one of my favorite fantasies even though I still maintain I’d never go to prison for him.
“Where’s Jake?” Tim peers at the groups of students huddled on the sideline to watch the show.
Sure enough, our group of five is short one member.
“He didn’t get sick this morning at practice, did he?”
By the end of the week, the health center usually has a few bandies suffering from heat exhaustion, dehydration, or just plain not being used to the physical exertion of marching band for twelve hours every day. College bands get done in five days what high school bands take three weeks to complete. If he doesn’t show up, we’ll have to cancel the competition. It would be unfair to do it without him.
I really shouldn’t be so excited about the thought of Jake lying on a cot, puking his guts up every so often.
I squint at Jimbo, who’s still searching for our comrade in the sea of bandies. “You didn’t have anything to do with this, did you?”
Nate stares at me. “Why would Jimbo have anything to do with Jake being missing?”
“Because I told her about the laxatives I brought to camp.” Jimbo rolls his eyes.
Tim shakes his head. “It’s bullshit you couldn’t get back at Jared for that prank last year. You are a badass for making it through that, and you couldn’t even get your revenge.”
