by Kata Čuić
Jimbo shrugs. “I’ll get him back at one of the ITK parties.”
“Wait a minute!” Memories from last year’s band camp rush to the surface. “That’s why you kept running to the field house every fifteen minutes the first day of camp?”
“Keeping pretty close tabs on me, aren’t you, Sophie?”
I bat my eyelashes. “It’s because I love you so much.”
Tim points at me. “Now, that is just downright terrifying.”
Nate throws his arms up. “That’s it! I am calling it off right now! We all agree, no more underhanded moves to get the vote. We’ll run a clean campaign until the first game. Understood?” He looks at each of us in succession. “Say it. Say you agree.”
“Agree,” Tim says easily enough.
“Agree.” Jimbo shrugs again, acting like he couldn’t care less.
“Agree.” Never.
Jimbo frowns. “We’re still going to have to entertain the band, even without Jake. The student leaders demanded it, and we have nothing else planned to replace the rookie initiation.”
“Hey, if he couldn’t be bothered to show up for this, then that’s not us playing dirty,” Nate says. “It’s him playing stupid.”
We all startle when a panted voice interrupts our huddle.
“Here! Sorry I’m late!”
Jimbo takes one glance at him and starts furiously shaking his head. “No. No way, man. We are supposed to be running a clean camp. We’re the drum majors now. We have to lead by example.”
“You can’t have fun when no one else gets to,” Nate hisses.
Tim shrugs. “As long as you didn’t get caught, good for you. Who’s the lucky lady?”
I feel really left out all of a sudden. I should be getting used to it, being the only female drum major. “What are you all talking about?”
“He got laid,” they answer in unison.
I stare at Jake. He looks as wrecked as the rest of us after a week of camp. “How can you tell?”
“The eyes,” they all answer again like automatons.
“So?” Tim prompts. “Who? We don’t wanna be hitting up your territory at the party this weekend.”
A healthy dose of panic flushes Jake’s cheeks, and his eyes grow wide. “Nuh-uh. No way. I’m not kissing and telling.”
“So, you don’t wanna claim her? It was just a hook-up,” Nate guesses.
Jake gives this tiny little headshake and cuts his gaze to me.
I’m touched. I place a hand on his arm then remember where he was all this time and quickly remove it. “Thanks for not making me uncomfortable with locker room talk.”
“Yeah, no problem,” he rushes. “Don’t mention it.”
A whistle blown from the sideline redirects our attention. There’s a very clear hierarchy of leadership in State band. The top of the pyramid is occupied by the head drum major, followed by the rest of the drum majors. Section leaders, drumline captain, color guard, and Minerettes captains make up the middle tier with squad leaders being the base of the operation. But considerable power is wielded by the section leader of the biggest section in the band—the trumpets.
And this year, that power is wielded by Shannon.
She steps onto the field with a clipboard and the whistle usually reserved for the head drum major.
One look at her, and I rethink Jake being gracious to me. Her usually shiny, pristine blond hair is just the slightest bit mussed. Anyone who doesn’t know her well would probably not even notice. Her lips, typically shiny with a hint of lip balm, are puffy and a shade redder than normal. And her skin? It is positively glowing. My best friend had an orgasm. Very, very recently.
“I will burn you to the ground,” I hiss at him.
“She came on to me! We’ve been dancing around each other for a while! I just figured it’s senior year, so why not go for it?”
And she promised me she wouldn’t do anything stupid to help me.
“Are you fucking serious right now, man?” Nate hisses.
“Damn it.” Jimbo closes his eyes and rubs the bridge of his nose. Usually, I’m the only one who can provoke that response in him.
“The rest of us had better not have to suffer if this blows up in your face, dude.” Tim glares at Jake.
Once again, I’m missing something. Only this time, I’m not going to assume they’re threatening Jake for Shannon’s benefit and agreeing with me.
Nate notices my undoubtedly confused expression. “We’re all ITK officers. Who live in the same house,” he emphasizes, giving more shit to Jake.
I have never been happier with my decision not to join ITK.
Chapter Eleven
“I look like a short snow woman. Or a midget yeti.”
Precious few bandies raise their hands when my name is called for the best dressed portion of the contest. They obviously think I look ridiculous, too. Nothing like the long, lean lines of the men standing next to me in full drum major uniform. The tall, furry hats look equally hideous on all of us. That can’t be helped. It’s tradition, and frankly, it makes the backbend during pregame a little easier. No one has to bend as far if the top of the hat is required to touch the turf instead of the tops of our heads.
“Quit your bitching,” Jimbo mutters out of the side of his mouth. “You won the speed round because of that damn skirt.”
I grin. It’s true. Trying to quickly dress in full uniform is way easier with a skirt than with pants.
I might lose this part of the competition, but I drew first blood.
There’s still an entire war to wage though. This is only a skirmish in the grand scheme of things.
“Jimbo gets the most votes for best dressed!” Shannon announces to the cheering of the female bandies.
I knew I had no shot at this. Even I can’t deny Jimbo looks the most powerful and imposing in his uniform, thanks to his stature and build. Very few people can fill out white wool pants the way he does and make it look good.
“Next up, backbends!”
We each take our turn, but this item isn’t a big deal. We all had to be able to do the backbend well during spring auditions to even get selected to this position in the first place. This is more like a showpiece between competition tasks.
Shannon doesn’t even announce a winner.
Next, we’re pranced down the field like show ponies for a high-step race. Again, I have no hope of beating the guys with their much longer legs, so I concentrate on perfecting my form. I am a majestic unicorn, floating down the field with thighs perpendicular to the ground. After the rookies were screamed at all week to “get those knees up,” I figure they will appreciate me doing exactly what we ask of them.
I am sadly mistaken.
This round goes to Jake, who practically ran at a sprint down the field.
Even Jimbo seems pissed about it because he high-stepped with perfect form, too.
We remove our uniforms, and the band gets treated to an accidental wet T-shirt contest anyway. It’s ninety-five degrees in the shade, and wool/polyester blends aren’t exactly wicking material.
A couple of wolf whistles go up from the sidelines, and I covertly grin at Jimbo. My girls look way more pronounced than his sculpted pecs and washboard abs.
He shakes his head and frowns.
Right. Nothing sexual to see here.
We’re led to a table that’s been set up in the center of the field, covered in pie tins filled with whipped cream. This is supposed to be one of the more fun events.
“How is this not sexual?” I can already hear the blow job jokes being whispered among the upperclassmen.
“Don’t choke, and it won’t be.” Jimbo winks.
I point at him. “Harassment.”
“I love sweet cream.” Jake licks his lips.
“Harassment!” all the guys yell at him, already imagining what life is going to be like in the ITK house for the foreseeable future.
I am definitely choking on air because I did not need to know that much informa
tion about what he and Shannon did together.
The whistle is blown, and we dig in.
“This is easy,” Nate mumbles around a mouthful of whipped cream. “A hot-dog-eating contest would have been way worse.”
“Not for Sophie.” Jimbo smiles with white goo smeared all over his face.
Hate and love, hate and love. “You would die if I showed you what I could do with a hot dog, and I love you too much to let that happen.”
Jimbo chokes on the next swallow.
Shannon tallies the empty pie tins that the other section leaders collect from us as fast as they put fresh ones in front of our faces.
Jake leans to the side to look past her body toward the sidelines. “The troops are getting restless, Shan. We need to kick it up a notch. Are we allowed to improvise?”
She glances over her shoulder where, sure enough, the bandies aren’t really watching us anymore. They’re talking to each other and checking their phones, and a few are actually sprawled out on the turf, taking naps after this exhausting week. Even the staff seems like they’re having an impromptu meeting about prepping for the first game.
“Crap. What did you have in—” Shannon’s question is cut off when she turns around, only for Jake to smash a tin of whipped cream in her face.
Her shrieks catch the attention of everyone. A few smiles and laughs replace the boredom, but we’re still losing the crowd.
Jimbo throws his chair back with a quick rise. “I will hand-deliver a prize at Monday’s practice to the section whose leader makes it out of this without a drop of whipped cream!”
Damn him. He’s good. That’s going to get him votes for sure.
And even worse, his plan works. As all hell breaks loose on the field between the section leaders, the entire band is invested even though they aren’t actually competing for said prize.
I lean back in my chair and watch the carnage, grateful for a break for myself. Jake isn’t even in this impromptu competition, but he and Shannon are cackling as they smear whipped cream into each other’s hair. She seems to be genuinely enjoying herself.
Maybe there is something there I’ve never noticed before.
Jimbo surveys the scene with satisfaction, his arms crossed over his chest and his head held high like a king.
“What are you going to give the flute section?” I ask him. Their leader is racing around the perimeter of the field, not getting any hits on her competitors, but avoiding being struck herself. “A paper certificate that says good job?”
He raises his eyebrows at my saltiness.
Crap. That wasn’t hatred cloaked in love. That was just blatant contempt.
“Oh, honey.” He clucks his tongue and picks up a tin, testing its weight in his hand. I hate that clucking noise he makes. Hate. It. “Are you feeling left out? Giving up has never been a good look on you.”
I stand my ground and don’t flinch when he makes to throw the tin right at my face. I’m not giving him the satisfaction. “And what do you think would be a good look on me?”
“Naked, on your knees, choking down my hot dog, and covered in cream.”
I swear I have never moved so fast in my life. It’s like an out-of-body experience. One moment, I’m wishing I had bitten off his hot dog the last time it was in my mouth, and the next, I’m on his back like a monkey, begging for ammunition refills from any bandie who will bring me more pie tins.
The melee only ends when we run out of whipped cream.
As the haze of rage clears from my mind, I become aware the entire band is chanting my name.
I’m also acutely aware that I’m perched on Jimbo’s shoulders, practically squeezing the life from him with my thighs, which are covered in whipped cream.
If it wasn’t for the fact that there’s not a dry spot left on his body from all the damage I’ve done, I’d be more horrified that I literally climbed this man like a tree.
Even the section leaders abandoned their battle and are gaping at us.
Shannon throws her arms in the air with a bloodcurdling war cry. “Sophia wins this round!”
The band cheers.
Jimbo shows off with another backbend and dumps me on my ass. At least he bent over backward first. It’s a long way down from over six feet up, and I wouldn’t have had time to catch my breath.
The section leaders scramble to set up the worst part of the competition.
“Up next, death drills!”
The crowd goes wild.
Maybe marching band is more like a gladiator sport than football.
I lose at suicides. They’re all taller, faster, stronger.
I lose at push-ups. They have biceps. I have chicken wings.
Several members of the drumline carry actual weights to the field. One of them demonstrates how to perform a deadlift with the contraption.
I might actually die from this.
Nate shakes his head. “This isn’t a fair fight. Sophia is maybe a third of our size. Take some weight off her bar.”
“Take all the weight off her bar,” Jimbo barks.
As much as I secretly agree with that sentiment, he just wants me disqualified altogether from this round. “No, it’s okay. I can do it. Can we maybe just take a little of the weight off? Just to keep it fair?”
“That bar alone”—he points to it and takes the tone of talking to a stupid person—“weighs fifty pounds. You probably only weigh fifty pounds.”
I put my hands on my hips and stick out my chest. It’s dumb, but it’s all I’ve got. “I’m a hundred and five pounds, thank you very much. I can lift half my weight. The drummers do it all the time!”
The drumline puffs their chests out with pride. They look way more badass than I do at it. Especially the female cymbals. Their guns put some of the guys to shame.
Jimbo gets right in my face, his red with increasing fury. I’m sure the entire band is enjoying this show even though he hisses at me, so they can’t hear, “If you get hurt doing this, it could be considered hazing. We’re running a clean band this year, remember? Back. Down.”
This … this isn’t normal. This might be more horrifying than Jimbo trying to kiss me. He riles me up, pushes all my buttons, fans my flames. He never, ever, ever demands I not do something.
“You love that I don’t back down.”
Or maybe he actually does hate it. Or maybe he’s using reverse psychology. He’s done that before. This whole hate-love thing is complicated and exhausting.
Jimbo points at my thingy then at the drumline captain. “Take it all off. She only lifts the bar. Nothing else.”
Even Dr. Kimball is against me today. He steps onto the field. “Do it. Jimbo’s right. She could hurt herself.”
My shoulders slump with the taste of defeat, no matter whether I die during this trial or not. I’ve already been humiliated. I’m still just the little girl in a pack of men who are more powerful than me.
Jimbo goes back to his position as his orders are carried out. “And spot her.”
“Spot all of them.” Dr. Kimball nods to the drumline, and they follow orders, too.
“Don’t think of it as lifting up. Concentrate on lifting back. And if you feel yourself losing control of the weight, fall backward.”
Is he serious? Is he trying to set me up for failure? I mean, he obviously knows what he’s talking about with a figure like his, but something about this whole exchange doesn’t feel right.
Shannon bites her lip but decides enough safety precautions have been taken to go forward. She counts us down. “One, two, three … lift!”
All my focus goes to the shiny metal bar in my whipped cream–sticky hands. It lifts off the ground with about the effort I expect until I get it to knee height, which is the moment muscles I didn’t even know I had scream out in agony.
Why do people do this to themselves voluntarily?
I can’t quit. I won’t quit. I’ve gotta push through.
It might be a setup, but Jimbo’s advice is all I have to go on. I
’ve never done this before, and it was more than I got out of watching the drumline captain do it. Maybe the trick is momentum.
“Put it down before you rupture a disc,” Jimbo advises.
“You can do it, Soph!” Jake cheers me on.
With a feral growl, I launch the bar skyward with all the strength my marching band–geek thighs have to provide. And then I feel myself falling, falling, falling.
I wait for the impact of the definitely fifty-pound bar across my neck, but it never comes.
“I told you to spot her!”
“I caught the bar!”
“Oh my God! Is she okay?”
“Sophia, are you all right?”
Some voices are far away, and others have grown closer, but I can’t quite peel my eyelids open to check on actual proximity.
“She’s fine,” Jimbo says with a strange quality of pride in his voice. “She did exactly what she was supposed to do.”
Oh, God. I actually did die. Jimbo is speaking at my funeral, and I can hear it in the afterlife. It’s the only explanation for his praise.
“Come on, Sophie. Up and at ’em.”
“No. I’m dead. That was a nice eulogy, by the way. Thanks for that, but we’re done now. You won the war. There’s no need for you to haunt me for eternity.”
“No one’s won anything yet.”
Shannon clears her throat. “Uh, actually … you did. You won this round, Jimbo.”
“You still have to tally up all the scores, and there’s another week of voting left. Get everyone back to their dorms to pack up. We’re done here.”
I will never live this humiliation down. This is far, far worse than the rookie initiation. At least I never tripped and broke my nose and domino’d a whole line during that.
The chatter of all the funeral-goers eventually drifts away. I settle into the peace and quiet.
Until Jimbo’s voice makes me think I’ve gone to hell. “Are you a drum major or not?”
I moan then crack open my eyes to see if everyone is really gone. The first sight I’m met with is Jimbo, so I’m definitely still in hell.
