by Kata Čuić
I lock the door before I leave.
He doesn’t follow.
Chapter Forty
“Get those knees up! Higher! Higher! Higher!”
The snare captain gives me the middle finger. I blow the whistle faster.
“Jesus, is she trying to kill us? Is it red-wave time?”
“Feinman, get out of formation and give me ten push-ups. If I hear you accuse any woman of being in a bad mood because of her menstrual cycle ever again, you’re gonna do twenty!” I say it with such a chipper tone that he can’t possibly argue.
The women in the trumpet section try to hide their smiles. Dr. Kimball even chuckles from somewhere behind me.
The offending trumpet groans but does as he’s told. Somehow, I don’t think they’ll tolerate that kind of insolence in the section anymore.
“Okay, now, you’re just pissing everyone off. Call a water break, so we can work on the halftime show already.”
That’s the most Jim has said to me in the three days since I walked out his front door. And he has the nerve to order me around and tell me I’m not doing a good job.
“Jimbo here thinks you still look sloppy! Go back to the end zone and run it again!”
A chorus of moans follows the band as they break formation and head back to the starting point for pregame.
I hear Kim hiss as she walks past, “I knew it! I knew they were gonna implode and take us all down with them!”
Even Jim looks confused by that passing remark.
Jake shrugs. “Shannon says half the band thought you were gonna get married and make band geek babies; the other half thought exactly this would happen.”
“Well, they wanted a reality show. This is what they get,” I snap.
Jim does not look amused. I don’t really care. “You wanted to prove yourself. This is what you get.”
I flip him the bird.
He blows his whistle in my face then calls to the band at attention, “Grab a water break first! Five minutes!”
He really does love it when I hate him. A few weeks’ peace, and I’m already back to plotting his slow, torturous murder.
“If you ever do that again, don’t think I will hesitate to humiliate you in front of them by putting you in your place.”
“You go ahead and do that, sweetheart. They love a good reality show.”
Jake tries to step between us, but there’s barely an inch of room, and neither of us is willing to back up first. “Mommy and Daddy need to play nice in front of the kids. We’re supposed to portray a unified front.”
“Shut up,” Tim hisses at him.
Nate looks at Tim like he’s lost his mind.
“What?” Tim shrugs. “Don’t pretend you don’t wanna see who wins this showdown.”
“Oh.” Jim chuckles and steps back, wagging his finger at me. “Oh, okay. I see what you’re doing here. You’re trying to make them hate you. You want them to beg Dr. Kimball for a recall and a new election.”
That’s actually brilliant, but we’re already two games into the season, and the band doesn’t have time for that kind of power shift. The rookies are just starting to bloom. I wouldn’t do anything to ruin that.
“Sorry to disappoint you, but all I’m doing is running practices the way every head drum major has before me. If the band isn’t handling it well, it’s because they’re still clinging to the misogyny that a woman can’t do what a man can. You made this situation, Jim. The least you could do is enjoy it.”
I blow my whistle and address the band as they’re moseying back to the starting point, “If you want this to be the last time, then give me your best!”
“I’ll give you my best,” the drumline captain says, not even trying to fly under the radar. “Maybe a good dicking is what you need to chill.”
“What did you just say?” Jim yells.
“I will give you my best dicking if that’s what will make you happy, ma’am!” Ty salutes.
I chuckle even though Dr. Kimball steps up, red-faced and ready to hand out a suspension.
“Your best would bore me, Ty. Ask again when you’re a man and not a little drummer boy.”
The entire band oohs. Everyone waits for what will happen next.
He sputters a bit but puts on his harness and grabs his sticks. “I’m the best drummer in this line! You couldn’t handle me!”
“Okay,” I say, affecting my most unimpressed expression and tone. “So, show me. Prove it.”
Dr. Kimball and Jim aren’t happy with this outcome. Not in the slightest.
I put my hand up to stay the attack dogs. I point to Jim. “You wanted to put the first woman in State history in the hot seat.” I swing my finger to Dr. Kimball. “You want us to prove ourselves as leaders and musicians by using methods I have never agreed with. Gentlemen, you cannot have it both ways. Either let us handle things ourselves and let me prove myself, or this has all been a waste of everyone’s time and effort.”
Dr. Kimball concedes but warns, “If he steps out of line like that again, I won’t have any choice but to suspend him. That kind of conduct has never been permitted. Especially by a student leader.”
Jim looks horrified that Dr. Kimball is willing to give Ty a second chance. “If he ever talks to you like that again, a suspension is going to be the least of his worries. I’m gonna take those drumsticks and shove them up his—”
I cut him off, “That type of language and conduct is not fitting for a student leader. Please mind your manners, Mr. Fossoway. This is your only warning. I wouldn’t want Dr. Kimball to have to suspend a fellow drum major.”
Dr. Kimball walks away, chuckling.
Jim makes like he’s going to strangle me. “You drive me fucking crazy!”
I tilt my head to the side as if I’m taking this under advisement. “You love it when I drive you crazy.”
He stalks away with this weird vein protruding from his neck that I’ve never seen before. I might just have made him as mad as I ever have.
He blows his whistle as he storms down the sideline and commands the band, “Run it again!”
I grin.
Nate’s mouth opens in a perfect O as he glances between me and Jim. He looks like a freaking meme. “Oh my God. This is your revenge, and he’s too blind to even realize it!”
Jake catches on. “Holy shit. You’ve already forgiven him. You’re just fucking with him now.”
I shrug, not denying a thing. “I had a few days to stew over it and realized his heart was in the right place. He kept me in the dark for years. I figure he can sweat for a few days. I’m going to win the last competition we ever play.”
Tim shakes his head, clearly not on board with my devious plans. “You’re playing with fire, and we’re the ones who are going to suffer because we live with him. You don’t just get a man hooked on regular sex then pull the rug out from under his feet like that.”
“Wouldn’t a better analogy be pull the carpet out from under his dick?”
They gape at me. I guess they didn’t think I was capable of playing with the big boys.
“If you think he’s mad now, just wait until Rey chooses Finn.”
Tim shakes his head and slowly backs away. “No. No way. Nuh-uh. You are not painting that target on my back.”
I point at him then at all of them in turn. “Were you or were you not all on board with his plan to put me in this position? And did you or did you not all know about his sad, unrequited love? You owe me, boys. And I’m going to collect.”
“All hail the Queen.” Nate shakes his head.
They bow.
Chapter Forty-One
“Be confident. You have to trust in your own abilities. Yours and no one else’s. Channel every rush of adrenaline you’ve ever gotten from performing into this moment, okay? You can do this. You’re ready.”
Emily peers at me with anxiety in her eyes. “What if I’m not ready?”
I shake my head. “You can’t think like that. You have to believe you’re t
he best of the best, or you’ll only ever be faking it.”
“Okay,” she mutters, determination building in her voice and posture. “That makes sense. You’re right. I got this.”
“You got this,” I reaffirm.
It’s Nate’s turn to run Challenge Thursday, so I step back toward the sideline as Emily steps forward.
“I challenge Pearson Graves.” She could have challenged anyone in the section for their spot, but since it was Pearson who first challenged her, Emily is out for blood. She won’t be satisfied until she boots him back to the sideline. Where she feels he belongs.
I’m sure if Jim or I had ever been on the alternate squad, we would have mercilessly challenged each other every week. And probably got a lot of sick enjoyment out of it, too.
Pearson looks annoyed, not worried. He rolls his eyes on the field. The rest of the trumpet section offers Emily little signals of encouragement—a wink, a nod, a dorky-as-can-be thumbs-up.
“Run ‘A New Alliance Reprise,’ measures twenty through fifty-two,” Nate instructs.
Each challenge is chosen at random and usually from the middle of one of the more difficult pieces, both in terms of music and drill. Not only is it a good test of which performer has the material mastered, but it also keeps all the bandies on their toes by learning how to find where they are in the drill and the music at random spots in the pieces.
Emily waits on the sideline as the band runs through the chosen section of the song. She carefully watches as Pearson goes through the routine with calm confidence. He’s good. Really good.
Once they’ve done the drill, Pearson steps forward to play the measures as a solo. It would be impossible to judge his musicianship otherwise.
Dr. Kimball nods then motions for Emily to take Pearson’s place in the squad. He alone has the final say on who gets the spot.
I cross my fingers, my toes … I would cross my eyes if I wasn’t glued to the action on the field.
“We’re not supposed to have favorites,” Jim mutters at my side.
I smile as Emily sharply maneuvers around a merging saxophone line. “And yet we do.”
“Lucky for Pearson you’re not judging their performance. You couldn’t be unbiased if you tried.”
“Oh, James.” I pat his cheek. More like a love slap, but what he doesn’t know absolutely drives him crazy. “You wouldn’t like me at my most apathetic.”
His expression is bewildered. “I’m not sure you have an apathetic bone in your body.”
“I don’t care about football the way you secretly do,” I remind him.
He shakes his head. “You think it should be illegal. You delivered a carefully thought-out diatribe about its drawbacks. You dislike it intensely, so you absolutely care. Just … not in a positive way.”
He isn’t talking about only football, judging by his disgruntled tone.
“You know what else I care about in a negative way?” This is going to be awful. My lips tingle with distaste. I like to think I’m the kind of person who doesn’t sink to the lowest of lows, but Jim brings out my dark side. He brings out the fighter in me. “Should I slip Finn some tongue at the end of the show? I mean, we want it to be realistic enough to be believable, but it’s not like we’re trained actors. I’ve gotta do something to give the routine an extra punch. I just don’t know what.”
Jim’s eyes widen, and that vein throbs in his neck before he smooths his expression into what I’m sure he thinks is Oscar-worthy neutrality. “I say, if you’re going to go big, then go all the way. Just keep it PG-13. There will be kids in the stands at the game.”
I nod, acting like his advice is gold. “Let’s be honest. Finnrey has always been end game. There’s no way Kylo and Rey aren’t brother and sister. We don’t want to traumatize the kids in the stands by propagating incestual romantic love.”
“Really?” Jim’s tone is flat. “That’s the best you can do to convince me you’re on board with this change to the routine? You’re slipping, Sophie. You’re better than this.”
A little thrill of panic courses through me. I thought I was finally getting a leg up on him, but maybe he knows what I’ve been doing all along. That pisses me off quite honestly. I don’t respond because it’s Emily’s turn to play the solo, and I want to hear every crescendo.
She’s panting, her expression on the verge of panic as she awaits her fate when she finishes playing what is possibly the best rookie solo performance I’ve ever heard.
Dr. Kimball and the other staff discuss the challenge, which means it’s obviously a tough call. Finally, he hands down his verdict. “Emily Vasser regains her spot.”
“Yes!” I scream and jump up and down.
Jim clamps his arms around me to keep me still and slaps a hand over my mouth. “You can win it back next week, Pearson!”
I bite his finger to make him retract his muzzle. “Who run the world?”
Shannon and a few of the upperclassmen women thrust their fists in the air and shout in unison, “Girls!”
“We are not turning band into a battle of the sexes,” Jim yells. “The best performers get the spots regardless of gender!”
“Oh my God, Dr. Kimball!” Shannon shouts from the field. “Can that be our next show? Girl power! It’s so perfect for our head drum major!”
My mouth falls open to inhale the brilliance of that idea as deeply as possible. “Yes! Yes! Let’s do it!”
Dr. Kimball chuckles, but it’s easy to see he’s on board with the plan. “The drum majors get to choose the next show. You can discuss it among yourselves.”
“No.” Jim shakes his head as quickly as I nod mine, his arms still banded around me like he can prevent this from happening if he squeezes the life out of me. “Don’t do this. You really do not want to piss the guys off more.”
“But I can see it now!” I lead, my grin nearly splitting my cheeks. “I can walk all the drum majors around the field on leashes!”
He doesn’t rise to my bait. Instead, he calmly says, “That is way too BDSM to be a PG-13 show.”
“I dunno.” Jake rubs his chin. “I kind of like it. I think most of the guys in band would actually be on board. How many of them have fantasies about a domme fulfilling their every wish?”
Jim and I turn our heads very slowly to gape at him.
“I don’t want to know what you and Shan do in your private time.”
“If I start hearing whiplashes through the wall, I’m moving out, and you two can pick up my share of the rent.”
Jake shrugs like the extra privacy would totally be worth the extra money.
I break free of Jim’s bear hold. “Since we’re so fond of democracy in band this year, let’s put it to a vote.”
The guys all shake their heads.
Tim speaks up, “No more voting.”
“I’m a socialist now, thanks to this little experiment,” Nate adds.
I ignore them and address the band at large, “Everyone in favor of a girl-power show, raise their hands.”
Every single woman votes. And since we have the majority, we win.
My smile might look completely evil. Who cares?
“I didn’t want to have to do this, but you leave me no choice.” Jim steps out onto the field and yells, “I challenge Sophia Reston for her position.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Murmurs tinged with confusion, anxiety, and awe ripple through the band. Dr. Kimball looks like he’s having an aneurysm. The other drum majors are torn. As much as they’re against the girl-power show, they made this bed we’re all lying in, and they know it.
“Jimbo,” Dr. Kimball starts, his voice a mixture of gentle pity and firmness, “the head drum major position has never been up for challenge.”
“The head drum major position was never decided by a vote,” Jim volleys back. “Until this year.”
I’m not sure what his agenda is. It could be any number of things. He dislikes the voting, he’s trying to revert to our old competitions because
he thinks that’s all we can be, he’s trying to make one last-ditch effort to prove to me I deserve this position, or … it’s all been a game from the beginning, and I’ve been played for a fool.
“No risk, no reward,” he taunts me, his eyebrows raised.
The assistant director steps in. “We’ve already announced her as head drum major in the press releases. She’s done interviews with news stations and papers all week. If we backtrack now, the band will be a laughingstock in the press.”
Jim’s challenge resonates in the deepest part of me. It doesn’t matter why he’s doing it. Only that I answer his call.
“If Jim wins the challenge, he should have the position. You could tell the press I sustained an injury that prevented me from fulfilling my duties for the rest of the season. I could fake a bum ankle if I had to.”
The staff huddles for a snap sideline meeting. They reach a decision, and Dr. Kimball announces, “We’ll allow it. If Jimbo wins the challenge, he will replace Sophia as head drum major, and the press will be notified accordingly. The other drum majors will choose the challenges, just like any other Thursday.”
The band is split on their reactions.
“What the hell was the point of voting?”
“Jimbo for head DM!” That one sounds all too familiar.
“Who run the world?”
Nate shakes his head. “This is either going to be a disaster or the best thing to happen this season. Might as well lean into it. First up, mace handling!”
Jim picks up his mace from its resting spot on the sideline and twirls it as he walks to the center of the field where the band collapses into an end zone to make room for the next challenge. The veins and muscles in his arms flex with every movement he makes. He wins the sexiest drum major alive competition, hands down. “Come and get it, baby.”
