Chapter 2

Sara Clark sat in front of the desk in Mr. Williams' office. She crossed her long, tanned legs, and swung her toe in little circles. Her arms were folded across her chest, holding a white notebook.

It was nine o'clock Monday, the first day for guard and drums. She had followed Mr. Williams around to the watch the beginning of each practice. The new drumline, just outside the closed office door, was pounding out their monotonous cadence of eighth notes--four counts with the right, then four counts with the left--over and over again.

"Can you help me," Mr. Williams was saying, "on ... say ... Wednesday, painting the practice field?"

"Sure thing," said Sara. She flipped down the notebook and scribbled a note.

"Actually, if you can find a couple upperclassmen to help on a regular basis, that'd be great too."

"Yeah, I bet Mike and Joe would both do that."

"As long as they can follow along a string, they'll be fine."

Sara giggled. A few times last year, the painted yard lines had been more wiggly than straight.

"Oh, I hate to bring this up," said Mr. Williams, glancing up from the notepad by his office phone. "Mary and I both have to be in a meeting on Thursday from about eight til noon. I really need you to cover the guard practice until she gets back."

"Um ... okay." Uncertain. She scribbled another note. "I don't really know what they should be doing."

"It's a good time to learn, then. You should probably put in some time over there tomorrow and Wednesday as well. Remember what you learned about the colorguard and the drumline?"

Sara nodded. "They're more unified than the horn players, because they spend so much more time together."

"And they'll be the first groups to start ignoring you if they don't think you care about them."

"I'll make sure to watch both practices today."

"Good girl."

Mr. Williams put his papers down and leaned forward. "There's one other thing," he said. "John is in town until the end of next week, before he goes to college. I want to ask him to help out, to get all the new section leaders started off in the right direction and everything."

Sara gulped, tried to ignore the butterflies she suddenly felt. "Okay," she said, not really hearing herself. John Luther was the drum major from last season ... and her ex-boyfriend. The breakup had not been easy on her.

"Don't just say 'okay' like that," said Mr. Williams softly. He understood. "I'm not going to call him until later this week anyway. He's already told me he'll be available. I need you to be okay with it first. So take a couple days and think it over..."

She shook her head. "I don't need to think about it. You should call him. He'll be a big help, I know it."

"You sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure!" she said, almost laughing. "I'm not made of tissue paper!"

The director smiled. "You understand it's not only your feelings I'm concerned about. I'd rather not have any fireworks, or clashes amongst leadership..."

"Don't worry. If I need to explode, it won't be in front of anybody." Sara smiled her most charming smile. "Don't worry."

"Alright. Good." Mr. Williams sat back, cleared his throat. "I think that's all for today, then."

"Okay, thanks." Sara got up, grabbed the door handle, and bounced through it. She didn't notice the erection her poor director had hidden behind his desk.

"Jenny!" called Josh Parton above the noise. "More wrist, less elbow!"

He saw the girl nod, but she kept using her drumsticks like a pair of hammers. He was a little torn: drum captain/horny teenager. Every time the little freshman hit her drum, her tits jiggled a little in her T-shirt. Maria Johns, over by the other mallet players, knew what he was looking at and glared at him.

Josh held up his right hand with the drumstick horizontal--the signal to stop at the next measure. With a final downbeat, the drums all around him fell silent. His ears rang.

"It's eights-and-eights, guys, not a rain dance." He turned to the snares, speaking to the new players: "Those are marching snares and marching sticks. It's like tapping a pipe wrench against a tabletop, and it sounds like a gunshot. Not like the little concert snares you're used to. You have to lighten up."

He looked right at the freshman who used too much elbow. "Jenny. It's all wrist, okay?"

She nodded.

Josh took a deep breath as he glanced around the battery line: four snares counting his own, four tenors, four bass drums, four sets of cymbals. And players to cover all of them. It was any drumline's dream come true, and it made writing drill easier too. He turned to look at the pit players; it was an enormous pit section: nine players to cover xylophone and marimba parts, and a whole array of other stationary instruments on the sidelines.

Maria gave him a smile.

"How are you all doing," Josh asked the pit, speaking to his girlfriend.

"We're okay," she answered easily. Mallet players usually weren't interested in full battery exercises like this.

"I can't even hear you in here."

"It's okay, we're fine."

"Okay." He turned back to the battery players. "Eights-and-eights again," he said. They groaned in good humor. "Hey," he shot back, "no complaining or I'll make you put on the harnesses and carry them."

Josh was the only one wearing his drum, so he could move up and down the line. Absently, he twirled a stick in the air and caught it.

"Set," he said. They all stood ready. With a series of quick taps, he counted off the exercise again, and they all started pounding away. Jenny was using too much elbow. One of the new cymbal players kept getting on the wrong beat. It was going to be an interesting week.

Ian Walker was on his hands and knees, half buried in his closet. He dug past boots and old shoes, and clothes he never managed to put away. Finally he grabbed what he was searching for and pulled it out by the handle. An old, beat-up case with a lid about to fall off the hinges. Inside was an alto saxophone almost as worn out as the case.

He ducked his head to slip on the strap, and fitted the neck joint into place. It was old, and the lacquer was gone, but it still played beautifully. He opened a box of reeds, and sifted through until he found one he liked; he put it in his mouth to wet it.

All summer, after work, he'd been going to a blues bar downtown. The bouncer let him in because he was cool, and because Ian could play. Almost every night he had dragged his tenor sax up on stage and played sets with a trio of old black guys who smoked fat cigars.

But he was still an alto player at heart. And he was going to be the section leader once marching band started up next week. He needed to get his chops back for the high notes.

He was humming a tuneless melody as he fitted the reed and mouthpiece into place, and adjusted the neck strap. After the tenor, it felt so tiny! But his fingers remembered the keys easily enough. He put his mouth on the horn and blew. The tone was clear and sweet, and made the windows vibrate in their frames.

"Christ, Ian! Will you knock that shit off!"

It was his brother, Charlie, the football player, shouting from across the hall. Ian shrugged to himself and kept playing; he had only made through a few bars of an old Charlie Parker tune when there was a pounding knock at his door.

"What do you want?" said Ian, unconcerned.

The door opened. "I can't even think with you doing that," said Charlie.

Ian shrugged again, "Never was your strong suit."

"Oh, you think you're so smart?" Charlie took a step forward. "How come you don't know when to shut up and clear off?"

"Well I guess I can't have all the talent in the family, can I?" said Ian with a smirk. Charlie had been a bench player for the football team through his junior year.

"Fuck you," shot Charlie, as he turned and left.

With a sigh, Ian laid the sax gently back in its case. He'd have plenty of time to practice later, when his brother wasn't around. He didn't really need the practice time anyway. Instead, he flipped on his computer and went to get a pepsi while it booted up ("You're not going to drink that in your room, are you?" "No, Mom"). When the rolling green hill and blue sky appeared, he clicked on AOL ("Welcome! You've got mail!").

He sipped the pepsi and clicked through his email. Nothing but junk. He shut the computer off and grabbed the phone. But who to call? He dialed a number and waited.

"Hey, is Stacy there? Thanks."

Stacy Kensington was a sophomore colorguard girl. She had been shy as a freshman last year, but friendly with Ian after he drove her home a few times. Her practice today should be over by now...

"Hey, Stace, it's Ian. Fine, how are you?"

He was a little nervous. Last year she had been so shy he was afraid she might be ready to run away if he jumped.

"How's guard?"

One thing Ian liked about Stacy was that she rarely started jabbering, and satisfied herself with short answers. That question to any other guard girl might have spawned off a five or ten minute tangent, and he really didn't want to listen to that just now.

"Yeah? That's cool. No, I'll be ready just fine. I'm not worried." He took another sip of pepsi. "Hey, so ... you want to catch a movie or something?" He almost held his breath. "No, not tonight. I've got to work. How about tomorrow?" A sigh of relief. "I'll call you around seven. Okay, cool. Bye."

Ian hung up the phone and stretched out on his bed. It's a shame AOL is so slow, he thought. It makes the really decent porn impossible to get.

It was eight o'clock, and prime time television was on. That didn't mean it was good, it just meant it was on. Bill Williams leaned back on his couch and sipped from an open bottle of beer. On the coffee table in front of him were spread out the pages of music he'd been going over since he got home.

The drumline sounded a little shaky--understandable for their first day back. Bill was sure Josh could pull them together, but that new girl on snare might need some extra attention. If she made it through the next week, he thought.

He hadn't watched the colorguard. Mary, the new instructor, seemed to have things under control, and it was better to leave them alone. Sara Clark had watched them like he suggested, and she said they seemed happy to see her.

And speaking of Sara...

Then his wife came into the room and sat beside him. She leaned back, exhausted, and let out a long sigh. Her hair was a mess and she hadn't bothered with fresh clothes all day. The little towel that smelled like sour milk was still on her shoulder.

"Baby's down," she said.

"That's good," he answered.

She looked over. "I'm sleeping tonight, understand?" Her tone left no room for debate.

He nodded. "The baby monitor goes on my side."

She leaned over and kissed him. "Good boy."

Bill set the beer down and put both arms around his wife, ignoring the milk towel. He kissed her, and she shivered a little. Through the T-shirt, he could feel she wasn't wearing a bra.