I pick up our “Glen Vale Knights” flag from the practice field sidelines to demonstrate. We use a lot of different flags in our competition show, but our standard one for footballgames is a simple flag with two crossed swords to represent that we’re the Marching Knights. I demonstrate the combination for her once again.
“But I was doing it on four.”
“No, you need to count in your head.” I try my best to keep my voice light and airy. “You aren’t getting there until five, which means you’re behind for the whole rest of the combination.”
“Um, okay.” She looks confused, like she either doesn’t know what I’m talking about or doesn’t believe me.
“I can’t believe band camp is almost done,” Madisyn complains. “I bet this whole year is going to go like that. Before we know it, we’re going to be graduating.”
Addison and Devin nod sadly, and my own heart squeezes at the idea. There’s so much I want to accomplish this year. But concentrating on that is a foolproof way to get distracted and not perform at my best.
“Okay, let’s take the fight song from the top,” Sire calls into his megaphone. “Flutes, I need to hear you more during the refrain. And color guard, it’s still looking pretty messy. Let’s try to clean that up before the first football game, yeah?”
I bob my head. Ugh, I hate getting called out in front of the whole band.
Sire releases us for a break before the water balloon fight, and I beckon the guard out to the parking lot with me.
“I drove here today so I could bring these.” I open the trunk to show them a big plastic tote overflowing with waterballoons.
“Whoa!” Li exclaims.
“Going a little overboard this year?” Devin asks with a laugh. “How many water balloons do you have?”
“Probably a hundred and fifty,” I reply sheepishly. “But they’re the kind that are easy to fill, so it really wasn’t thatbad.”
That’s…not entirely true. I spent at least an hour after they left last night filling all of these—and then having to fight Kelsey to get them back when she discovered what I was doing and wanted to have a water balloon fight with her neighbor friends in the backyard. But it’s going to be so worth it when the percussion runs out of balloons and we get to pelt them nonstop.
“I need help carrying the tote over to the field, though,” I explain. “I can’t lift this, so my dad had to get it into the car for me. I think he almost threw out his back this morning.”
It ends up taking four of us to get the tote to the field, and I’m sweaty enough that I’m actually looking forward to being hit by a few balloons.
Sire comes back out to the field, but this time he’s switched out his horn-rimmed glasses for a pair of swimming goggles. It’s a smart choice. While we all love going after each other, Sire gets hit by more water balloons than anyone else in the band.
“All right, the moment you’ve all been waiting for! Remember, you can only hit people if they’re standing on the practice field, don’t aim for their face or their crotch, and no stealing water balloons from the other sections’ arsenals. This is just for fun, so there’s no official winner, but we know there’s always a loser.” He points to himself with a smile and the whole band laughs.
“You’re going down, old man,” Socks yells. That’s not hisreal name, but all the tuba players call him that and it stuck. I’m not even sure what his real name is now.
Sire picks up a water balloon from behind him and aims it toward Socks. “Don’t worry about me. I didn’t come unarmed.” He glances around the band. “Three, two, one…let the water balloon fight commence!”
We all scream and sprint to our various parts of the field where each section is keeping their supply of water balloons. We were given seventy-five balloons per section, but everyone always brings extra. I grab two balloons, run into the center of the field, and mass chaos ensues.
Within seconds I’m hit twice. I shriek as the ice-cold water bursts on my skin. There are so many people running that there’s no time to look at who I’m throwing at. I chuck one of the balloons haphazardly at a trombone player, then see an orange shirt in my peripheral view. Percussion is wearing orange today. I manage to hit a bass drum player in the ankle, dousing his shoes. I laugh in triumph and run back for more supplies, getting hit twice more on the way. I can’t help screeching and laughing every time.
Sire is taking the brunt of the balloons, but the whole band is dousing each other with abandon. I see Nova and get her in the stomach.
“Ahh!” she cries. She gets me on the shoulder and it’s my turn to squeal.
The balloons keep flying, and I’m absolutely drenched, but I’m surprised that the percussion doesn’t seem to be targeting me, or anyone in color guard. It’s odd. Last year I was trailed by two or three percussion players the entire game, to the point that I could barely take a step without being hit.
Eventually, the sections who didn’t bring many extra balloons slow down. Luckily, color guard still has a ton left.
“This is our time,” I yell to the guard members I can see around me. “Let’s take them down!”
They whoop in response, and we gather as many balloons as we can hold. I even lift the bottom of my shirt to make a little pouch where I can keep extras.
Max is easy to pick out on the field now that it’s a little calmer. It could be the bright orange shirt he’s wearing or how he’s slightly taller than everyone else on the field. Or maybe it’s the way his clothes are absolutely glued to him and distracting other girls as they sprint past. It’s like he wore the tightest shirt possible so he could sabotage the rest of us into slowing down and staring. And it’s working too, because someone hits me right between the shoulder blades when my steps falter.
I grit my teeth and pull my eyes from his chest. After that stupid Popsicle stunt he pulled, there’s no time for anything but revenge. I won’t be happy until he’s balled up on the ground, begging us to stop dousing him with balloons. I grab mine and start throwing. I might as well be Buddy the Elf when he’s throwing snowballs in Central Park.
