“How’d your morning practice go?” she asks.
“It was…” I try to think of a nice way to phrase it and can’t. “It was a pile of absolute burning garbage. I don’t think I’m cut out for this.”
“Stop that. You’ve been the best guard member our entire time in band. Your solo last year was the only reason you guys got an Excellent at state.”
She glares at me, but I know she’s only trying to intimidate me into saying nicer things about myself. Nevertheless, my mood sinks further. Maybe we shouldn’t care, but everyone in band is obsessed with our ratings. Earning a Superior, the top rating in a band competition, is considered nonnegotiable. Our band has a decades-long history of not only making state every year but earning Superiors when they get there. And I don’t even want to think about my band-obsessed parents and how much they’ve pinned their hopes on the guard getting Superiors this year. Usually, the color guard is lucky to get an Excellent. Judges have told us we’re so bad we detract from the show instead of enhancing it, and, unlike the rest of the band, we haven’t earned a Superior rating in the last eight years. I’m determined to change that.
Shouts catch my attention. Max is jogging back from thetrack with a huge grin on his face. The humidity has made the curl come out in his hair, but on him it looks like soft waves he can brush off his forehead, whereas the humidity makes my curly hair look like a big puffball. Even the sweat makes him glisten. It’s infuriating.
“Are you sure that was four laps?” Brody calls.
“One mile exactly,” Max says. He grabs the closest water bottle and chugs the whole thing. “Are you up for another bet? I need to win back my reputation.”
Brody shrugs noncommittally. I notice that everyone around us is also watching this play out, but then again, the guys aren’t exactly being subtle. I’m pretty sure Max is raising his voice on purpose to make sure the rest of the band can hear.
“How about we bet on whether or not I can play the first competition song without making a mistake?” Max asks.
“With or without sheet music?”
“Without.”
Brody scoffs. “No way. You said you got the sheet music yesterday morning. No one can memorize it that quickly.”
Max shrugs. “Just because you can’t, doesn’t mean I can’t.”
Brody rolls his eyes. “I’m happy to watch you lose twice during lunch.”
“Yeah, right. When I win, you have to…” Max trails off and looks around. A dangerous grin flashes across his face, one that I recognize from the times I was about to lose at a board game against him but didn’t know it yet. “You have to drink from the spit valve of one of the trombones.”
Brody retches at the suggestion, and Nova and I both gag.
“Oh my god, I think I might puke,” Nova says under her breath. “Boys aresogross. I don’t understand how you can want to date them.”
I snort-laugh. Nova is an avowed lesbian who finds the very idea of heterosexual romance disgusting. Although, she also hates people enough in general that she basically never dates.
She might be the smartest person I know.
I nod empathetically about boys being gross, but I don’t take my eyes off the scene. It’s definitely a disgusting bet, but if there’s anyone in the world who I’d like to see drink spit, it’s Brody.
Brody’s eyes flit around, probably looking for an escape, but no one comes to rescue him. Finally, he lifts one shoulder arrogantly. “Fine. You’re on.”
“Hold up,” another percussion player says and stands up. He’s Black, with a thin build and glasses. He’s sitting off by himself a little, clearly not included within the “cool” percussion group, which tells me to hold off on judging him too harshly. I think his name is Felix, but he’s only a sophomore so I barely know him. “Sire?” he bellows across the practice field.
As one, the entire band looks over at our band director. He’s in conversation with the assistant directors.
“When did you give Max the sheet music?” Felix yells.
“I gave it to him yesterday when he arrived,” he calls back. “Why? Is there a problem?” He puts a hand on his hip and surveys the group. He’s worked with teenagers enough to recognize shenanigans.
“No reason, just curious!” Felix sits down, trying to look innocent.
“Whatever’s going on over there, you have eight minutes until practice starts again, so make it quick.”
“All right, let’s hear this perfect playing,” Brody says.
I pull my lip between my teeth. I can already see the resentment building up just under the surface of Brody’s skin. His expression is the same as when I won the MVM award freshman year. He couldn’t believe that acolor guard memberbeat a “real” member of the band, to the point that he even argued the issue with Sire. Brody’s hated me ever since. And if Max isn’t careful, he’s going to make an enemy of him too.
Max walks over to his quad drums and lifts his shoulder brace so that his four (technically five, which is weird since they’re calledquads) drums sit at hip-level. Quads are the kind of drums that allow you toreallyshow off when you’re good. Even I’m begrudgingly impressed by our quad players because they’re playing multiple different drums at such fast rhythms and even twirling their drumsticks when they feel fancy.
