Marching season is out, but the competition is only heating up.
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Section leader applications for the next marching band season at Halston University are officially open, and percussionist Bay Rodriguez wants the role.
Bay's only competition is Ca...
noun. metalwires stretched across a drum skin to make a rustling sound; an eponymous type of drum.
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I'M NOT AN ANXIOUS PERSON.
Here's my process for making decisions: I do the things I want and have to do. I don't do things I do not want or have to do. Weirdly enough, if I'm neutral on the matter, checking whether an action will annoy Bay or not is my final, and pretty reliable, metric.
The day of the section leader information meeting, I intended to arrive early at band rehearsal and claim her precious concert snare again. In the Halston Student Orchestra, musicians have assigned parts most of the time. But in a few pieces, Bay and I share, and therefore have to divvy up what's fun or what's hard or what's utterly boring (the triangle). She's better at tuned percussion than I am, being able to tinker on a keyboard, but I know her heart lies where mine does: with drumming.
Unfortunately, I am late.
Way late.
I had a Computer Systems test that ended at five—which I could have left, but I stayed to check my answers—which is all the way across campus from the Music Department. Even skateboarding to speed up the transit time, I arrive half an hour after rehearsal starts.
The Music Department is a sprawling cluster of stone and brick buildings. It's one of the oldest parts of Halston University, evinced by the massive oak trees that shade the sidewalks. The main building is a soaring three-storeyed stone cathedral, with classrooms and faculty offices on the uppermost floor. Multiple other stone buildings house the band rooms and storage rooms. The Choral Hall in the center of the Department has raked seating, mezzanine seats and hardwood staging. The pep band and HSO play multiple concerts here a year.
The historic exteriors bely the modern architecture inside—especially the band room, kitted with soundproof walls, a drum cupboard and angled, acoustically-optimized ceilings. I enter in the middle of a hushed, pensive bridge, sticking out like a sonically sore thumb. Keller, the HSO conductor and marching band director, glances over and shoots me her unamused, grandmotherly stare. Bay isn't playing—the entire percussion section is in the midst of one of our frequent sixty-fucking-something-bar rests—but she stands at the concert snare and lords her position with a harsh smile.
Damn it.
She's in her usual baggy dark trousers and a tank top. Her cardigan is discarded on the padded bench against the wall. She keeps reading her music as if we haven't all memorized the selections by now. We've competed at everything—showmanship, stamina, and yes, punctuality. Nearly three years of it, the tiresome volleying of insults and stubborn wagers and measuring-up contests. There will always be another one around the corner, constant as gravity.
