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...
imperative. the command that tells the band to begin marching forward.
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THE SUNDAY BEFORE CLASSES START, I once again open the doors of casa Vierra to the musical public of Halston University, plus ones welcome.
Three out of four of my housemates are already floating around the festivities, their suitcases not even unpacked but their rooms already party-proofed. They're a special precious breed that don't mind living with a drummer who practices often and ardently. Quentin, bless his soul, would be a great housemate if not for the fact that he's a raging night owl, and hates loud noises after sundown. He's brought two people from his badminton team, Noah and Fraser, who I've met twice before and never sober. They bring two twelve-packs of beer between the three of them and I've never been more proud.
I'm not entirely sure how my house became the designated band party house. They are a ritual to end band camp, to celebrate football games both won and lost, to farewell marching season. I definitely learned from Toby Minhas. In freshman year, sober Toby already possessed the energy of a shaken soda can. Drunk Toby needed a chaperone with a fire extinguisher handy. I was essentially the only one who could keep up with his drinking, which earned me a reputation, which probably translated three years down the line into being the resident life of the party.
Around nine, some of the new drumline arrive together, by which point I'm already six drinks deep and double-sighted. The room spins, but I manage to meet them in the living room, clasping hands and hugging and grinning.
"Did Bay come with you guys?" I slur.
One of the freshman girls, one of Bay's favorites, shrugs, shaking her head. "I don't know if she's coming tonight."
Bay only works Tuesdays and Fridays at the Foxhole. There is no homework yet. Why isn't she here? Unless she's the studious type to stay in on Sundays preparing the next week's readings—
"Vierra!" I hear, shrill as hell, from the kitchen.
I crane my head above the mingling heads of sixty people to catch Shane Nichols' eye. She's at the long lacquered table that my housemates and I set up for beer pong, her tattooed arm raised in the air. In her hand, she daintily clutches a ping pong ball.
"Your turn," she yells.
I break out into a smile. "Coming!"
It's not strip beer pong tonight, it's Section vs. Section. I step up to the table just as the trash-talk starts getting pointed (just a precursory joke. I think).
"Fucking trumpeters. You're going down. All hot air and no dynamic control," Shane spits.
"Ah, Callum—aren't you tired of overcompensating?" Shane and my rival sneers, pinching his forefinger and thumb just an inch from touching. "How big's your drumstick again?"
