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. lines intersecting the yard lines on a football field.
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RENATA KNOWS SOMETHING IS UP.
I can't even think of two Sundays ago without wanting to cover my face. Since I left Callum's house, as shamefully as anyone as has ever walk-of-shamed, all my safe spaces have become dangerous, all my danger zones oh-so-tempting. The band room, once a haven, is now a minefield, where Callum might approach me at any time. Drill rehearsals, already exhausting physical games, become a mental game in eye contact avoidance and wide berths. My bedroom? Tainted with dreams of him, though every other time I have had sex, my dirty dreams usually take a hiatus.
My mind, my firmest defense, my oldest stronghold?
Callum is inside, proving every disparaging thought I'd ever had about his prowess wrong, one jagged memory, one flash of skin at a time.
The times I don't come back to the dorm, I'm never embarrassed to tell Renata the truth. I told her about fucking Justin the postgraduate student and I told her about the time Callum let me (made me) stay over at his house when I wasn't clear-headed enough to make my way back across campus. This time, when I slipped back into the room wearing my party outfit, she asked where I'd been, if I was safe, if I had fun.
I couldn't tell the truth, but I didn't want to lie to Renata either. She knows everything about me, and I don't want Callum to be the reason she stops.
"I'll tell you when I'm ready," I settled on saying. "Don't worry, I was safe."
I could tell she was suspicious that I was being so cryptic, but I quickly peeled off my shoes and gathered my things to take a shower. I was out of the room before she could inquire more.
By the weekend of the sixth boys' football game, which kicks off late, Renata's curiosity has ebbed away in the face of all her pressing extracurricular commitments. We step out of the residence hall in the bright, cool morning. Our stomachs are full of cereal and fruit and armed for the long day ahead—today she's on tailgate duty, and I have a drumline sectional from ten till two.
Each home game day, WISA runs a tailgate stall in the Quad, where tents line the footpaths and students in maroon and white mix together like different types of alcohol. I can smell booze in the air already, feel on my cheeks the electrostatic kiss of a giant sub-woofer playing party hits and Halston fight songs.
The other member of the executive committee helping to set up at the tent is the WISA Treasurer, Vivian.
"Yoohoo," Vivian calls, shading her eyes with her palm and squinting in our direction. "Big summer blowout!"
