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. an eponymous note, with rhythmic value but no pitch.
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"JUST TO CLARIFY," I SAY, sitting down cross-legged on the floor. "One WISA USB, two mini chocolates, one Halston postcard and the Walmart voucher. Plus their card."
Renata nods as I read the list off, and adds, "Don't forget the reusable coffee cups."
Empty gift bags surround me on the carpet, all made from fancy lilac paper with black satin ribbons for straps. As WISA President, Renata is in the throes of preparing for another panel—Rainbow Science. The speakers of the panel are all accomplished researchers, lecturers, or activists in the queer academic space, and I have the great honor of writing their thank-you cards and packing their gift bags while Renata hastily pulls together the last slides of the PowerPoint.
As we work, I try to ignore the fact that Callum and I had sex in this very room two weeks ago, a fact that my brain keeps circling back to in boring lectures and at work and in the shower.
How can he possibly like me? After four years of hatred?
I tell myself that our feelings are borne of lust, ignited by repeated orgasms and stoked by some fairly stimulating pillow talk. My heart thumps lies, lies, lies and calls me a fraud. It wars with a vengeance against putting Callum in the same league as all of my previous flings. Callum is such a generous friend, such a good leader, such a kind brother, so quick-witted and forgiving and hard-working and thoughtful and he fucks like a sex god—how can you not love him? Oh, that's right, you fucking fraud, you do!
I always shove down the clamoring sensation in my chest; it's easy to do, because I'm used to it by now. Before we kissed in freshman year, and the seed of my resentment had been planted, Callum had put the stars in my eyes. I'd been lonely my whole life, looking for home, for belonging. And then I met someone with the same passion and the most uncanny ability to tell when I was being serious and when I was being sarcastic. The brightest smile, and the softest eyes. The dream guy.
I know what I feel: on the days I am utterly done with life's fuckery, he will pull me out of bed with kisses right underneath my eyelashes. And I know he's a night owl with no ability to regulate his own sleep schedule, so I'll have to tempt him back there at the end of the day. I'll learn his favorite alcoholic drinks and make them. He'll let me doodle my initials on the bottom of his skateboard. He'll show me around his hometown. We could share a drum kit. We could be in love.
But I know what I think: relationships are a power play. Power parity is so seldom achieved. People can love each other but one is starstruck and one is settling. One person gives up their ground so the other has a place to lay down. Someone inevitably begs to stay when everything is wrenched away from her again, and others do the wrenching.
