Unfinished Business

CHAPTER 7: WHAT HAPPENED TO ALISIA CROPPER

Alisia Cropper stood at the edge of the football field. Her lungs were burning from the strain of tugging the drum major's podium across the wet grass. It was her podium, now. It was all hers. 

At least the field wasn't made of astroturf. That always got trapped in the wheels; the fake grass always got stuck to her round-heeled marching shoes and worked its way inside. 

She paused there, at the edge of the field, to catch her breath. There was still so much distance between where she stood and the shed where she was supposed to store the podium. Alisia didn't understand why they couldn't just leave it in the band trailer, which was always in the parking lot by their makeshift practice field. It would have been easier for everyone and much less time-consuming. Plus, she would get home in time to eat dinner before showering. 

Alisia readjusted one of the bobby pins holding her shaggy bangs to the side of her head (the hair spray, gel, and sweat were sticky on her skin) and fixed her grip on the heavy metal podium. 

As she tugged it further and further across the grass, counting the seconds until her next momentary break, her mind turned to that afternoon's competition. She could barely remember it and, yet, she knew that she had done horribly. 

Maybe it wasn't her fault that their scores hadn't improved. This was her first (and last) year as drum major and it was harder than she expected. Balancing the power of being on the podium, bearing the silver whistle, and leading almost everything with the desire to be liked by everyone in the (rather small) marching band was difficult. No one warned her about that. Plus, she knew that marching band was a collaborative effort and she was just one cog in a larger machine. 

She still couldn't shake the feeling that it was her fault, though. The band may have placed third (as they had done consistently throughout the entire season), but today's score showed that they weren't improving at the same rate as all the other bands in their division. They were stagnating. There was only one real competition left, plus the state competition. There was no real time for her to practice the third movement with the rest of the band, either. None of this boded well for those remaining competitions. 

The third movement was particularly difficult. Her band director was making her direct in three-four and two-four time simultaneously, because the color guard and band were doing different formations or something. She didn't see why she couldn't just conduct in six-eight.

This season had been so much worse than she thought it was going to be, especially compared to previous seasons. The show was so boring (and, yet, she felt pride at it) and Eve, the only mellophone in the entire band, had been murdered at Punkin's. That was probably contributing to their scores since they now had an empty spot on the field and nobody to fill it. They were missing an entire section of the band. Everything was falling apart. 

Somehow, Alisia felt that, if she were just willing to work harder, she could fix all of this. She could improve herself and, by proxy, the rest of the band. That was the only way to make things better. 

It was hopeless, though. There just wasn't enough time. 

Alisia paused again, wiped some sweat-and-gel from her forehead, and looked out into the night. She was desperately trying to tamp down the despair. Despite the embrace of its infinite darkness, it didn't feel comforting to her. She squinted out at it, let it hold her, and released the breath that was caught in her burning lungs. That was when she saw the thing lurking at the edge of the field. 

She thought it was a guy, at first; it was tall and lanky, and its shoulders slouched forward. On second thought, it definitely wasn't a person. Alisia couldn't make out any defining features, though, just the general shape and pale pallor of its skin. Everything was blurry. Alisia realized in a heart-stopping jolt of clarity that she left her glasses in her uniform bag.