The whistle is blown, and we dig in.
“This is easy,” Nate mumbles around a mouthful of whipped cream. “A hot-dog-eating contest would have been way worse.”
“Not for Sophie.” Jimbo smiles with white goo smeared all over his face.
Hate and love, hate and love. “You would die if I showed you what I could do with a hot dog, and I love you too much to let that happen.”
Jimbo chokes on the next swallow.
Shannon tallies the empty pie tins that the other section leaders collect from us as fast as they put fresh ones in front of our faces.
Jake leans to the side to look past her body toward the sidelines. “The troops are getting restless, Shan. We need to kick it up a notch. Are we allowed to improvise?”
She glances over her shoulder where, sure enough, the bandies aren’t really watching us anymore. They’re talking to each other and checking their phones, and a few are actually sprawled out on the turf, taking naps after this exhausting week. Even the staff seems like they’re having an impromptu meeting about prepping for the first game.
“Crap. What did you have in—” Shannon’s question is cut off when she turns around, only for Jake to smash a tin of whipped cream in her face.
Her shrieks catch the attention of everyone. A few smiles and laughs replace the boredom, but we’re still losing the crowd.
Jimbo throws his chair back with a quick rise. “I will hand-deliver a prize at Monday’s practice to the section whose leader makes it out of this without a drop of whipped cream!”
Damn him. He’s good. That’s going to get him votes for sure.
And even worse, his plan works. As all hell breaks loose on the field between the section leaders, the entire band is invested even though they aren’t actually competing for said prize.
I lean back in my chair and watch the carnage, grateful for a break for myself. Jake isn’t even in this impromptu competition, but he and Shannon are cackling as they smear whipped cream into each other’s hair. She seems to be genuinely enjoying herself.
Maybe there is something there I’ve never noticed before.
Jimbo surveys the scene with satisfaction, his arms crossed over his chest and his head held high like a king.
“What are you going to give the flute section?” I ask him. Their leader is racing around the perimeter of the field, not getting any hits on her competitors, but avoiding being struck herself. “A paper certificate that says good job?”
He raises his eyebrows at my saltiness.
Crap. That wasn’t hatred cloaked in love. That was just blatant contempt.
“Oh, honey.” He clucks his tongue and picks up a tin, testing its weight in his hand. I hate that clucking noise he makes. Hate. It. “Are you feeling left out? Giving up has never been a good look on you.”
I stand my ground and don’t flinch when he makes to throw the tin right at my face. I’m not giving him the satisfaction. “And what do you think would be a good look on me?”
“Naked, on your knees, choking down my hot dog, and covered in cream.”
I swear I have never moved so fast in my life. It’s like an out-of-body experience. One moment, I’m wishing I had bitten off his hot dog the last time it was in my mouth, and the next, I’m on his back like a monkey, begging for ammunition refills from any bandie who will bring me more pie tins.
The melee only ends when we run out of whipped cream.
As the haze of rage clears from my mind, I become aware the entire band is chanting my name.
I’m also acutely aware that I’m perched on Jimbo’s shoulders, practically squeezing the life from him with my thighs, which are covered in whipped cream.
If it wasn’t for the fact that there’s not a dry spot left on his body from all the damage I’ve done, I’d be more horrified that I literally climbed this man like a tree.
Even the section leaders abandoned their battle and are gaping at us.
Shannon throws her arms in the air with a bloodcurdling war cry. “Sophia wins this round!”
The band cheers.
Jimbo shows off with another backbend and dumps me on my ass. At least he bent over backward first. It’s a long way down from over six feet up, and I wouldn’t have had time to catch my breath.
The section leaders scramble to set up the worst part of the competition.
“Up next, death drills!”
The crowd goes wild.
Maybe marching band is more like a gladiator sport than football.
I lose at suicides. They’re all taller, faster, stronger.
I lose at push-ups. They have biceps. I have chicken wings.
Several members of the drumline carry actual weights to the field. One of them demonstrates how to perform a deadlift with the contraption.
I might actually die from this.
Nate shakes his head. “This isn’t a fair fight. Sophia is maybe a third of our size. Take some weight off her bar.”
“Take all the weight off her bar,” Jimbo barks.
As much as I secretly agree with that sentiment, he just wants me disqualified altogether from this round. “No, it’s okay. I can do it. Can we maybe just take a little of the weight off? Just to keep it fair?”
“That bar alone”—he points to it and takes the tone of talking to a stupid person—“weighs fifty pounds. You probably only weigh fifty pounds.”
I put my hands on my hips and stick out my chest. It’s dumb, but it’s all I’ve got. “I’m a hundred and five pounds, thank you very much. I can lift half my weight. The drummers do it all the time!”
The drumline puffs their chests out with pride. They look way more badass than I do at it. Especially the female cymbals. Their guns put some of the guys to shame.
Jimbo gets right in my face, his red with increasing fury. I’m sure the entire band is enjoying this show even though he hisses at me, so they can’t hear, “If you get hurt doing this, it could be considered hazing. We’re running a clean band this year, remember? Back. Down.”
This … this isn’t normal. This might be more horrifying than Jimbo trying to kiss me. He riles me up, pushes all my buttons, fans my flames. He never, ever, ever demands I not do something.
“You love that I don’t back down.”
Or maybe he actually does hate it. Or maybe he’s using reverse psychology. He’s done that before. This whole hate-love thing is complicated and exhausting.
Jimbo points at my thingy then at the drumline captain. “Take it all off. She only lifts the bar. Nothing else.”
Even Dr. Kimball is against me today. He steps onto the field. “Do it. Jimbo’s right. She could hurt herself.”
My shoulders slump with the taste of defeat, no matter whether I die during this trial or not. I’ve already been humiliated. I’m still just the little girl in a pack of men who are more powerful than me.
Jimbo goes back to his position as his orders are carried out. “And spot her.”
“Spot all of them.” Dr. Kimball nods to the drumline, and they follow orders, too.
“Don’t think of it as lifting up. Concentrate on lifting back. And if you feel yourself losing control of the weight, fall backward.”
Is he serious? Is he trying to set me up for failure? I mean, he obviously knows what he’s talking about with a figure like his, but something about this whole exchange doesn’t feel right.