He raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “Some kind of all-night event? Like, we pack everyone into the band room and take turns playing our instruments for them? No one’s gonna show up for that.”
“No. I know,” I agree. “I haven’t worked out that part yet.”
“You can’t push a platform without all the details.”
“Why not? Politicians do it all the time.”
“You’re not a politician. You’re an inferno, hot enough to torch the planet when you really set your mind to something. No one’s gonna buy what you’re selling if you’re not even sold enough on the idea to have every last detail worked out.”
He’s not wrong. I hate that he’s right, but he is.
“We can’t do a dance-a-thon. That’s what the Greeks do. We need something else.”
“But it has to be music-related,” he leads.
“Right. And we can’t play our instruments …”
Jimmy faces me more squarely, sobering up a bit. “When I was talking with the drumline tonight, almost all of them told me stories about other bands they’re in. They don’t necessarily want to be famous rock stars, but they love music, so they play any chance they get.”
“I actually went to see Ty’s cover band one night at a dive bar over the summer,” Nate says. “They were pretty freaking good. It ended up being an awesome show.”
I’m not surprised the drumline captain is in a band. We all know he’s talented.
Oh! Oh! “We can host a band competition! Not like the kind we did in high school, but not all that different either! Invite all the local bands from the area, charge an entry fee, advertise like crazy, and ask people to come judge the music for a cover charge! The bands get more exposure and another chance to play at a bigger venue than they’re probably used to, and we can get donations from local businesses to provide food and drinks to the attendees, so they have double the reason to want to spend their money! That’s perfect!”
I didn’t need whiskey to get my creative juices flowing. I needed … Jimmy.
He’s smiling at me with his eyelids at half-mast. I guess that tequila is really kicking in. He’d be way more smug about this win otherwise.
“Okay.” I take a deep breath to control the urge to kiss him in thanks. It’s a weird sensation. I do not like it. “So, all in favor of the Sing Out fundraiser, raise your hands.”
“Nope.” Jimmy slices his hand through the air again, but this movement is definitely sluggish. “I can’t vote until I know what your other idea is first.”
“Oh, my other idea is to have the rookies create sort of an escape-room experience for the upperclassmen. I thought it might be similar to the rookie-initiation ritual we got rid of.”
Jimmy shrugs. “Okay. Now, we can vote.”
“All in favor of Sing Out, raise your hands.”
Everyone raises their hand. Except Jimmy.
“You’re voting for the escape-room idea? Seriously?”
“I would never vote for anything having to do with my brother.”
“Jesus Christ, James!” I throw my hands up in the air, but he doesn’t even flinch. “Get over the fucking chip on your shoulder already! Not everything is about your stupid brother! The Sing Out idea is better, and you know it!”
“You don’t need a vote,” he mumbles. “You already know what you need to run with. Do it, Sophie. It’s good. I’d vote for you.”
Indignation pulses like a living thing in my chest, rattling around, begging me to let it free. “But you just said …”
It doesn’t matter. He’s snoring, and there’s nowhere for my anger to go.
“Goddamn,” Shannon mutters. “That was masterful.”
“I’m making an appointment with the flute section next,” Jake adds.
Shannon punches his shoulder.
Oh, God. I played right into his hands again. But you know what?
Screw Jimmy and his stupid mind games.
I am going to run with it.
Chapter Nineteen
One of these things is not like the others. One of these things feels like she doesn’t belong.
In the middle of all the bustling activity and chatter in the band room, my favorite rookie is sitting in a chair, not interacting with anyone and, quite frankly, looking a little shell-shocked.
And I know exactly why. I remember being in her shoes.
“Hey, Emily.” I slip into the seat beside her, trying not to make my worry too obvious to anyone around us. She’s attempting to keep cool, so no one notices how nervous she is, and I’m not about to blow that for her. “How have your first two days of classes been?”
“Okay, I guess. It was weird to be dismissed from my World History class after getting the syllabus though. I figured we’d jump right into the material. College isn’t as hard as I thought it would be.”
Poor thing. She’s trying so desperately to convince herself. Been there, done that. Still doing it in some ways.
“You’ll jump right in as of tomorrow. And by the end of next week, you’ll feel like a pro at this.” I make my tone easy and light and hope she understands what I’m saying without addressing what I know is really bothering her. If she wants to reach out and talk about it openly, then that should be her decision.
She cuts her gaze to me with tears in her eyes but does a damn good job of putting on a brave face. Her voice drops to a whisper. “I didn’t know I was going to have to work to keep my spot. No one told us about position challenges during tryouts, and none of the squad leaders talked about it at camp. I thought since I was good enough to be selected for pregame squad as a rookie, that meant my position was guaranteed for the season. What’s the point of even memorizing the music and my drill if I’m just going to be sidelined when someone challenges me?”
I nod and try not to appear too smug. I knew that’s what was bothering her. “It’s no different than high school. Didn’t you have auxiliary members then, too?”
“Yeah, but that was in case someone got sick or injured and we needed to fill a spot in the drill. There were no weekly challenge nights when someone could steal our spots!”
She’s fired up about this, and I don’t blame her. I felt the exact same way when position challenges were explained to us after going through the rigors of band camp and getting a few regular evening practices under our belts. It was like they pulled the rug out from under our feet just when we found our footing. When I became a squad leader my sophomore year, I learned that timing was intentional. Dr. Kimball doesn’t want to overwhelm the rookies by piling too much stress on them as they transition from high school to college students, both academically and as band members. Plus, waiting until the newness of it all wears off has additional benefits. It keeps the bandies who already have spots from growing complacent in their performances and gives the auxiliary members something to hope for. Something to work for. Something to fight for.
I understand the reasoning, but I’ve never been a fan of the process. Kind of like the drum major voting.
I tap my fingers a few times on the table to get her attention. It’s amazing how the first few beats of a cadence automatically get our bandie brains into let’s do this mode. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to keep doing exactly what you’ve been doing since the first day of band camp. You’re going to march, you’re going to play, and you’re going to own your spot. Like a boss. No one is going to steal it from you because you are going to work so hard to be the best that no one else will ever have that chance. You got me?”