I glance up at Jimbo because I suddenly feel sorry for him, sharing a bedroom wall with her. He nods, confirming my silent question.
“You’ll find out soon enough,” he promises on a whisper.
I don’t want to know that kind of information about my best friend actually.
In the next scene, the woman is contorted in some sort of position I don’t think I could even manage with years of strict yoga training. She’s balanced on the edge of the table while the guy kneels on the floor, eating her out. A split second after her cries pierce the air again, he stands, and she leaps onto him. And I do mean, onto him.
All the guys wince. Loudly.
“Do not ever do that to me,” Jake says in all seriousness to Shannon. “I don’t want a broken dick like Mark.”
“Zack,” Tim corrects. “And shut up. The best part is coming.”
Everyone laughs at his pun.
The dude is bucking away, and he tilts her backward, so the camera zooms in on her unnaturally large breasts bouncing in time with his thrusts. The camera angle goes wide again.
And then he drops her. He just drops her to the ground. Then, he comes all over her stomach.
“Boo!” they all shout while throwing popcorn at the television.
“I’m telling you right now, if any guy ever does that to me, I’m sending you boys to cut his dick off,” one of the female trombones insists.
“And we’ll do it, too,” Nate promises.
Jim wasn’t kidding. They bond over this. It’s not an orgy. Hell, I’m sitting on Jim’s lap, and I don’t feel anything particularly hard under my butt. Instead, my body shakes every time he laughs.
I’ve missed out on so much. I had no idea.
“No!” they yell in unison, redirecting my attention to the screen.
The guy is smearing his cum all over her body. With his foot.
A chant begins, “Just say no to feet. Just say no to feet.”
I want in on this. I’m running out of time. “Isn’t that prejudiced against people with foot fetishes?”
The room goes quiet. Everyone stares at me, sitting on Jimbo’s lap like his personal puppy. Even the position I’m in is weird enough. They can’t tell I’m joking.
Everyone bursts into laughter at the same time. And I get absolutely covered in popcorn.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“We are proud to announce that for the first time in the one hundred eighteen years of Marching Miners history, a female drum major will lead State Band onto the field!” Dr. Kimball beams at me.
Oh my God. I did it.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The usual warm-ups echo through the tunnel long after the directors asked the bandies for silence. As a squad leader, that used to annoy me to no end. A band is only as good as its ability to follow directions.
But today?
Today, I relish the sound.
Most of the time, we don’t know the important moments in our lives are happening, so we don’t stop to savor everything about them. We don’t notice the humidity in the air or the trickle of sweat running down our backs, tickling our skin. We don’t focus and make note of the background noises that usually fall below our radar because, if we’re lucky, we’re passing through time. Living in a series of moments rather than the moment.
We might recall a familiar scent, but we can’t describe it as accurately as I can smell the freshly painted field, the hot-dog vendors wending their way through the packed stands, the pungent aroma of the start of a new season where a blank slate is ready and waiting for anyone who steps out of this tunnel to make their mark.
When we tell others about the moment, long after it’s passed and our memories are beginning to fade, the names of those present with us might change with each retelling because we didn’t care as much about the people so much as the way they made us feel.
They make me feel loved. Honored to know them. Proud to represent them.
Like one of them.
“Jesus, I’m gonna start crying,” Nate chokes out. “Bring it in.”
Our group is small, but our emotions are epic.
This is our last first time to run out of the hole.
Behind us in a tunnel packed with anxious rookies awaiting their true initiation, other seniors share our sentiments. They’re not at the front of the line, but they’re with us. Because we are a family. And when we go out on this field, we are many as one.
A group hug isn’t good enough. They take turns trying to squeeze the breath out of me, one by one.
“Easy, Tim,” I cough. “I’ve gotta do a backbend in about fifteen minutes.”
And I’ve got a little surprise up my sleeve for that, which I’d love to be able to actually do.
He releases me with a grin. There’s pride in his eyes.
Jake shakes his head, a smile playing with his mouth. “Sophia Reston. First female drum major of the Marching Miners.”
“Hell of a time to be alive,” Nate adds. “You earned this, fair and square. Don’t ever let anyone make you think you didn’t.”
Coming from the guy who swore I’d get the job just because I was a woman, that’s high praise.
There’s one drum major who’s been mostly silent since the announcement. He’s leaning against the tunnel wall right next to the Miners emblem that every head drum major has touched before pregame since this stadium was built. He tips his head toward it.
It’s time.
The brick feels cool and damp, a stark contrast to the late summer heat. The paint is smooth beneath my fingertips. A perfect counterbalance to the rough rope winding around the mace in my other hand.
He takes a deep breath then reaches into his jacket that he hasn’t fastened yet. “Alex bought me these extremely overpriced sunglasses and told me to wear them on the field because that’s what a badass band nerd would do. He told me to own it and be fucking proud.” He unfolds the glasses then slides them on my face, taking care to tuck the frame beneath my tall drum major hat. “Be fucking proud, Sophie. I sure as hell am proud of you.”
Three years ago, I never would have imagined where we’d be standing right now. Two years ago, I could not have even fathomed those words ringing in my ears, mixing with the roar of the band as the smoke machines begin to blast the entrance with a haze of white.
I put my whistle to my lips and give the command to start the cadence. I raise my mace in the air to direct the drumline onto the field.
When the crash of the cymbals and the snap of the snares are an echo in the tunnel, I raise my mace again.
“We are!”
“Miners!” the band responds.
“We are!”
“Miners!”
“We are!”
The entire band begins their run-step in time to the beat of the drums. “Miners!”
I have to leave the band in Jim’s care while I take the field with the drumline. He already has his whistle in his hand to give commands when it’s time for them to join us.
I love you, he mouths just before I go.
A year ago, I might have missed it. I might have freaked out. I might have punched him.
But not today.
I nail the backbend on the field. Without the hat.