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. a musical notation that signifies the absence of sound.
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FOR THE MUSIC DEPARTMENT, THE pinnacle of this semester is the Spring Recital.
The Recital is where the ensembles (Halston Student Orchestra, jazz band, latin band, choir, and much, much more! says the promotional social media posts) and Music students (with majors ranging from instrumentation to composition to the really new, really experimental Sonic Arts course) perform their best works.
The percussion section always has to show up early to transport the instruments from the band room into the Choral Hall. Shane and Nate have piled a trolley with the miscellaneous instrument box, drum and cymbal cases. Lien's rolled the marimba away and about to return for the chimes. Meanwhile Callum and I are responsible for wheeling the four timpani down the road, lifting them as necessary when the sidewalk gets dangerously uneven for the sensitive copper bowls.
Callum starts pushing my buttons as soon as we leave the Music Department. "Section leader Isabella Rodriguez," he hums, rolling the title curiously off his tongue.
I smirk and toss my loose hair over my shoulder. "I live in your mind rent-free, don't I?"
Usually this makes Callum shut the fuck up; a you want to fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid tactic, successful like punching a shark on the nose.
As predicted, he grumbles and looks pointedly ahead, staring into middle distance.
This afternoon enjoys bright sun, white cauliflower clouds, a cool breeze spreading the scent of the sidewalk calendulas.
I'm already a sweaty mess because of the various walking and lifting and pushing activities, still in a plain singlet and shorts, while Callum looks like he just walked out of a perfume commercial, curls gelled down.
When the HSO perform, we need formal wear. It's a one-eighty from the feathered shakos and crisp uniforms provided for Marching Band members. Students performing orchestral pieces need to hit the standard of opulence. Black dress shoes, polished to perfection. A white dress shirt for the men, with black trousers or slacks. Women have our choice of black dresses of an 'appropriate' length—so think repressive 1950's hemlines or lower.
I hate my ensemble dress, an itchy, stifling, formless lace contraption, so I'm going to wait as long as possible before changing.
But Callum is already in his formal wear, sleek black belt around his hips, dress shirt completely unbuttoned to display the gray singlet underneath, white sleeves rolled up over his forearms. He has his hands wrapped round the frame of the largest and deepest timpani; I have the second-largest. The wheels trundle loudly as we head to the Choral Hall.
