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...
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BAY'S BIRTHDAY FALLS ON A Monday when there are no marching band rehearsals, no sectionals, no band leadership meetings, no shifts at the Foxhole, no planned hook-ups, and no real excuses for me to see her.
Except, I have to see her, because I have a gift to deliver.
Whenever there is a free weekend, I drive back to Carsonville. Free weekends don't come often in football season, so it was great to have Mom cook dinner and fret over me, and shoot the shit with Dad, and hang out with Christian again. And I admit, in my downtime, I hunted through all of Bay's social media for the umpteenth time. I checked her tagged posts and scrolled through timelines, but I found nothing new, no hints about what sort of gifts she likes. No childhood friends or distant relatives who might want to celebrate with her. It seems she only has herself, which is really sad, even if she says she's no longer sad about her childhood. I'll keep my true feelings to myself because Bay hates being pitied, but the way I grew up, I think everyone deserves to be celebrated on their birthday. Even my enemy-turned-bedmate.
So, while I was at home these last two days, I took Christian out to run errands. First we went to an arts and crafts workshop at the town library, and then we did grocery shopping, drove to visit our grandparents, and returned home. At the arts and crafts workshop, he learned to make origami ninja stars, and I made Bay a birthday card with some spare paper. It's black cardboard with golden stars glued on the front. In a white gel pen, I drew three drums stacked on top of each other, like the tiers of a cake, with a ring of drumstick candles on the top. I glued down some holographic foil letters (the library had them in a wrinkled plastic bag) to spell out HAPPY 22ND BIRTHDAY!
"Who's that for?" Christian asked.
"A friend."
"Which friend?"
"Just someone from college," I said casually.
"What's their name? Why won't you tell me?" he wondered, which made me realize that I was being totally obvious. I told Christian about everyone—Quentin, my Engineering cohort, the marching band, my housemates—giving in-depth explanations of personalities and dynamics even if he forgot the very next minute. I like shit-talking. It's therapeutic.
So my aversion was supremely telling.
"Wait. You're in love."
What.
"Ew," I pulled a face, tamping down the heat that rushed into my cheeks. "What the fuck? I am not." I picked the card up and pretended to blow loose glitter from it. "If you must know, it's for Isabella. She's co-leading the percussion section with me. I think I've mentioned that once or twice already."
