Like You Mean It

5. Hayden

I hadn't been able to stop thinking about how screwed we were. All weekend, I was drumming my part on every available surface in the house. I walked through every set in my mind, hitting and rehitting every dot. I added extra snare rehearsals and a quad sectional after practices. Plus, an additional full drumline rehearsal on Thursday, 3 to 5.

The full rehearsal technically started in twenty minutes. But all of the drums were out, everyone was here, and we were already drumming up a storm. I started rehearsal early with the promise to let them out at 4:45 instead of 5.

Warm-ups were sloppy at best. Our stick grips still needed work and the snares still needed to work on their left-hand rebounds, they were always picking up the offbeat. It was bad, but we needed to work on the show more than we needed to work on stupid warm-ups.

Set by set, we ran everything until my hands were raw. It sounded cleaner, but it wasn't anywhere near Valley right now. They were more prepared, cleaner, better than all of us. We were going to lose to them again.

I let everyone else go at 4:45, just as I promised.

I stayed. I had to. I had to get this run down, I couldn't march on Saturday sounding like this. Sure it was only the first competition of the season, but sounding like this? It would be nothing short of a complete and total loss. If I wasn't good enough, we were bound to spend the entire season in last place.

I wasn't sure how long I had been practicing, but my blisters had opened and been rubbed raw. The sunlight outside had left. I was probably the last person left in the music wing, but that just meant that no one could hear how horrible I sounded. How horrible we were going to sound on Saturday, how screwed we were, how I was going to mess everything up.

I wasn't good enough yet. I wouldn't be good enough until I could get this run down and I couldn't. I was fumbling through it like some 6th grader just learning how to play the timpani. I wasn't good enough. I had to get this under my fingers. I couldn't let some stupid run prevent us from winning. I couldn't let my inability, my lack of talent from prevent us from winning. It would be my fault because I couldn't get this stupid run down.

Someone was in front of me. I looked up.

Cameron.

Cameron was in blue and black flannel pajama pants and a Valley band t-shirt that was slightly too big on him. Cameron, who looked like he had been woken up from a nap about ten minutes ago. His hair was tousled and stuck up on the right side, he hadn't even bothered to try and tame it before coming. His arms were crossed, and he had a slight pout. He looked exhausted, fed up, and ridiculously beautiful.

"It's nearly 10. Let's go." He told me.

"What?" I asked.

He held his hand out, "Give me the sticks, pack up your drum. I'm bringing you home."

"No, no I'm fine. I just need to keep practicing, I just. I need to get this run down. I have to get this run down before Saturday." I looked back down at my drum.

Cameron grabbed my face, forcing me to look him in the eyes, "You have been practicing for over 6 hours. Your hands are bright red and probably cut open at this point. We are getting food and then going home. That is not a request, Hayden."

He let go of my face and stole my sticks from my hands, putting them in the pockets of his pajama pants. He had distracted me long enough for my grip to loosen enough on them for him to pull them away.

"I haven't been practicing for 6 hours." I rolled my eyes.

"Your rehearsal started at 3, it's nearly 10. That's over 6 hours, Hayden." He pointed out.