I twisted my hair into a ponytail, tucking it under my cap and lowering the brim. Then, I took a final look around the room of strangers, wondering which ones would remain so after this game. Somehow, even after the grueling week at band camp and constant morning practices, I still felt somehow seperate from the other band members.
The collar of the fancy marching jacket began to feel itchy against my throat, and I tugged at it irritably. I had always hated marching band uniforms-- the boxy jackets, the ridiculous suspenders, the caps with the silly plume and tight chinstrap.
"Here, let me give you a hand with that," came a voice from behind me. I turned to see Cassidy, a clarinet player with curly, honeysuckle-blond hair and a perpetual smile. She was a junior, like me, but she had lived in this town her entire life and knew everybody. "You've got it hooked the wrong way," she continued. Her fingers fumbled with the collar for a moment, and I found myself able to breathe again.
"There you go," she said, grinning. "These old uniforms are so frustrating, aren't they? I can't wait for them to order new ones that fit better."
"And maybe don't make us look so damned idiotic," I muttered in reply.
"You don't like them? Oh, well, to each her own. I love marching uniforms, myself. They're, like, tradition, you know? And they're fun. Not like those boring black dresses we use in the concerts."
I shook my head. I had always preferred the dresses. There was something about the unisex style of the marching outfits that I despised. Perhaps it was just something I had to get used to after suddenly moving to a small southern town, but I always felt insecure when my appearance didn't express some level of femininity.
I suddenly realized that Cassidy was still talking to me. "What?" I said stupidly.
"I said, we're heading out to the field," she repeated, gesturing around the band room. "Got your trumpet?"
"I play the mellophone," I corrected her.
"Do you?" She wrinkled her brow in thought. "Oh yeah! You came in with that French horn on day one. Strange, I could have sworn you played the trumpet."
"Well, I don't," I snapped, far more harshly than called for by the occasion. Cassidy looked slightly affronted, then strode back over to her seat to get her instruments. I straightened the music in my folio, checked over my uniform one last time, and hurried out the double doors of the band room.
After the band stood in our block for a few minutes, I heard the shrill blast of the drum major's whistle: one long, four short. The drumsticks of the snare players began to click in time, and my feet obeyed them automatically. Left, right, left, right, left, right. The percussion cadence began, and we set of toward the football field.
Left, right, left, right. I tried to ignore the players around me and concentrate on rolling my feet. The trumpeter in front of me was talking to his friend out of the corner of his mouth, and I recognized neither of them. Left, right, left, right. I was painfully aware of the fact that everyone in this block would be identical on the field. Left, right, left...
We finally passed through the gate into the football field, and a voice echoed over the loudspeaker, announcing our pregame show. I noticed the football team huddled in the end zone, about to the break and leave the field.
My eyes immediately began to seek out a particular jersey, and it only took me a few minutes to find it. Number thirty-two, Marcus Hansen. He was the starting wide receiver on the team and one of the first people I'd met at this school. He sat next to me in Pre-Calculus, and everything about him-- his eyes, his smile, his hair, his voice-- was lovely.
Left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right...
I found my place on the yard line. The football team broke their huddle and began weaving through us to reach the bleacher. In the dense traffic, one of the players rammed into to me and knocked my mellophone to the ground.
"Hey, watch it, man," he said, turning around. Marcus's expression softened a bit when he saw who he had hit. "Oh, sorry Sylvie," he said, reaching down to retrieve my instrument from the ground. Then, giving me the crooked smile that I found so charming, he added, "You know, when you're in that uniform, I could swear you were a boy."
My face grew warm, and I wondered whether I was visibly blushing. If so, Marcus either didn't notice or chose not to he remark, and he hurried off to join the rest of the team.
"Marcus!" I heard a voice call out from the sideline. A cheerleader with long, dark hair, was jumping up and down, waving, trying to get his attention. "Good luck! Kick some butt out there, darling!"
Marcus waved back and shouted a response I didn't hear. I felt my stomach churning suddenly. What that what he wanted? A cheerleader? A short skirt, gallons of makeup, glittery hair tossed up in an oversized bow? Were that the case, having him mistake me for a boy was not a point in my favor.
"Sylvie," a voice hissed behind me, "Horns at attention."
I put my heels together and raised the mellophone inches from my face, but I couldn't keep it steady. I realized my hands were shaking. The drum major's whistle was a distant echo, and my feet felt numb as they began to move.
Left, right, left, right. Marcus had broken away from the team and gone to the cheer block. Slide left, right, left, right, turn, step. He took off his helmet and began to chat with his raven-haired tramp, who kept flicking her hair wistfully behind her shoulder.
Half-steps, left, right, left, right, left, right. Mark time, guide off the diagonal. Now backmarch four, left, right, turn, turn.
The cheerleader gave Marcus a swift kiss on the cheek before he returned his helmet to his head, to the tune of wolf-whistles from the nearby members of the cheerleaders. My lips were dry; I couldn't play. I lowered the mellophone to my chest and tried to ignore the inquisitive looks aimed at me from those marching around me.
Left, right, mark time, halt, close, horns down.
