I stared inattentively in the direction of the metal bleachers. Tons of people (most of the student body, actually) had bothered to show up to this. It was apparently a big deal; it was the last school-organized gathering of the year. The former school sports teams would be announced, the cheerleaders would perform, and the marching band would play to celebrate the upcoming summer and end the school year.
The bright sun illuminated the white of the cheerleader's uniforms from across the field. They practiced their lifts and routines off to the side of the stands before the rally started. The lively crowd in the bleachers paid no attention to them.
The sounds all mixed together and filled my ears; the buzz of chatter, the testing of sound equipment, and the chirping of whistles as coaches tried to get their teams to line up in an orderly fashion.
The band around me began to shuffle towards their spots, sensing that we were nearing the start. I snapped back into reality and glanced around, searching for my position. I took my spot in the second-to-last row and pushed my band-uniform helmet out of my eyes once again.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats." The familiar voice of the announcer echoed from all six speakers positioned around the field. The grass immediately cleared out and the crowd sat down, but there was still a low hum of chatter.
The band made their last adjustments and the drum majors checked to make sure all of the lines were straight before the signal was given. Snapping into position, one hundred and sixty voices all chorused at once.
"Band, attend. Hut!"
"Please welcome onto the field, the Mapleford High School Marching Band!"
The stands cheered and Mr. Arnolds, who was situated on the very top bleacher high enough to be seen above the rest of the crowd, raised his arms.
With a quick roll on the snares, the drummers all began playing in unison. The band stepped off the running track that circled the field, now feeling Astroturf under our black shoes. We marched toward the middle of the field, line after line, placing our feet in unity.
Being in the last row before the drum line, I could practically feel the beat of the bass drum as it was hit. The crash symbols nearly shook my entire body as I walked.
One last ending roll on the snares and the entire band halted. We waited for the next signal to be given.
The band director raised his arms and again there was a wave of quick movement from the marching band. There was a flash of brightness as the instruments went to our mouths and the beams from the sun ricocheted off the moving metal.
While I waited for the count-off, I stole a quick glance to the front right area of the field, where Brady Hanson usually stood. Despite the fact that each and every one of us looked identical in the stiff navy-blue and gold uniforms, I could pick him out in an instant.
I had noted his posture a million times before. He stood with his body slightly tilted, putting more weight on one foot than the other. He was also a few inches taller than most of the other people around him.
For a reason that was unknown to me, I had been finding myself looking for him lately. We hadn't talked since that day in the mall, and I continuously told myself that I was happy to be rid of him. He kept his distance and I kept mine. But even if I didn't have to make contact with him anymore, he still always invaded my thoughts.
