Someone To Trust || ShaCam

Shannon

Cammie Scott looks miserable and embarrassed as she grinds the toe of her athletic shoe into the superheated concrete not eight feet from me, her clarinet gripped tightly in her right hand. She slaps the instrument against her calf a few times, then glances my way. With my eyes shielded behind dark sunglasses, I feel no compulsion to look away.

It's been a hard couple of weeks for her, but I don't know if I what feel right now is more irritation or sympathy. She's a mess, distracted, directionally challenged. Some days I think it would be easier for Mr. Curtis to change the band's program than to change Cammie. He's been persistently dense since day one of march-change Cammie. In fact, she's the reason all two hundred of us are standing here again under the blazing August sun, waiting. She screwed up, and the domino effect took care of the rest.

I squint up at the viewing stand, where Mr. Curtis is conferring with the assistant band director. One day that will be up there with a microphone clipped to my ear.

It's been almost a year since I loaded up my truck, said goodbye to my parents, and headed west on 290 to Los Angeles. I'd spent the entire summer dreaming about walking down the Sixth street on a Friday or a Saturday night with a beer in my hand, staying out all night if I wanted to, flirting with college girls, maybe taking one back to my dorm room or spending a night in theirs, having sex for the first time, experiencing the freedom that comes with distance.

As it turned out, that freedom wasn't all it was cracked up to be. By the end of spring semester, I couldn't wait to get back. It wasn't Los Angeles; it was me. Too many people eager to share their bed for the night. Too much alcohol. Too many pieces of me chipped away and left scattered here and there, everyone taking what the wanted until I could feel myself fracturing under the weight of all the freedom.

A clatter catches my attention, and I look over to see Douglas Westfall retrieve his flag from the ground. He's a Bari sax player, a freshman when I was a drum major. Nice guy, but honestly, I never gave him much thought until I saw him rehearsing with the color guard last week. I had seen that coming. Apparently it's not big secret. I have to say, I admire him for that. Maybe if I'd been more open in high school, I wouldn't been so sex-crazy at UT.

Cammie Scott, though... I had pegged her from day one. I can't say why exactly. Just a feeling.

Over the portable PA system, Mr. Curtis calls the band back to set. I lift my sunglasses and wipe the sweat my brow, then assume a wide stance and folded my arms. The freshman squirm a little, but snap to attention when I clear my throat.

"Cammie," I say in a voice just loud enough to carry across the clarinets. "It's right, left, right, left." One of the girls giggles as the drum majors count off the beat.

"Toes up, toes up," I bark as I shadow the moving section. Anna Todd misses a turn, then scrambles to catch up. "Laura, watch your carriage. Better." I move back a few yards so I can get a better overall view of the ripple, the slip in and out of the lines, counting the beats aloud as I go. I duck under the twirling flags of the guard. The program is still new to them, so I can anticipate movements, giving heads-up when I can. I keep my eye on Cammie, but she manages to fumble through without an major mistakes this time.

The opener ends with a one, two three, drop. The kids stand frozen, faces parallel to the concrete.

"Much better," Mr. Curtis says. "All right. Find some shade, take a five-minute water break and we'll do it again."

I collect my thermos from the curb behind the viewing stand and take a long drink as Harry Styles makes his way across the parking lot to me. His white teeth flash in his impossibly tab face, and I'm amused to se he's wearing a California Aggie T-shirt again today.