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kick
verb. referring to the bass drum in drum kits, played by a foot pedal.
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I LIKE TO FLIRT, AND be flirted with.
When I work at the Foxhole, it's more than just a monetary tactic to earn more tips. It's more than a self-esteem booster for a few minutes. It's a psychological entry point into the heads of other people, often men, but sometimes women, too. Some people will warm up to you if you flatter them and others will wave compliments off, either hinting at a confidence problem or a learned false modesty.
Some people are intentionally crass for shock value, trying to put a blush on my cheeks, and others are so tentative with their flirting that I immediately understand a rejection would crush them. I play verbal tennis with the ones who come out swinging and I'm gentle with the ones who have been pushed toward the hot bartender by their group of friends, who usually hypocritically stand further away and spectate like sheep.
Flirting is another mental exercise.
Tonight, a Friday, is thrumming with self-destructive energy. We have live music on alternate Fridays. Tonight's band is a local four-person act, currently belting out an 80's power ballad. The strobe lights fixed in the corners of the ceilings swivel randomly on their axes, painting the dance floor in splashes of red, green and blue. Even from here, the hardwood floor looks sticky.
Like a wet finger running down my spine, I can feel the number of unfinished essays and looming tests that people have abandoned to party. I myself have brought my homework to my workplace, hoping foolishly to be able to chip away at my vector subspaces assignment in my breaks.
(I won't get it done.)
In my many months of working at the Foxhole, I've overhead many conversations. People don't seem to realize the person making their drinks has ears; separated by the counter, they feel safe to continue their discussions. I've earned a reputation for being the flirty bartender, and simultaneously, the uptight bitch who won't call the numbers she's been given.
Another thing I don't like about people: they can't divorce the mind from the body.
People don't realize that my actions say nothing about my emotional landscape. In general, action does not imply emotion. Sex does not imply emotion. Late night conversations do not imply emotion. Leaning on someone as an therapeutic crutch does not imply emotion. Even saying 'I like you' does not imply emotion. Divorce the mind from the body. That's what I want to tell the dozens of people whom I've witnessed holding out for the blessed day when their emotions will finally be reciprocated, citing actions as evidence. That day is not coming.
But that would tank my tips.
"I'm going to take a ten," Dina tells me. "Hold the fort."
I smile at my manager. "Aye-aye."
I serve countless drinks to countless more customers. In reprieves, I pull out a new bottle of blue Curaçao, press lemons through the slicer, shuffle the hot glassware fresh from the dishwasher back into the shelves, quick and practiced enough that my fingertips don't burn.
When Dina come backs, the workload has lightened. "Take a ten, Bay."
I pull my apron off and slip through the personnel door. From the kitchen there's a door used for deliveries, leading onto a sloping concrete driveway.
It's cold outside, a welcome relief from the sweaty, humid Foxhole. The moon hangs in the sky like a stage spotlight. This would ideally be the time when I work on my math assignment, but it's eleven p.m. and I have no inclination to ever touch vector algebra again.
Instead, I scroll through social media, the campus WiFi especially strong in the Quad, the heart of Halston. In my inbox, waiting like a Christmas gift, is an email that fills me with white-hot triumph.
From: m.keller@music.halston.edu
Subject: Notification of Section Leader Outcome
Dear Isabella,
It is with great pleasure and little surprise that I'm writing to congratulate you on becoming the Halston University Marching Band's percussion section leader for the next academic year. Your audition, interview and years of dedication to our music ensembles have deeply impressed the selection committee.
Should you accept, I would like to meet with you next Wednesday fifteen minutes before the HSO practice. We will briefly discuss roles and responsibilities for the upcoming marching season.
Sincerely,
Maude Keller
I press my knuckles into my teeth to stop myself from screaming. Even if I did, no-one would be around to witness except the full moon, and maybe a drunken straggler or two.
Yes. Fuck yes.
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I'm filled with energy to burn for the rest of my shift. When I come back from my break, Dina bumps me off drinks duty and puts me on the register. Are my fingers shaking? Or is it my head spinning?
Yesss.
"Evening, Bay."
I look up and nearly swear, all my ecstasy imploding and dissipating like a firework.
"How has your night been?" Callum says, his grin even more lively than usual.
He's out reveling with a group of friends. Callum has so many friends in so many corners of the university. At this point, my inside joke is that it's harder to find someone who doesn't know him. Firstly, his high school is a feeder for Halston, so he has friends from adolescence here. Secondly, obviously, the band friends. Thirdly, his friends from living in the residence halls in his first two years. Fourthly, his Engineering friends, which is a huge cohort and inherently widens his social network. Fifthly, the friends of his current flatmates, who go around to watch sports matches and hold board game nights. Plus a litany of fuck buddies and party partners.
He's here with, from a cursory scan, at least six other people tonight, a mix of genders and ethnicities, and none of them are familiar to me.
I could ruin his night.
If the acceptance emails were sent out this late, the rejection emails might not have made the rounds yet. But do I want to be the one to break it to Callum? Or should I let Maude tell him?
"My night has been average," I return daintily. "What can I get you?"
I decide to say nothing. Share the goodwill.
He folds his arms across his chest and leans forward on them, handsome face twisting into an inquisitive stare directed at the drinks board behind my head. "What would you recommend for me—"
"—a Quick Fuck."
"How witty," Callum snaps dryly, shooting me warning smile. "What would you recommend if I'm in the mood to celebrate?"
Celebrate what? I arch my eyebrows at him, expecting him to elaborate, but he doesn't. Eventually I propose, "Tequila shot."
"One of those, thank you."
I process his payment and Dina pulls the tequila out from the bottom shelf. While I take the orders of the rest of his friend group, I casually ask, "What are you celebrating?"
Dina slides the shot to Callum. Callum picks up the salt shaker. He licks the base of his thumb, douses it with salt, and gulps down the tequila. He tears all the flesh of the lemon wedge off with his teeth and smiles, closed lips, with a secretive glint in his eyes. "Wouldn't you like to know."
"That's why I asked, yes."
He seems to deliberate for a few seconds before sighing and running a hand through his wild ashy hair. "Here," he says, tapping twice on his phone screen and placing it on the counter for me to read.
From: m.keller@music.halston.edu
Subject: Notification of Section Leader Outcome
Dear Callum,
It is with great pleasure and little surprise...
It's like my entire body has been doused in ice water. "What the fuck?"
My blood runs cold, congealing, stopping sharp in my veins.
"I'm sorry, Bay," he says. Three of his friends get given vodka cranberries. "I only got it tonight."
"Don't apologize," I hiss. Apologies are for those who have been wronged; I need this to go right. "There's been a mistake."
"Come on. Don't be a sore loser." I pull my phone from my back pocket and set it beside his, facing him. "What the fuck."
"Yeah. Exactly," I huff. In my periphery I see Dina finishing with Callum's group and pursing her lips in my direction. Glowering, I tell Callum, "I'm working right now. Let's sort this out later."
His lips part, but then one of his friends stretches an arm out and catches his shoulder. She looks like a cloud in sky-blue glitter and combat boots. My type. Definitely. How does he manage to land women far too classy for him?
"Callum," she calls, "I did not abandon my essay to not dance."
"Yeah," he responds, flicking an indiscernible look in her direction before pinning me with a troubled frown. His eyes are black in the low light, stray hairs casting shadows like tree branches across his face. "Bay, just..."
"Later," I remind him coldly. "Keller must have made a mistake somewhere."
I didn't manage to read all of Callum's email. But if it is identical in content to mine, that means maybe an automated email was sent to one person it shouldn't have been. Maude has to choose one of us.
"And if she didn't?"
Then it's such a cop out.
Three years people have been avoiding choosing between me and Callum. I'm under no illusions: he's more of a people person than I am. But I can contribute just as much, in different ways. I'm committed, I'm resourceful, and I can handle absolutely anyone that I come across. Whoever I need to be, I become.
"Then we go to that meeting and sort shit out." My voice frays at the edges, all my previous elation crumbling into frustration.
When will I be free of him? When?
"Go celebrate. It's what you came here to do, right?"
Callum finally steps away from the counter. "Right."
The people waiting in line behind his group have growing impatience written across their faces. But Callum turns around, clasps the man on his shoulder and says, "Sorry for holding you up. Have a good night," and just melts them all.
I despise him.
My cheeks have long gone rubbery and sore from pinning smiles to them. I greet my next lot of customers while Dina unhooks the soda water hose. What can I get you, what can I get you?
Sometime later, I glance at Callum jumping around on the dance floor, his hand clutched in Sky Blue's. Unexpectedly, he looks back at me, unfathomable. I decide to hold eye contact until he breaks, to test the extent of his mental preoccupation with this section leader debacle, and surprise myself when it takes over five seconds.
Is he really that distressed by the idea of me earning it? Insulting.
For the rest of the night, whenever I feel his stare on me, I just smile harder at whichever customer is directly in front of me.
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"Oh, no," Keller giggles, leaning back in her office chair.
I love Maude Keller's office for so many reasons.
It's on the third floor of the Music Department, shaded by an old oak tree. Its uppermost branches are always dancing and waving outside her window, casting patterns on the soft carpet. It always smells homely and fragrant, and along the upper walls are decades upon decades of marching band photos. There are faded grayscale photos from the very early days of Halston University nearly one hundred years ago, grainy technicolors from fifty years ago, high-definition digital portraits from this decade; hundreds of bodies in the Halston Stadium stands, trombone slides glinting, sousaphones like white discs alongside rows and rows of smiling faces. The photos from the last three marching seasons are framed directly behind Keller.
"I don't make mistakes that catastrophic," she goes on. "As a rule."
"But how is having two section leaders going to work?" I splutter. "The section leader plays center snare. There's only one center snare. You can't split that up."
If we have to be co-leaders, I will go insane. I already consider interacting in band rehearsals too much. Imagine being handcuffed to Callum by a shared obligation to the band. Insane.
"Four shows, two people. Take turns."
"Keller," Callum complains, "I think what Bay is trying to say is that band leadership needs to be centralized. For efficiency and clarity and chain of command reasons. A whole lot of other reasons. Just..."
"Were we that equal?" I argue. "Can't you just reconsider our auditions and interviews and try to pick one?"
"Oh, I could pick either one of you," Keller says dismissively, waving a hand between where Callum and I sit, two chairs pulled up to her mahogany desk. "I've been band director longer than you've been alive, kiddos. I know the dynamics."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean I could pick Callum because he's a natural socialite. He has no problem relating to people and building—what's the word—hype? Yes. Building hype when we need it. I could choose Bay because she's immovable. She thrives under pressure instead of breaking under it; she would bolster people's spirits when the hype vanishes. I could even flip a coin," Keller continues, looking over her eyeglasses at us. It is clear from her wide, expectant eyes that we haven't yet gotten the point.
"So flip a coin," I blurt. That would resolve the issue completely. There's equal probability that Callum or I will be chosen, which seems to be the situation following our auditions and interviews last week anyway. Does it matter who or what decides so long as it's fair?
"Yeah," Callum agrees, rummaging around his pockets. "I have a nickel."
"Do not do that," Keller sighs. "As I was saying, it's not that I'm unable to choose between you. It's that I'm unwilling. Making the choice would fracture the relationship between my strongest two percussionists. Either that or skipping to the third in line which, frankly, I don't want to do. I know you two already have difficulty getting along. I simply don't see elevating one above the other making that dynamic smoother, and I need you two to hold it together next year."
"I am so together," Callum interjects.
"Not you personally," Keller snaps, and I smother a laugh into my shoulder, "it as in the percussion section. I need you both invested in everything running smoothly. No resentment. No petty squabbles. No power plays. No showboating. It sets a bad example for your teammates and it is simply a waste of effort."
"If you choose one of us," I wager, folding my hands neatly in my lap, "we both promise to be mature about it. We won't take it personally."
I blink innocently. I am a good student.
"That's, pardon my French, utter horse shit," Keller concludes, her thin pale eyebrows darting high on her forehead. Beside me, this time, Callum barks a laugh. "Three years you've had to maturely resolve your conflict, and you haven't. Therefore, I'm not going to bet the cohesion of next year's percussion section on some miraculous personal growth over the summer. I'm going to bet it on the fact that if either of you do not perform, you will lose the position."
"And if we both co-operate and lead responsibly?"
"I pat myself on the back, don't I?" Keller says matter-of-factly. "You're both extremely competitive. I'm going to channel that for the benefit of the band. Unless the prospect of co-leading is already so depressing that one of you wants to forfeit?"
Silence. I hate the idea of co-leading with Callum, but abandoning the seat just for him to swoop in, undeserving, rankles even more. I'm not going to just surrender. There's still a chance, however tiny, he will mess up and lose the section leadership. It's clear from his silence, his right hand clutching the chair manchette so tightly that the knuckles have turned whitish-yellow from their usual tan, that he feels the same.
Keller snorts. "Thought so."
"But," I say pathetically. I have no arguments that Keller hasn't already considered and murdered.
Observing both of our miserable expressions, her tone softens. "Bay, Callum, I say this because I'm fond of you two. The other section leaders haven't even been told. I don't want you to waste next semester being aggravated by each other. If you try, just for once, to put your talent and passion into something more productive, you'll be surprised how rewarding the next marching season will be. It's your last one, after all."
Callum and I both lift our heads to the rows of marching band photos high on the wall. My head turns left, right, all those people, frozen in time, once young adults like us, filtered through the highs and lows of band and spat out into the real world.
I don't want to leave Halston. I don't want to be adrift again.
This is the only home I've ever known.
"And after that? Work. Taxes. Adulthood. Boring stale stuff," Keller shivers, as if she isn't retirement age. "The memories you have now will become precious, I promise. Give this a chance, alright?"
I feel the fight draining out of me. Callum's posture uncoils slightly, his shoulders lowering and hand unclenching.
In perfect timing, we both despondently mutter, "Alright."
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a / n :
and here's where i sprinkle a bit of forced proximity over this story...
if, while you're waiting for DT updates, you want to read the other stand-alones in the Halston University series (because Callum appears in both books), here's how the timeline works (all the main characters are the same age/grade):
FRESHMAN YEAR:
Fall Semester, Bay and Callum meet - seen in flashback
JUNIOR YEAR
Fall Semester, Vivian and Jamie meet, their book Blackout | 18+ starts
Spring Semester, Bay and Callum's book Double Time | 18+ starts
SENIOR YEAR
Fall Semester, Krista and Quentin meet, their book Nightlife starts
my profile orders the books Double Time --> Blackout --> Nightlife (but you can read however you like) even though Blackout chronologically begins before Double Time. this is because Blackout skims quickly over junior year, just to set up the 'friends' part of 'friends with benefits'. in contrast, Double Time (with an entire act set in junior year and frequent flashbacks to freshman year and even earlier) to me 'feels' like it comes before its other two companion books.
so if you've been with me since the beginning, you'll see that i wrote the series completely, completely out of order. when i first wrote Nightlife, i wasn't planning a college romance series at all. just yolo-ing this whole thing.
see you in the next chapter,
aimee x