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rest
noun. a musical notation that signifies the absence of sound.
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FOR THE MUSIC DEPARTMENT, THE pinnacle of this semester is the Spring Recital.
The Recital is where the ensembles (Halston Student Orchestra, jazz band, latin band, choir, and much, much more! says the promotional social media posts) and Music students (with majors ranging from instrumentation to composition to the really new, really experimental Sonic Arts course) perform their best works.
The percussion section always has to show up early to transport the instruments from the band room into the Choral Hall. Shane and Nate have piled a trolley with the miscellaneous instrument box, drum and cymbal cases. Lien's rolled the marimba away and about to return for the chimes. Meanwhile Callum and I are responsible for wheeling the four timpani down the road, lifting them as necessary when the sidewalk gets dangerously uneven for the sensitive copper bowls.
Callum starts pushing my buttons as soon as we leave the Music Department. "Section leader Isabella Rodriguez," he hums, rolling the title curiously off his tongue.
I smirk and toss my loose hair over my shoulder. "I live in your mind rent-free, don't I?"
Usually this makes Callum shut the fuck up; a you want to fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid tactic, successful like punching a shark on the nose.
As predicted, he grumbles and looks pointedly ahead, staring into middle distance.
This afternoon enjoys bright sun, white cauliflower clouds, a cool breeze spreading the scent of the sidewalk calendulas.
I'm already a sweaty mess because of the various walking and lifting and pushing activities, still in a plain singlet and shorts, while Callum looks like he just walked out of a perfume commercial, curls gelled down.
When the HSO perform, we need formal wear. It's a one-eighty from the feathered shakos and crisp uniforms provided for Marching Band members. Students performing orchestral pieces need to hit the standard of opulence. Black dress shoes, polished to perfection. A white dress shirt for the men, with black trousers or slacks. Women have our choice of black dresses of an 'appropriate' length—so think repressive 1950's hemlines or lower.
I hate my ensemble dress, an itchy, stifling, formless lace contraption, so I'm going to wait as long as possible before changing.
But Callum is already in his formal wear, sleek black belt around his hips, dress shirt completely unbuttoned to display the gray singlet underneath, white sleeves rolled up over his forearms. He has his hands wrapped round the frame of the largest and deepest timpani; I have the second-largest. The wheels trundle loudly as we head to the Choral Hall.
"And I'm not thinking about you," Callum starts up again, "I'm thinking about the health of the percussion section next year. Why did you agree to Keller's stupid co-leading idea?"
I roll my eyes. "Why did you agree?"
"Because I wanted to be section leader. I've always wanted to help people and make them feel at home, not just to stick it to the competition," he says heatedly.
"Why the tone?" I laugh harshly. "Your motives are pure and mine aren't?"
Callum shrugs. "No, Jimmy, you're on the wrong side of the hash. Read your fucking drill chart." Callum makes his voice squeaky and grating in a poor imitation of mine. "You haven't memorized the music yet? Effort doesn't count. Results do, Jimmy. I'm a consequentialist."
My left eyebrow twitches, a familiar tic whenever Callum starts getting on my nerves. "Who's Jimmy?"
"A hypothetical freshman. I'm trying to make a point," Callum explains, and when I start to scoff, he reminds me, "Those are all things you've said to me."
Ugh. Obsessive memory much?
He thinks I wouldn't be a team player. That I would lead like a dictator.
When we come to the truncated domes at the end of the the sidewalk, Callum and I instinctively pick up the largest timpani by its metal frame and walk it across the road.
"Our rivalry is an internal affair." I walk backwards, opposite Callum, watching his silver pendant swing across his golden collarbones as we stiltedly transport the unwieldy instrument. "You already know that," I argue, "so don't worry about it spilling over—"
"—watch it," he snaps, pulling hard to stop me walking. "Pothole."
I glance around the copper bowl and spot a jagged divot in the asphalt. Stepping around it with a glower, I launch into an impression of my own: "Like you'd be so perfect. The most important thing about drumline is the friends we make along the way, Jimmy. It's all about having fun! but it would show on your face when people piss you off."
Setting the largest timpani down on the sidewalk, we come back across the road for the second timpani. I know more than anyone what the most important part of drumline is: family. Just because I treat Callum worse than everyone else, and because I'm not performatively happy all the fucking time, doesn't mean I can't have fun or be a good leader. I could be exactly like Callum. I've documented everyone I've ever known, split their characteristics up into external and internal, conscious and subconscious, and pieced it all back together again.
If I wanted to, I could socialize, make jokes, be the life of the party, be carefree and confident. But I spent years of my life playing different roles like that, acting my heart out, curating my facial expression, like a broke actress trying to earn the endorsement of industry overlords and all the monetary and social security that implies.
I would rather not tiptoe around people's rosy outlooks and police who I am. I'm not going to slice off the distasteful parts of myself in order to be accepted again. It never works.
"—I'm the Cool Guy, trust, watch out for Isabella because she's a grinch." I'm walking backwards again with the timpani pressed into my hips. When Callum and I reach the opposite side of the road, the Choral Hall's entrance looming across a thin expanse of grass, we glare at each other. "If they think I'm the worse section leader it'd only be because you threw me under the bus from day one."
Callum snorts in disbelief. "I would never do that to you."
"Don't say never. Absolutes don't exist—"
"I would never," he interrupts insistently.
We heft up the pedal ends of the timpani and start walking once more. Shane and Nate emerge from the front door, the former quick-stepping down the stairs, probably to get the remaining percussion items, stuff like cymbal stands and mallet bags.
"—and you have no idea what sort of leader I would be, because you don't know me."
I'm organized. I'm resilient. I'm challenge myself and my team mates. I never give up. I'm willing to put in hours and hours for the things I love. Either Callum is too blinded by hatred to note my positive qualities, or he notes them as threats to his own leadership.
"I know you," Callum grumbles, his frown lightening in a false dazzling smile when Shane and Nate walk past us. "'Sup, guys."
"Hey Callum, hey Bay."
"Hi, guys," I echo the sentiment, following the social script, my lips flattening into a line the very next second. "You really fucking don't."
Callum's voice is like liquor, dark and stormy. "Well, whose fault is that?"
I don't answer out loud.
Mine. My fault.
A vicious version of Bay exists in his mind, and I'm the one who put her there on purpose. I'm the one who prevents him knowing any other me, any better me. All the insults, the meanness, the aggression. I'm the weaver of this corrupted thread.
When a ripe yellow leaf lands on the timpani, Callum gently plucks it up and releases it to the wind. The white sleeves of the dress shirt contrast with his tanned skin, exposing the sculpted veins in his arms, his tight singlet exposing the abdominal muscles beneath. I've seen him in his recital clothing countless times—when we visit high schools, when there are concerts or pep rallies—and each time I think it's unfair he gets to look like this.
My head is spinning by the time I reach the shadow cast by the dominating Choral Hall. It's nearly summer. I should drink more water.
Then we're at the stairs, needing to cooperate again to get the timpani to the front door. Using the impending Spring Recital as an excuse to paint over the tense conversation, I tip my chin to the timpani.
"Whatever. I'm too stressed to fight with you."
"That was a fight? Tame."
"Let's just focus on setting up. You walk backwards this time."
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My last exam for the semester was for Islamic Philosophy and Metaphysics in the Golden Age.
This class's exam was one of the finals I couldn't bring myself to be stressed about because it's been too rewarding, too interesting. My Islamic Philosophy professor was the one I asked to write my endorsement letter for the percussion section leader application.
On my laptop I made separate documents for the philosophers studied: al-Kindi, Ibn Sina, al-Ghazali, ben Maimon, Ibn Rushd, and Suhrawardi. In terms of academics this year, I wasn't drowning, wasn't floating, just treading water. Every week, I barely got on top of my shit before the next Monday rolled around. To sustain my scholarship with Halston University and my financial aid package, I had to maintain a 3.0 GPA. A combination of monetary pressure and genuine intrigue in my majors motivated me—like everyone else.
During finals week, Renata and I made a pact to hold each other accountable, waking together, eating meals together, studying together, hiding each other's phones to limit distractions. After my Islamic Philosophy exam ended, we were both officially free.
As a post-finals treat, Renata and I UberEats Mexican food to eat in our bedroom. We consider it a balanced diet: mince for protein, sour cream for dairy, dough for carbs, and beans for vegetables. Renata, who's Mexican and Thai, always compares it to her mother's cooking and finds it lacking.
We discuss the summer internship in a food safety testing lab she has lined up, she asks me about my summer plans—live on campus and work in the Foxhole, like always—and then the established highlight of my year: marching season.
She's recently cut her bangs again, choppy strands falling gracefully above her thick eyebrows. "What exactly does the band leadership do?"
"What don't we do?" I answer.
Marching band rehearses two days a week, and we have sectionals a third day on top of that. Section leaders run the sectionals. At band camp we have to help the rookies learn all the fundamentals of marching: how to read a drill chart, how to march right, how to stand right. During the semester we have to monitor the progress of the percussionists in learning drill and memorizing music and performing that music; dynamics and tempo and choreography.
"I hate marching band, but it makes you love the pain. It's like a toxic relationship that you'll defend to the grave. I keep going back."
Renata laughs at that, nodding in understanding. She swipes a stray piece of tomato into her mouth. "Sounds like a headache."
"This, coming from the rising President of the Women in Science Association."
No-one was surprised when Renata was voted in as the WISA President for the next academic year. She's been a member since freshman year, an executive member since sophomore year, and spearheaded so many events this year. I, more than anyone, know how much Renata deserves this post.
At WISA's Annual General Meeting—two hours of event recaps and budgeting talks, but catered—Renata was confirmed by votes of full confidence as their President for the next academic year. That club is full of Type-A feminists, all driven and beautiful and vastly overqualified, with about half dating unmotivated, uncommunicative men who don't deserve them. I keep waiting for their tolerances to snap, but it seems endless, their inner wells still abundant and ripe for exploiting.
I'm technically a member, but I don't attend WISA's events. Sometimes they host bar quiz nights at the Foxhole, which brings my Renata social circle into contact with my work social circle in an odd but not unpleasant way.
"The President is a figurehead," she argues. "The glue for all the different committees. I just have to chair the meetings and listen to the other executives summarize their actual work."
"What is this imposter syndrome? You also do Instagram takeovers."
Renata groans loudly, nodding begrudgingly. "Right. The beloved takeovers. No, but I'll do work. It's just that my work is just more well-documented and less time-sensitive and stressful. The Secretary and Treasurer are constantly submitting funding applications and trying to secure sponsorship; I just have to be the face."
"They couldn't pick a better face."
Renata pretends to blush and reaches out with her clean, dry pinky, pressing the tip of my nose. "Why, thank you."
I glance around our dorm room. The blinds are pulled down to block the six p.m. sun pressing against the campus, but the windows are open to let fresh air in. It's already half-packed down in advance of move-out day, her walls naked without the usual Taylor Swift and mid-century Hollywood posters.
Each year, Renata complains that I always move in and move out so easily because I have so little personal belongings, no decorations and frivolous comfort items.
What she doesn't mention are my near-professional packing techniques, my sentiment-less approach to throwing away old assignments and useless knick knacks accrued over each semester. I could make a career out of leaving places behind because I never have to deliberate over whether to keep things because there's only one criterion: utility.
Sentimental value doesn't factor in.
"With all that work, maybe co-leading with Callum won't be too bad," Renata hums.
I snort, taking a large bite of my burrito. "If he can do his part."
"You think he won't?"
I shrug. Thinking in depth about Callum's leadership style requires thinking in depth about Callum himself and I'd rather not do that during the last weekend of school.
"Let's not talk about band. You're going to hear enough about it in fall." We've already been placed together in the residence halls for when next fall semester starts.
I shake my head, posing a new question to my roommate, "How are you feeling about spending your first summer away from your family?"
"I'm honestly feeling fine," Renata says. "How are you feeling about spending your umpteenth summer alone?"
"Fine," I answer. When Renata's eyebrows furrow with concern, I paint an easy-going smile on my face. "You know me. I want for nothing."
I'm going to miss her so much over the summer. Like I said, nearly all of our bonding in freshman year was over our varying strains of childhood trauma. Renata is the only one who knows completely what my life looked like before I came to college, and what my life to returns to every summer.
Hot, long days, beautiful weather, and no-one to share it with.
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a / n :
this brings us to the end of act 1!
the two MCs are going to have a summer away, spending their time in very different ways, and i'm excited to delve more into their backstories. i wonder if anyone has any theories yet; bay has been sprinkling hints about the general vibe of her upbringing since very early in the story.
i'll probably be uploading heaps of chapters as gifts for Christmas/New Year's/the holidays, so stay tuned!
aimee x