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band camp
noun. an intensive camp, usually over summer, to prepare musical ensembles and teach performance skills.
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SUMMER ALWAYS AGREES WITH BAY.
Her soul definitely belongs in winter, with all the dead trees and barren landscapes mirroring her heart, but in summer? I think she glows. Her skin browns at the shoulders, calves, cheekbones and the tip of her nose. Due to the heat she keeps her wild curly hair tied up most of the time, revealing her elegant profile and collar, and employs little cooling measures like fanning herself, splashing water on her face, blowing tendrils of hair off her forehead. It's adorable, I don't know.
Maybe I just like seeing her stony exterior crack in half—she overheats? She is human after all. Or maybe I just like seeing her flustered.
I don't realize I've been staring in her direction until she walks up to me, leaning close to me to whisper, "Hey, mouth-breather. You wanna stop zoning out and finish handing out the music?"
I paste a cheerful expression on my face and grit out, "Shut up."
Crass, but I couldn't think of a better comeback; it is fucking sweltering on this football field.
Both of us have taken Keller's feedback on board. In spring, she told us that our rivalry would set a bad precedent for the percussion section, and for the band in general. As an incentive—or, what I consider to be a punishment—we've been pitted against each other as co-leaders.
So, there's a new competition at play: who the best section leader is. Consequently, Bay and I take even more precautions to keep our bickering and insults hidden from the rest of the percussion section and drumline. The freshmen who have never met us before band camp started four hours ago won't know any better. Shane and the other returning percussionists are probably more clued in, but we're all professionals today.
Yesterday the marching band all moved onto campus early. This morning, all two-hundred and eight marching band members convened on the football field. Day one of band camp is always a refresher to marching.
The very first thing Keller—who's been carrying a megaphone around all day—had us do was run two laps of the field. The second thing was to run up and down the bleachers. The third was a set of calisthenic exercises. (Physical conditioning is an important part of marching).
The last thing was a team-bonding exercise, during which we finally met our sections. This year, including the section leaders, there are twenty-five in the drumline and five in the pit percussion. Bay and I made a separate Facebook group (for copies of music and rehearsal posts) and group chat (for reminders and memes) to manage the percussion section.
It was during the team bonding exercises that I started to see Bay as a leader in her own right. Little stuff—she knows how to get people to quieten down, projecting her voice and doing the whole teacher-like I'll just wait till you're ready. She ran the icebreakers with more humor and good spirit than she's ever shown around me. In the first activity, Things in Common, she would yell a number and give everyone two minutes to form a group of that number and find one thing everyone had in common, or else the whole group would be eliminated. The second one was Human Knot where everyone tangles their hands and tries to get back into an interlinked circle.
After the section team-bonding and before lunch, Keller re-taught the basics of marching and body carriage. Now, with everyone full of nachos and starting to fade underneath the relentless overhead sun, Bay and I need to hand out the individualized sheet music and dot sheets (telling people where to stand on the field) to our section.
Keller's megaphone clicks on. She sits at the tall tower on the home audience side of the football field, a white tennis visor over her eyes and whistle around her neck. "Alright, sit down everyone. I know you're probably drowsy after lunch and tired after morning marching, so for the next half-hour you get to listen to me talk."
Firstly she explains to everyone how to read their dot sheet, what the different columns and numbers mean. She demonstrates by calling different section leaders to stand up and walk to different horizontal and vertical coordinates. "Now, Quentin, take a step outside that hash. One step inside. Fours steps outside. Stop on the hash, yes, perfect. Got it, everyone? Easy as sneezing."
Finally, the most anticipated part of Day One: Keller reveals the theme of our marching season.
"Sun and Moon," her voice crackles through the megaphone, "is all about finding commonalities in what we think are opposite and exclusive ideas, places, and people. We're putting together three halftime shows this semester: Sun is the first, Moon is the second, and Eclipse is the third. Between shows two and three, there's an away game in Pittsburgh. The pep band will play the rest of the home games; anyone in marching band can join pep band if you like, unless you're percussion. There's a different system." Basically, the drumline acts as an autonomous ensemble that accompanies the pep band, but entry into the pep band percussion section is selective because there's only two parts: drum kit and keyboard.
In our music folders, the pieces click together in perfect sense. I just thought Keller chose the trending pop hits to get a stronger audience reaction. Last year's theme was Y2K and the one before that was the Marvel Cinematic Universe. This time, among others, there's Fly Me to the Moon by Frank Sinatra, Talking to the Moon by Bruno Mars, Here Comes the Sun by The Beatles, Pocketful of Sunshine by Natasha Bedingfield, and I Can See Clearly Now by Johnny Nash. There's also more symphonic selections, alongside good ol' Amoretto which doesn't get played until the last show, Eclipse.
Our of the corner of my eye, I glance at Bay, who has her tanned legs stretched out on the glass and her body lazily propped up. She seems to have an affinity with the freshmen percussionists, like a big sister, because she sat with them at lunch and is sitting close to them now. Most of them are on cymbal and pit parts.
"Alright! My voice is now hoarse," Keller concludes from her perch high above the ground. "Stand up, everyone. Pick up your drink bottles—these are going to be your markers for Set 1. Look at your dot sheet and try to find your places on the field. As always, ask your section leaders if you need any help."
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I'm utterly exhausted after Day Five of band camp, and I love it.
I love the fast pace and intensity of marching band. I love meeting new people and challenging myself with new music. Over the course of band camp, we've blocked nearly all of the first show, Sun. Transitions still need cleaning and music still needs memorizing, but the bones of the movement have been laid out, ready for substance and decoration to be added on later.
In sectionals, Bay has recalled one of the games Lien used to play with the drumline. It's called Four Bar, and it's designed to help the drumline memorize the sheet music. I've always been jealous of bass instruments like the tuba, who can quite literally toot the same crotchet chord progression for an entire song. I've also always been jealous of Bay, who can memorize things way faster than I can.
To play Four Bar, everyone circles up by instrument. The basses need to play together, as do the cymbals and tenors. Bay taught them the rules of the game together and I taught the snares. When she returned, we started: someone plays the first four bars of the piece then stops, and the next person clockwise needs to seamlessly attach the next four bars then stop, so on and so on.
Whoever forgets or makes a sticking mistake is exiled from the circle, our ranks closing without them, and they need to play quietly along on their own instrument for the rest of the game. By the final round, there's always two people in the middle facing off while the rest drum in an intense, eager circle around them. Four Bar is useful because it encourages everyone to be actively listening for when their entry is, and the ones with weak memorization are given more practice in every round, playing constantly instead of intermittently like those still in to win.
One time, Bay entered on the absolute easiest four-bar section with only beats 2 and 4 rim clicks, lazily spinning her other drumstick over her knuckles. Robby, a senior snare drummer, started yelling 'ayy!' in the silences, which made her laugh.
Another time, the snares were on a pretty good streak, and a few yards away on the field the tenors joined in with us. Then the basses heard, and the cymbals, too, and soon the whole drumline was playing Four Bar in sync, banking on this one snare drummer not to fuck up—which she did, which made some people boo, which made more people scold the boo-ers.
"No, nah," Shane protested, her platinum hair pulled into two pigtails, striking loudly on her snare to get attention. "Don't shame her. Peace and love, you motherfuckers."
Another time, Bay and I were the last ones standing, surrounded by a ring of the other snare drummers. She didn't miss a beat, wouldn't miss a beat, and I was concentrating all my brainpower into meeting her prickling eye contact and making my hands execute the music. People could feel the competitive tension, had always sought to pick a favorite or deftest section leader. Down to the last eight bars, it quickly became clear we would finish the whole piece and—because it was the very first time the snares might get all the way through this song—everyone stopped playing half-volume and poured all their energy in. We finished successfully, and the snares burst into rapturous celebration, tired but gleaming.
"Well done, guys," Bay said, wiping sweat from her temple. Only half-joking, "Again?"
When family forms so quickly at band camp, I often wonder what broke between me and Bay. It used to be just like this.
After each day, Bay and I are responsible for supervising the percussion equipment restoration into the band room drum cupboards. Then we lock up, and return the key to Keller. I've been pleasantly surprised by how easy it is to co-lead with her. It's definitely because there's no spare time to even start arguments, but I've enjoyed the peaceful coexistence.
I think I will also have to invite her to the band party I throw at the end of band camp (a tradition). It's what a good leader would do.
Our percussionists wheel what can be wheeled into their respective places and one by one store their marching drums. The drum cupboard is a hollow space behind the back wall of the band room, which is nearly large enough to be a separate room, covered with panels of wood that can slide past each other. Thousands of dollars worth of marching equipment lies inside, on the deep steel shelves that separate the basses from the quads from the snares.
Once it's just us two in the band room, we finally move to stow our snares. Bay hoists the snare drum above her head, aiming for the top shelf, but part of the frame must catch on the steel. Not expecting the drum to fix in place, Bay's hands slip past the barrel and the drum starts to fall straight for her face.
She flinches, curling in reflexively, "Shit."
Quick as a flash, I reach with my spare hand to catch the edge of the drum, reinforcing the left side of its weight.
I smoothly slide the snare into place, ignoring the brush of my front half against Bay's shoulder. My hand remains on the shelf, arm angling down from above a few inches for her bare skin. My body hums with adrenaline and more than a little panic.
She turns around, notices our close proximity, and blinks. Her pupils are dark, framed by whiskey brown. The colors remind me of my bedroom in Halston with only the nightstand lamp on, the creeping shadows and the intensely warm lamplight.
"Don't die on my watch," I tell her.
A normal person would say thank you for preventing a gruesome face injury—seriously, those drums are heavy. Bay simpers darkly and replies, "But then you get the section to yourself. Dream come true."
"Leader by tragic accident is just like leader by forfeit. I wouldn't have earned it."
"And that's the only reason you wouldn't want me to get taken out by blunt force trauma to the head? How sweet."
I give her a withering smile. "What do you want me to say? No, Bay, you're too clever and talented beautiful to leave this earth."
Her eyebrows dart up, her mouth falling open in a surprised but amused smile. "Beautiful?"
I sigh, tipping my head in a mockery of disappointment. Am I supposed to be so blinded by hatred that I can't acknowledge the beauty in front of me? "We're not going to pretend that you don't know how you look. False modesty is beneath you."
I've thought she was breath-taking since the first time I saw her. At the start of freshman band camp, she sat away from all the rest of the attendees, five rows behind on the bleachers. Nearly all of the percussion section was boys, and we didn't realize she was one of us until she found us for the icebreakers.
I remember thinking the universe made her for me. A drummer, a genius, a magnet. I swore we were on the edge of something in the first weeks of freshman year; we really bonded at our first band camp, we hung out at parties, we even kissed. Something went wrong somewhere, and it was either after our first interaction, or during—when I mistakenly saw something in Bay that doesn't exist.
So I can perceive her exterior however I like; it says nothing about the sort of person that lies within. Bay is beautiful, but she also judges people, collects their weaknesses, presses the point of her nail into them just to see us twitch. Two different things can be true.
She shoves my shoulder back and slips out from where she'd backed up against the shelves. I slide the door shut and lock the drum cupboard. My stomach begs for dinner, my legs tremble if I leave them motionless for too long. As we pick up our bags and lock the band room, Bay informs me: "Approximately six people already have crushes on you."
"In percussion or in the wider band?"
"Both."
I scoff. "Six people in less than six days? And how would you know this?"
I mean, I did notice heads turning in my direction yesterday when I peeled off my t-shirt after warm-up. It was just too hot to function in clothes.
"Just paying attention," she retorts. "You would have noticed the eye contact and unwarranted laughter if you spared an extra brain cell."
"Unwarranted? Maybe I'm just funny."
"Oh, Callum," Bay coos, her tone sugary and fully condescending. "Such a dreamer."
A flash of rage hits my chest, urging me to push her up against the nearest solid surface and make her shut up. Control. Inner peace. Instead I release a calming exhale as we walk up the second flight of stairs to Keller's office, the stone walls keeping the building cool.
"So what? Why bring it to my attention? People are allowed to develop crushes in peace. I'll just turn a blind eye."
Bay shrugs, her lips pursing suggestively. "Good. Do. I think section leaders shouldn't engage in bandcest. It introduces the possibility of favoritism and taints the dynamic."
We hit the third floor landing and pause outside Keller's office.
I'm kind of insulted she would think that of me. Sure, I understand that relationships form naturally in the band from common interest and lots of time together. But it hasn't happened to me in the past three years, and now when the two of us have more to lose than ever—even more than the rest of the band leadership, because none of them are sharing roles—Bay is suddenly concerned that I would do something so reckless.
"Don't you want me to mess up?" I wonder.
"I do."
"Then why warn me? If I was booted, then you get to be sole section leader."
"Yeah, if being the operative word. Which you wouldn't be, because leadership-and-ensemble bandcest isn't strictly against the handbook—"
"You looked it up?"
"Of course I looked it up, did you even read your handbook?" Bay scoffs, giving me an expression like what are you even doing?
"Nope—"
"—so if you fuck a freshman, we have to keep co-leading, but I'll have to deal with the interpersonal fallout if things go awry. Like you start playing favorites and the other drummers get upset, or you lose focus while trying to smash and make me pick up the slack."
"I have no control over who the fuck has a crush on me! I'm not going to pursue any of them, especially not someone three months out of high school," I retort heatedly, "and anyways why do you always assume the worst of me when I've given you no reason to?" Bay rolls her eyes and looks to the ground. "Yeah, when it comes to you, I act like shit, but you know—you know, Bay—when it comes to the band, I would never be so careless."
Keller's door swings open with a sudden click. She addresses us with an exasperated expression, light blue eyes flicking between Bay, who has fallen silent and still, and me. "Seriously? Aren't you two too exhausted to be fighting? We were doing so well this week."
"Evidently not," I say, shooting a glower in Bay's direction. She scoffs and shoves an elbow into my side.
"For God's sake," Keller mutters, her wrinkled hand shooting out to grab the key chain from us. "Well, I suppose good things don't last. Thank you for packing up. Dinner. Shower. Bed. Goodnight."
"Night, Keller," Bay mumbles.
"See you tomorrow, Keller," I farewell.
"We're running sectionals first thing, so if you must tear into each other, avoid doing it on band time."
Then her door slams shut, leaving me in the spotlight of Bay's glare.