"You know, when you play drums you're supposed to hold onto the sticks." He grins at me miraculously, stifling back a laugh. I roll my eyes, trying to hold back a laugh myself, and walk to go retrieve the sticks that had ricoshaied across the room. We sat on the cold bleachers, rubbing our hands through the snow. "One more rep?" I ask, shaking the flurries from my marching jacket. I held back my urge to brush them from his curly hair. He smiles slightly, saying, "200." And he sets the metronome. I sit nervously against the brick wall of the school, watching cars pass by in the night. He watches me from a distance, glancing my way every few seconds. "Alright over there?" He asks, approaching me slowly. "No." I answer. He sits down, though I know he hates the cold snow. "You're still first chair to me." Everything important that happened to me occured during this season. And nothing has ever mattered more.