Welcome to the Marching Band
(by Silvorfithrade)
A/N: Some of the details are changed from the original RPG because I liked these ideas better, but this is the "dramatic meeting" of Tara Sophrazio and Scott Herald. Who woulda guessed spunky, flamboyant ole Tara as an outcast her freshman year? – broad grin –
I wish things could have turned out differently.
Tara Sophrazio turned mournfully from the dance floor and trudged to the girl's bathroom, heart heavy and eyes threatening to overflow with tears. How she had let this happen to herself, she would never know, but the redheaded freshman was beginning to feel the burning sting of betrayal in every inch of her heart. She was one of those rare freshman girls that was very aware of the plain, inevitable fact that she was indeed very young and naïve, something that most of her peers never recognized in their arrogance. While this mindset may have taken a bit of the pain away, she knew for certain the events of this night would take a long time to heal.
Look at me; I did this for you!
Staring at her tear-streaked reflection in the lipstick-stained mirror, she couldn't help but realize with regret that she was skinny – too skinny. True, she had the lean, willowy body of a dancer, and because she had also been one of those early developers, she had more substance than the awkward, prepubescent child she would have resembled otherwise, but for the first time she was noticing details such as the telltale ridges of her sunken cheeks, and how the iridescent green corset she was wearing over a skintight turtleneck fit her almost too loosely. How she looked as though she would break in half if she bent over.
How long have I been like this? What have I done to myself?
For two years since the death of her older brother, Tara had thrown herself into her dancing. She had forced herself through rigorous training classes four nights a week, only sparing the other days for the sake of her voice lessons. For two years, she had eaten close to nothing, the last traces of her baby fat melting off quite prematurely in the face of her "dedication" to her art. And for two years she had taken refuge in the mocking friendship of girls who encouraged her dieting and her ceaseless exercise, praising her for her beauty and her skill.
Those same girls just mocked me off the dance floor.
A week before Thunder Point High School's annual Fall Ball, she had attended an after-party hosted by one of the couples in her theatre troupe. The night had ended quite badly, with her becoming quite drunk and subjecting herself to indignities she would never have considered otherwise. She vaguely remembered leaving the rented party home in a haze because she had retained just enough of her senses to refuse sleeping with one of the male dancers she had once admired. Most of the night was still a blur, and the only solid evidence of the fact that it had ever taken place at all was the cold, indifferent hatred that was now shown her by people she had once thought were her best friends.
I thought maybe they were just mad at me. Now I don't know if they ever liked me at all.
One of her former friends had invited her to go to the Fall Ball, an invitation Tara had eagerly accepted in hopes of reconciliation. Now she was beginning to see that she had only been asked to come so she could be publicly humiliated in front of her entire school. "You anorexic freak!" they had taunted her, taking the one thing they had once praised as her beauty and twisting it to accommodate their cruelty.
How will I ever make friends here now? Worthless, that's what I am.
Somehow she found the resolve to pick herself up from the floor (she didn't even remember ever sitting down) and walked out of the gym, off of Thunder Point campus, and into the subdivision where her home was located. Somewhere between the walk from Thunder Point Parkway and New Hopewell Estates, she unconsciously made her decision. A blue Mustang just turned the corner and was slowly picking up speed. If she timed it right...
oOo
"You goddamn idiot!"
Jacen Herald almost had a sudden heart failure as he twisted the steering wheel as far as it could go in the opposite direction, his foot pounding the brake like a blacksmith's hammer on a newly forged piece of metal as his palm simultaneously made heavy contact with the car horn. His little brother Scott, who had just gotten out of the car to drop something off at a friend's house, was suddenly sprinting into the road in front of him, shouting at the top of his lungs to the girl who was standing, petrified, in the middle of the street.
Then both of them were in the grass by the sidewalk, and his car was safely stopped in someone's yard with the fender bent at an odd angle around an expensive cast iron mailbox. Hands shaking, he got out of his wrecked vehicle and ran to the two across the street. "Are you mental? What the hell were you thinking? Do you want to throw your life away?" the senior roared at the girl, who simply stared blankly ahead numbly, completely unresponsive.
"Leave her alone, Jacen. I think she's hurt," Scott said softly as he tried to elicit a response from her.
"The hell," Jacen spat. "Don't you realize this scrawny little brat almost got both you and herself killed?"
"What if we take her home and see if Mom knows who she is? She works at the school, so she might have seen her if she goes to Thunder Point," Scott suggested as he glared at his brother for being so crude. "I don't think she knows what she's doing."
"Oh, of course. She just waltzed into the street because she really, really wanted to get hit by a car. What an awesome idea for a nighttime thrill!"
"Jacen!"
"Oh, okay," he grumbled as he lifted the girl off of the grass. She was surprisingly light...too light. "I don't remember you having a reason to suddenly start being nice to people. Maybe you would have more friends if you were this caring to everyone."
The ride home to Breckenridge, their subdivision, was eerily silent. The strange girl sat in the back seat, not saying a word and barely moving as Jacen tore through the streets at twice the recommended speed. He even smelled the faint, telltale trace of burnt rubber as he screeched into his garage and shut off the ignition. "Home sweet home. Finally."
oOo
Her neck ached. So did her arms, stomach, legs, and every other muscle on her body. Groggily, Tara glanced around the room; this certainly wasn't her house, wherever she was. The walls had the stark blankness of a guest room, the curtains covered with lilacs, roses, and other flowers she didn't know the names of. Slowly, in bits and pieces, the memories of the night's events returned to her. Shit. Did I really try to do that?
She sat bolt upright against the protests of her groaning muscles, her heart racing frantically. What would her mother be doing? She certainly wasn't home, and that meant she probably hadn't even gone home, which meant...
"Good morning, Tara."
Confused, Tara managed to mumble, "Madame Herald?" What's my new dance coach doing here?
"You can just call me Stacey here, dear. My sons were coming home from the dance last night and, sadly to say, my older one almost ran you over in the street."
"Dammit," was all she could manage to say, the curse slipping out as an unintelligible groan. "I'm so screwed."
"Your mother knows you're here, and I'll get Jacen to bring you home after you eat breakfast."
A tall, sandy-haired boy peered in from behind his mother. "She never sends anyone home hungry," he piped up with a grin. "Tara, right?"
"Scott!" his mother scolded. "Give her some time to tidy herself up!" Her face softening, she pointed to a white door on the other side of the room. "The guest bathroom is over there. Just give me a yell if you need anything, darling."
"Okay." Tara nodded, feeling a wild mix of confusion, relief, and shame all at the same time. The events unfolding before her were almost unreal, as though she were watching herself through a window, a safe observer in a closed booth. She feebly attempted to sort through her thoughts as she let the steaming hot water stream over her aching body. She remembered the previous night in bits and pieces, almost like...
She groaned. Not again. She definitely didn't want to think about that night.
Then, she remembered the headlights. They seemed so welcoming in her memory. She could recall exactly how the damp night air had washed over her face, and how she had stared into those headlights, willing them to come to her. She groaned again. Thinking about how narrowly she had avoided death was not a way she preferred to start off her mornings.
Shaking the remainder of sleep from her head, she dried off and put her clothes back on, dropping the corset on the bed as she walked out of the room, leaving just her turtleneck and olive green capris. Almost dreading meeting the eyes of the rest of the family, she choked down her embarrassment and forced herself to plod to the kitchen, bracing herself for whatever she would face.
"Tara! Finally!"
Madame Herald – Stacey! she corrected herself – bustled out of the kitchen and ushered her to the table and reminding her vaguely of a mother hen. "Do you like eggs and hash browns? I made you a slice of toast, too; I hope you don't mind real butter, I know a lot of the girls prefer the fat free imitation kind. And there's jam and maple syrup on the table and bacon in the frying pan if you want some of that. I'm so sorry if you're used to low carb stuff; the boys would just die if they had to live on fat free 'woman food' as they call it."
The redhead just shook her head slowly, trying to comprehend the speech she had just been given. "No, it's okay," she answered as she surveyed the food on her plate. "Fat and sugar is fine with me..." You idiot, that didn't even make sense.
"So, Tara, you new to Thunder Point? I don't remember seeing you at the middle school," Scott said with his cock-eyed grin as he slathered a mound of ketchup on his hash brown.
"Homeschooled," she answered with a mouth full of toast. Why is he being so friendly to me? He doesn't even know me.
Jacen eyed his brother's plate with disgust. "Bro...that's just gross. And leave her alone and let her eat."
"No, it's okay," Tara said quickly as she hastily swallowed her food. She somehow couldn't shake that dream-like feeling. This was just beginning to seem unreal to her.
Scott, who seemed plainly intent on ignoring his brother, winked conspiratorially at her. "You marching with the dance team this year?"
Eyes widening, Tara shook her head. The Fall Ball being on the first Saturday of school, she had found ample time to promptly switch her seventh hour from "Steppers P.E." to "Band," opting for the performance dance classes held second hour, and figured she knew enough about the sax she had played in her junior high homeschool band to somehow plod her way through marching a show she had never even seen before. "Nah. Band for me."
Scott's face lit up as he reached across the table to high-five her. "Yes! I'm on the battery. Drumline," he added at her look of confusion. "You missed band camp, but we didn't do much this year because O'Donnell fell off the scaffolding the second day and broke his leg. Oh, it's not anything serious," he added quickly as her expression changed from confusion to concern. "Just enough to keep him in the hospital for a couple days and off his feet so he can't yell at us on the field."
"I didn't know you were in band, dear," Mrs. Herald said with a smile. "What do you play?"
"Alto sax," she muttered through a second mouthful of food. Slow down, you pig. She couldn't remember eating so much in a long time.
"Oh, that means you'll be in Gerbrecht's section. He's the craziest person you'll probably ever meet."
"Isn't that the kid that wrecked his sister's Jeep into the speakerbox at McDonald's?" asked Jacen with a raised eyebrow.
Scott shrugged. "It wasn't his fault. The brakes failed, remember?"
"Yeah, whatever. All I remember of the story was Kaitlyn Gerbrecht having to drag him by the ear to go apologize to the fast-food workers. Then making him pay for damages. And being like, fourteen, the kid shouldn't even be driving in the first place."
Tara couldn't help herself. For the first time in a long time, she laughed.
oOo
Two years later...
Tara Sophrazio watched the new girl walk on the practice field with slumped shoulders, holding her clarinet case together with both hands as though she were afraid it was going to fall apart. Unruly black hair fell into her eyes, blue-grey things that scanned the crowd of band, guard, and dancers with a hint of the usual freshman nervousness and fear. Long black jeans dragged the damp, dewy grass, rolled up as they were, and the black hoodie she wore was screenprinted with the Halo logo across the back.
She watched the new girl run through a set of warm-up scales. Impressed at the newcomer's skill, Tara glanced at her own instrument forlornly. Because of a shortage of flute players for the woodwind feature they were doing, she had been "volunteered" by her band director to play the instrument for a semester. Oh well. At least the flutes and the clarinets usually formed a sort of "co-section," so she would have time to introduce herself to the new kid.
The short clarinet player kept glancing about her nervously, she noticed, and she kept avoiding the larger groups to finally find a place slightly isolated near the edge of the field. Just like someone else you were familiar with, her mind whispered to her. Laughing in spite of herself, Tara strode over to the new girl to say hello. A scratched up name tag was affixed to the clarinet case.
"Hey, Kacia!" she called. The name was right apparently, because the new girl glanced up and recoiled in fear.
"Whoa, relax. I don't bite," she said with a merry laugh. "I heard you warming up. You're really good."
"Thanks," Kacia muttered, averting her eyes.
"So, anyway, I'm Tara, and I'm stuck with the accursed flute section this year, so, being on the same end of the musical pyramid, we'll probably see each other a lot. You new to Thunder Point?"
The girl nodded, still watching the ground. "Transferred from Saint Michaels."
Tara suddenly had a flashback to her freshman year, and with her sudden, if rather dramatic meeting with Scott Herald. When she had found her first real friend. Grinning like the idiot she was proud to be, she extended a hand. "Welcome to the marching band."