I clutch the shiny brass-plated saxophone closer to me. The instrument's keys feel warm beneath my fingers; its many moving parts glint especially brightly in the morning sunlight. I feel like I'm on default mode, putting one foot in front of the other without really thinking about where I'm going. Faintly, as though from a distance, I can hear someone saying, "Mark time eight, forward march sixteen, slide left eight..." Try as I might to concentrate on the distant voice and allow it to guide me through the next few minutes, the only thing I can hear is the rapid pounding of my heart in my ears. I try to watch the people that surround me, all of them clutching saxophones, and copy their footsteps, but I can barely see them through the sheet of tears that has covered my eyes. I stare through my tears at their blurred figures, choke back a sob that it threatening to burst from me harder and harder with each breath I take, and funnel all my willpower into not crying. Through all of this, I march. I follow the people around me, going through the motions, constantly telling myself that it will be over soon.
"Count," another voice orders, alarmingly close. "I can't hear you! Count!" My breathing has become shallower, shorter.
"One," I reply in a wobbly, feeble voice. "Two..."
I close my eyes tightly and don't open them for a full minute. When I relax my eyelids and allow them to slide open, the tears have cleared. Filling my vision is the boy who stands one row in front of me. He looks completely at ease, like everything in his world is perfect. I know he hears the tiny sobs I do allow to escape from my lungs, the breathing that has become louder and more ragged, but he ignores it. He ignores me.
I stare at him, the gorgeous boy in front of me, unable to tear my eyes from him. I focus on the face I know so well; the face that, until now, has always been a comforting sight. That boy has never ignored me before. That boy has loved me since he was twelve years old. Today he ignores me. From now on, he will ignore me.
The sight of him does me in. No amount of strength in me can hold back the painful sob working its way up my throat. I give in; I let the sob escape, shuddering with the pure weight of it. It fills the air for a moment, broadcasting my agony. The people in front of me turn around to stare. Their eyes ask me dozens of questions.
"Why are you crying?" they wonder. "What's wrong with you?"
"Everything is wrong with me," I want to reply.
I admit defeat. More tears and bigger sobs are struggling to escape from me. In a whirl of panic, I throw my saxophone to the ground and dash to the side of the field. I know I am not nearly fast enough. I know that the piercing cries that heave from my chest are reaching their ears. I throw myself to the ground, cover my face, and cry harder than I've ever cried in my entire life.
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