You notice my shirt first. /div

It's black, but the design on the back is what drew your attention. The blue and violet swirls that spell out Arabian Nights is absolutely unmistakable. It was your senior year marching band show.

You notice where I'm standing next.

At this point, you're wondering who could possibly be here from your high school band. After all, not very many of them could get into such a prestigious school, even if they did want a degree in math or science. You see the made-up faces of the girls surrounding me and realize that there's only one section I could possibly be in. The Colorguard. Who else slathers themselves in makeup for a regular practice?

You notice my hair after that. Suddenly the connection hits. That mess of blonde curls could only belong to one member of your high school's guard. You can't remember my name, if you ever even knew it the two years we marched together. But you'd seen my hair way too many times in te sets leading up to the your snare drum solo not to recognize me at that point. Sure it's been almost three years and it's longer now than it was back then, but you know that it's me.

You attempt to recall any information you have on me. It's not easy as you never associated much with anyone outside the drumline. I was friends with your favorite freshman, you remember. I had snuck over to the battery section of the stands a couple of times at games to visit Paige. I had once hit your section mate and battery captain Will during the snare drum solos. You had seen Will trying to reassure me that he didn't mind one bit and that I didn't need to keep apologizing. You kept up a steady glare for the rest of practice though to make up for it. You couldn't let me think that what I had done could be fixed by a few simple words. Yes Will had been okay that time, but what about when I might hit someone else? What if I hit Paige?

You consider walking over to me. Maybe you could find out how Paige and Michael and Andrew and Noah have been doing; there's only so much you can learn from social media. Maybe you want me to know that you've matured from the high school girl you'd been 3 years ago. Maybe you should let her know that the Eagles could stick together here.

You see another familiar face from high school before you get a chance. You see me leave the rest of the colorguard to talk to him. You know him. He was a year younger than you and a year older than me. He was still in jazz band but had stopped marching after high school. It was really too bad, he'd been admittedly good for a woodwind. You wonder how we know each other if we came from different sections and grades, and for the first time, you wonder what happened after you graduated, to me and everybody else, particularly the rest of the drumline.

Your unspoken question will only be answered later when you check social media only to discover my relationship with that sweet "freshman" from your senior year from the drumline. You vaguely remember seeing us together in prom pictures without realizing we were ever actually together and it suddenly connects how he was only one not to cling to the rest of the percussionists. But at this moment, all you can do is imagine crazy situations.

You feel someone walk up next to you. "You're looking at something rather intently," noted Brandon. You nod toward me. "She went to our high school."

Brandon gives you a strange look for a moment before refocusing his gaze. "They both did. Is she marching?"

You shrug, turning to face Brandon. "It sure looks like it. Do you... Do you remember her name?"

Brandon shakes his head, "It was Caroline or Emily or something. But I've got to run, we have a front ensemble sectional. I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

You force out a laugh. "I'm fine! Don't be late because of me!"

As soon as Brandon has left though, you return your gaze to us. Cole's little brother and Caroline/Emily. You finally shake your head and turn away and start getting your snare on it's carrier.

Maybe you'll try to welcome me to your new family later. Maybe you'll pretend not to recognize me. Either way, you feel the sudden urge to play your solo from your senior year, which is almost forgotten but somehow still locked into your muscle memory.

You glance over your shoulder, intending to make some kind if dramatic exit but I've already disappeared in a swirl of colorful flag silks.