I glance in the mirror on my way out of the house. My hair is a mess, but there is nothing I can do; I'm already running behind. I grab my sax and run through the house, only stopping for a moment to say goodbye to my father. Ah, staring lovingly at the television. You started early today. I glance at the beer bottle and roll my eyes.

"It's seven a.m. Christ, Bill." A response is unlikely, so I continue on my merry way.

I walk slowly. No hurries now. I made it safely out of the house without being stopped by Benjamin. My worries are officially over for the day.

What's that you say? Oh, band camp is nothing compared to the wrath of my older brother. It's a walk in the park. A walk in the freaking park.

I wonder what type of rookies there will be this year. Hopefully none of them will be as obnoxious as that Roger fellow was. Maybe I'll get lucky and he quit…

Fat chance, Chris, old boy, that kid was good.

I wish I didn't have to walk. Five blocks. Or maybe I should've chosen a lighter instrument, like a flute.

Oh, I've arrived. Five blocks is nothing compared to eleven hours of band camp. Nothing.

Nobody is here, yet. Perfect.

I'll just sit under this awning. That stone bench looks ever so comfortable.

I cannot believe Mr. Ford made me a section leader. This is only my second year in band. Ah, the Big Blue Marching Band. It's a very original name, no? I can't tell you how many other big bands I've met in my times. Big Red, Big Yellow, you name it I've seen it. Even better, we're the "wildcats." Yes, the "wildcats." But before you start judging us, let me tell you one thing: we kick ass.

Section leader is the most coveted position of those who march. Ford found me worthy. I am humbled. I am honored. I am… ooh, visitor. And he plays saxophone. This is going to be fun.

I don't look up as he hesitates in front of me, deciding where he should sit. He finally takes a seat about three feet away from me.

Wow, this is a long bench.

It's time to take action; he's about to say something.

"Hello," I say in my most menacing voice. I can see him falter. I can see the intimidation in his… beautiful, cold eyes. Wait! Shit! Retreat, retreat!

Crap he's holding his hand out. Did he just say his name is Art? Maybe it was Bart. Shit!

"Christopher," I feel a smirk form. It's a good thing I know how to keep cool because this is the fun part. Wait for it… Wait for it… Now! "I'm your section leader. Welcome to Hell, noob."

And I walk away. Just like that.

Ah, James and Samuel. I walk over to where they are standing.

"Hello, boys. Excited?" I stop in front of them and wait for an answer. Sam grunts. I'll take that as a yes, then. I look at James. Is he staring at something? What is he staring at? Oh, for goodness sake. James deserves a right slap in the face. I turn around to see what has him so preoccupied.

Samantha and Rory. Of course.

I make to walk away, but both of the girls have joined the circle and have started asking about out summers. I can't be rude, now can I? Of course not, Chris. That is not how your mother raised you.

I don't have a mother. I had a mother, but she is was. Insensitive asshole.

Rory's talking. Strike that, Rory is spewing more nonsense. I swear that girl has diarrhea of the mouth. And the way she keeps looking at Samuel is starting to piss me off.

"Oh, come on, talk to me Kosher Boy." Rory just winked at Sam!

"God, you whore, he's not even Jewish," I say before I can even think.

Who's got diarrhea now, old buddy?

Rory is a fish. I swear! Or maybe her mother is a fish. There must be something in her genes the way she's gaping like that.

Her mouth seems to have started working again. Pity.

"I am not a whore!"

"Your vagina is the size of a freakin' stargate opening! Why is that? Because you're a whore."

Oh God, Samantha's being attacked by a little ball of fluff… Nevermind, it's just—

"Ariel!"

I love how Samantha can finish my sentences without even knowing that I am talking. Inside my head.

Suddenly, everyone's eyes are on something else. I look behind Sammy and see a fairly familiar figure.

Hey, Chrissy, it's that Bart dude. Or Art. I'm pretty sure it's Art. Anyway, isn't that the one you thought was cute?

I didn't. I'm not a fag.

You're talking to yourself.

Am not.

You should probably introduce him.

Right, uh…

Don't call him Bart!

"Guys, this is Art. Art, guys."

The guy you have the hots for.

Shut the hell up.

"Ha ha, when Rory gets her period, it would be like a volcano or something." Samuel guffaws at his own (poor) joke. Sometimes I wish he was a zombie all the time.

"It would rain sulfur when she pees!" James adds enthusiastically.

"My vagina is not a fucking stargate opening!" Rory protests.

I tune out the conversation and watch the rookie. He hasn't said anything. Quite frankly, I think he's surprised we left him a place in the circle.

He is so nervous. It's hilarious.

Ford has stepped onto the podium. The whistle blows in three… two… one… and the entire band scatters onto the field and into marching position.

I make my way to the middle of the twenty-yard line. I stand for a moment waiting for the next command before I realize that Rookie hasn't moved. One would think that he'd be smart enough to follow the other horns of his own kind. There were only three standing right next to him.

Obviously not, as he is still standing there.

I suppose it is my duty to help him.

I curse Ford for making me a section leader.

I hurry to the rookie and grab him by the arm. By now, we are the only ones moving. Hopefully, we aren't called to attention right now. I begin to drag him to the center of the twenty-yard line and explain exactly what marching position is.

He better be listening.

As Paige stands in front of us and calls out commands, I watch Rookie out of the corner of my eye. He has absolutely no idea what he's doing and it's all I can do not to break out in laughter at his utter lack of sense. If I had no self-control, I'd be rolling around on the grass laughing maniacally at how horrid of a marcher he is. After today, however, and eleven hours of my marvelous 'teaching skills,' he will be the second best marcher in this entire band. After me, of course. I didn't march Capital Sound this summer for nothing.

How is it that Rookie is only one of two rookie saxes this year? I asked Samuel why and he said that another girl is at a funeral and had permission from Ford to miss the first week. That idiot girl is going to be extremely behind. I'd pity her if I wasn't her section leader. However, I am, and the only person I feel sorry for is myself. I'm tempted to pass this girl off to Stephen when she finally shows her despicable face. Second-in-command should be able to handle teaching her the basics and the first few drills.

That's exactly what I'll do. Poor Stephen.

…But I don't feel sorry for him.

Hot damn… Rookie is more pitiful than I thought he would be. Never have I misjudged someone so horrendously. I mean… I've always prided myself on my fantastic judge of character. It seems I am losing my touch.

Well, I made it through the first day without slaying anyone. Though I came close many times. Art, especially.

"Rookie! Wait up!" I yell to Art before he starts to walk off-campus. It takes him a second to realize I'm talking to him. I get about twelve feet closer before he turns around and sighs.

He was going in the same direction I need to go.

I catch up to him, but I don't stop. I don't even acknowledge him as I walk by. I chuckle when I hear him exclaim from behind me.

"Weren't you calling me?" He runs to my side and falls in step.

"Yeah." I still don't look at him.

"And?" I believe he is waiting for some sort of reason as to why I called his name. Why should he think I want to speak with him?

…Oh, yeah.

"Uh… You suck at marching." Yeah, that's why I'm talking to him.

"Thanks," he says sarcastically.

Only Rookie would even think of taking that as a compliment, albeit a bit sarcastically. Anyways, I think there was something else I wanted to say. I glance down at the blond beside me. Wow, he's kind of short.

Okay, back on track, Chris. Was there even a track? I don't quite recall…

He's looking at me. Probably waiting for me to say something. Or maybe he's trying to shoot laser beams at me with his eyes. I'll choose the former; I'm not quite ready to die. I have a rookie to torture.

Oh, yeah!

"Saturday at seven a.m." I pause.

"Saturday at seven…" He tries to coax the rest out of me. Well, I'll just leave him hanging, then. See how he likes that.

We walk in silence for ninety seconds. He keeps looking at me.

"Well, this is my turn." He looks at me again.

I guess I have to spit out the rest of my sentence.

"I'll pick you up at seven on Saturday. You need extra practice."

"What?"

"You heard me."

"Oh… okay… Um…" He seems to be at a loss for words. I almost laugh out loud at his gape.

My rookie is a fish.

At that I do chuckle and he gives me a weird look.

"I live four houses that way." He points to the right and then starts walking in the same direction.

"See ya," I say and start walking again.

Fifty-eight hours until I get to introduce this kid to the devil.

I simply cannot wait.