Disclaimer: Newsies are Disney's. Story contains slash.

A/N: This chapter is my personal favorite thus far. It was a lot of fun to freak out David and have so many of the characters interact -- drunk!Spot was a particular delight. Thanks to those who have been reading and reviewing thus far. And, of course, continued thanks and praise for my beta clio21000.


Chapter 3 – Initiation

The last evening rehearsal of band camp always meant one thing: Drill Down. Everyone got to see how well the freshman had been indoctrinated into the Cougarland marching style in the last week, and the veterans got to show off and compete against each other. David had hung in longer than half the band, but then Sarah called a left flank while they were back marching. He turned the wrong way and smacked into Morris. It was lucky they didn't use instruments during Drill Downs or David would have a concussion from a trombone slide.

So now he sat on the edge of the practice field (he had finally resolved to calling it a field) with the others who had been eliminated, watching the last few and best marchers. Once Jack was eliminated, he predicted a tie between Racetrack and Bumlets, the mellophone section leader. Mush was rooting for Lou, while Blink was proud that a freshman sax player was still in the game.

Mostly David was watching the senior percussionist everyone called Spot. There was something about Spot's legs that just mystified him. They were so skinny – you could tell even though he wore jeans every day – and yet so obviously strong. For each command Sarah called out, Spot executed it in perfect percussion marching style.

Percussionists, David knew, didn't take the sharp turns commanded on "flanks" because the weight and bulk of the drum would topple them, or wound the people close by. Instead, percussionists bent their knees and dropped into a "crab walk" – snaking leg behind leg across the field while keeping their upper body stiff and maintaining the perfect ratio of eight-steps-to-five-yards. This way, their drums always faced the audience no matter what direction their bodies moved.

Spot even held out his arms with his hands pointed down to represent the edges of his tenor drums (quads, David heard Racetrack call them), emphasizing his resemblance to a crab. David would have felt embarrassed or geeky if he was required to crab walk, but Spot made it look like the most natural thing in the world. And no one, David felt sure, would ever even consider making fun of Spot. Or Race, for that matter, even though his legs were almost too short to make a big enough step for eight-to-five marching.

Sarah rattled off an intimidating string of commands full of double and triple flanks, then instead of giving the execute command she called a halt. All of the marchers automatically responded, "Step and close!" but several of them, including Race, took an extra step toward doing the first flank move.

"That was a bum call, Sarah Jacobs!" Racetrack shouted over his shoulder as he trotted to the sideline. "Dirty and low!" He took a seat next to Jack. "She's on a power trip tonight."

"As usual," David and Jack muttered at the same time. Their eyes locked together in surprise, but neither of them spoke.

It was down to Spot and Bumlets. "My money's on Spot," Race said. "Boy's like a robot. No way anybody beats a perc marching."

"Unless you're a dance minor like Bumlets, apparently," Mush said as Spot's foot stuttered mid crab-step and he stumbled.

Cheers went up from across the band for Bumlets, and Spot shoved his fists in his jeans pockets. He sauntered over to Race, brushing by David without a glance. "Fucking rock," was all he said.

Denton came forward out of the mob, clapping for Bumlets with his clip board tucked under his arm. His bowtie was dark blue today, no doubt in honor of the school colors.

"That's great. Congrats, Alex. Really nice job." He turned to address the restless students. "Okay guys, I am bound by university dictate to make it clear band camp is now over. Whatever activities you undertake this evening, specifically the Y-trap" he smiled slightly, as thought happy to be in on some joke, "are in no way affiliated with the band. I just want to say that I hope you all look out for each other and I don't want to hear any incriminating stories."

David wasn't sure what the Y-trap was, but he'd heard the word circulate through the band several times already that day. He sprawled back on the ground, the day's heat radiating up into his muscles. All he knew was that his calves and shoulders ached from seven days of constant use, he never wanted to smell sunblock again, and tomorrow he didn't have to wake up at 7:00 in the morning. He was D-O-N-E, done. For the weekend anyway, which right now seemed enough. He wanted to unpack the rest of his stuff and shower and print off his class schedule before Monday. Plus it was now Saturday and he was still roommate-less; he assumed whoever it was would be arriving tomorrow.

"C'mon, Davey. Time's a-wastin'."

He scowled up Jack, whose shadow draped over him. "What are you talking about?"

"Can't tell ya Dave, but you got to get up. Section leader's orders."

David laughed. "Orders?" With no intention of following Jack, he sat up and looked around for Blink and Mush. He was surprised to see they were each with their own sections. In fact, no one had left yet except Denton. Each section was grouped across the field in their usual drill sectionals spots, while veteran members blindfolded the newcomers with various bandanas and ripped pieces of t-shirt. "What the hell, Jack?"

Jack's wide, dopey grin was the last thing he saw before something soft but taut covered his eyes and was tied at the back of his head. "Don't worry, sweet cheeks." Lexie's voice was at his ear. "We'll uncover those baby blues when the time is right." She gathered his hand behind his back and tied those, too.

David wished he could shoot a glare at Jack. Instead he had to let Lexie help him to his feet.

She led him across the lot then put a hand on his head and guided him into a vehicle. "But wait," David grabbed for her arm that had just let him go. "What about my bike? And my trumpet?"

"Your stuff's fine," a male voice responded from the front seat.

Someone was shoved in next to David. "Hey! I don't need this blindfold, you know. You took my glasses," the kid started to shout as the door was shut on them. "I can't see anything anyway with out them!"

David tried to scoot over to give the kid more room as the car started and eased forward.

"This is stupid" said the boy.

"I agree," David huffed. "Hey, who's driving? Where are you taking us?"

"Will you quit worrying?" said the voice at the front again. "We're a marching band, for Christ's sake. Not the fucking mafia."

David sulked against the backseat. He just wanted to go back to his room and shower.

"So – I'm Dutchy," said the kid next to him.

"Yeah? I'm David. You'll excuse me for not shaking your hand."

He thought he heard Dutchy shrug.

The drive was predictably disorienting. David hadn't explored the town much since arriving – he knew his way to the practice field from campus and to a Chinese place he'd gone to with some of the other kids earlier in the week. They drove for fifteen or twenty minutes, so David figured they were outside of town. When the car stopped and David's door opened, he knew he was right. He heard birds chirping their end-of-day song and crickets begin to thrum but no voices. David was hauled out by someone much rougher than Lexie had been as she'd helped him in, and he felt gravel under his feet. He didn't bother to ask where they were, though. The quiet seemed to ensure no one would answer.

His wrists were untied, and a hand planted itself on his left shoulder. David heard more cars pull up, quite a bit of scuffling in the gravel, and a few indistinct whispers. The fact that everyone seemed to be arriving at the same place gave him some measure of comfort.

The hand on his shoulder urged him to walk forward and David wondered absently who it belonged to, but as the air around him cooled and the light seemed to dim, David swallowed hard. He knew it was stupid to be scared – whoever said it was right: this was just a dumb marching band prank – but David didn't really like the woods. And wasn't it going to be dark soon?

The ground beneath his feet began a slight incline. David imagined all ninety-some band members, a quarter of them in blindfolds, winding up the path through the trees. It would probably be very amusing if he weren't one of the ones blindfolded, he admitted, and immediately wondered who was watching him. Was Sarah nearby?

A voice up ahead of him rang out. "Okay, recruits! Repeat after me!" It was unmistakably Racetrack. He began a singsong call-and-response that reminded David of boot camp movies. "Doctor Weasel's turning green!"

Laughter echoed around David and voices chorused, "Doctor Weasel's turning green!" in the same singsong way. David kept quiet, for which he received a jab in the ribs.

"Ow!" he accused, rubbing his side, but no one apologized.

"'Cause we just peed in his canteen!" Race's tone was bright.

"'Cause we just peed in his canteen!" This time David sang, too, and to his surprise he felt some tension dissipate; his shoulder muscles relaxed away from his neck and a sensation like relief broke within him. He wasn't sure, but he thought whoever was next to him – the hand was still on his shoulder – smiled. Race kept up the rhymes as they hiked, sometimes ordering them to "sound off." David found himself walking in step to the chanting – the military's purpose for it, and hence the development of marching bands, David thought. And then shook his head at how geeky that thought had been.

His guide whispered to him only three times. The first time he said, "Root" just as David's toe caught on something and he reeled forward into an uncontrollable fall. Quicker than gravity, his guide's broad hand pressed against David's sternum and righted him. David whispered his thanks, at the same time registering the fact that his guide was male and that his chest now tingled. Later on, whoever it was also said, "Duck," and David did so in time to successfully avoid hitting his head on whatever he was ducking from. Then his guide said, "Stairs," at which point David reached out for a railing and found a wooden banister.

He was panting and sweating by the time his guide pulled back on his shoulder and tapped his chest with his other hand, indicating they had reached the place to stop. A breeze ruffled David's hair as he stooped over and rested his hands on his knees. By the sound of it, everyone was gathering again. He was pushed forward a few steps and spun to face a certain direction.

"Okay, recruits," Racetrack piped again. "Kneel!"

Kneel? David definitely wanted to sit after that hike, but kneel? He heard shifting and some murmurs of discomfort around him, though, so he followed suit, patting the ground around him to make sure he didn't crush anyone. His knees met hard wood planks instead of dirt or gravel – a mixed blessing.

"You've made it through band camp," Sarah's voice spread over them, "which tested your stamina and dedication. Now we ask that you pledge your allegiance to the Cougarland band."

Jack spoke next. "Some of you from around here know there's a strong Native American tradition up here in the Midwest. I myself haven't grown up around it, but the story I'm gonna tell you now was passed down generations of one of the local tribes. It starts with a guy on a journey . . ."

At first David wished Jack would talk faster because his knees were killing him. But the sound of Jack's voice – the contradiction of his slight accent and the Native American folklore – captured David's attention and he listened intently to the story of the young hunter who was humbled by his quest to kill the largest mountain lion in his land.

"So, at that moment, as sun met the horizon," Jack narrated, "He knelt down, like you guys are now, and he raised his hands to the sky – go ahead, raise your hands."

Only after David raised his hands at Jack's prompting did he think to make sure that other people had, too. The rustle around him confirmed they had.

"Then the young hunter said a prayer, a pledge," Jack continued. "It's the pledge we ask you to say now. Repeat after me: O wah—"

"O wah," David and the kneeling freshmen around him chanted, arms still raised to the heavens.

"Tanas—" Jack said and waited for them to echo. "Iam," he finished, and paused. "Good. Now everybody say it together, three times."

"O wah tanas iam," the twenty-some kneelers said on cue. It sounded okay the first time, still had the open vowels of other Native American words David had heard. But the second time, David suspected something and he heard people trying to stifle laughter and nervous giggles around him. There was going back now, though. He had to say it just once more. "Oh what an ass I am."

Full laughter burst out. Even David chuckled, then remembered self-consciously that he could probably drop his hands now.

"Okay, okay everybody, settle. Congratulations, freshmen, you are now officially members of the Cougarland marching band. You can stand and remove your blindfolds," Sarah instructed.

David got to his feet, expecting to see smirks and amused glances. He didn't expect the view.

Stretching away before him were miles of tree tops, punctuated with sharp crags of gray rock. To his left the massive blue of the great lake spread before him with no opposite shore in sight. And there, at the horizon, was the setting sun, its light dyeing the clouds above orange and pink above an almost green sky.

David realized his jaw was hanging open when a hand clapped him on the back. "Nice job, Davey. You played along good." Jack appeared at his shoulder. "Sorry about that root, though."

Dazed by the magnificent view and the fact that the hand at his shoulder had been Jack's, David's response was delayed. "Oh, yeah. That's okay. I mean, no harm done. It was worth it. I mean, for this," he pointed out over the vista, leaning in to the guard railing that surrounded the lookout platform.

"Yeah," Jack leaned his elbows on the railing next to him. "It's something. They don't make 'em like this where I come from."

"Where do you come from?" David startled himself by asking.

Jack's face was impassive as he surveyed the sunset. "East," was all the answer he gave.

A few beats of silence between them passed, even though other band members were chattering and laughing around them.

"So now we hike down?" David guessed. "It'll be dark soon. Shouldn't we be getting back to the cars?"

"We're not going back yet." Jack's grin returned. "We're going to the Y-trap." Jack laughed at David's creased-brow confusion and question he'd opened his mouth to ask. "C'mon, you're a bright kid. Think about it."

All afternoon David had thought Y-trap was an acronym, but now he realized the word was just spelled backwards. "We're going to have a party up here?" He scanned the crowd of college kids.

"Nope, we're gonna have a party down there." Jack pointed straight down the cliff to a series of flat rock slabs below them. A lazy section of river spread between the rocks and the beginning of the tree line. "The bog. It's tradition."

"That's kind of dangerous, isn't it?" David countered.

Jack laughed and turned away from the railing, heading into the crowd, "My guess is that's the point, Dave."

Two hours later the scene was much different. Instead of high on a rock crag with a brilliant sunset and lively chatter, David sat around one of the few small fires in the dark. Some of the band members were still lively, hunched around the fires in conversation and sometimes singing, but their speech couldn't be classified as chatter anymore. Apparently an advance team had gone down to the bog with plenty of beer and collected firewood in preparation for the Y-trap. Other veteran members who had known what the night would bring had carted more alcohol in their cars and hiked down to fetch it before returning to the bog.

David drank one beer with Blink and Mush. Some clarinet and flute girls, emboldened by alcohol, sat with them. Dana, a dark-haired flute in cut-off jean shorts, led the assault on Mush's sensibilities, leaning her head on his shoulder and keeping him engaged in conversation. David noticed the girls laughed and talked with Blink, but didn't seem to flirt with him, further confirming David's suspicion about Blink's sexuality.

Lou sat next to David, sipping at her beer and occasionally teasing Mush for all the attention, which only made him (and sometimes Dana) turn red. Between her caustic comments about the mating ritual across the fire, she engaged David conversation about his journalism major – she was into communication studies, so they had some common ground – and life at NMU in general.

Feeling comfortable he'd found a new friend, David decided to ask a question that had occurred to him during initiation. "What's with the cougar thing at this school? Cougars don't live up here."

A smile tugged at the corners of Lou's mouth. "Are you sure about that?"

David blinked at her. "Cougars were wiped out of the Midwest. I read about it somewhere . . ."

The others caught on to their conversation, and David visibly saw mischief creep across Blink's face. "Oh, they're here. The DNR just won't admit because they don't want to scare anyone."

Dana whispered to her friend, whose eyes widened. Mush rolled his eyes. "No, Dave's right," he agreed. "They're only out west now. You know how the University of Michigan's mascot is the Wolverines, but wolverines are all-but extinct? And how they build neighborhoods and then name the streets after the stuff that's not there anymore – Orchard Way, and whatever else. It's like that. We only used to be a 'cougarland.'"

Lou and Blink were both shaking their heads. "Well, if that's true then why have I heard one scream?" Lou asked.

"Scream?" Dana's jaw dropped and she cuddled closer to Mush.

"Cougars do not scream," David interjected. "I read that that's a myth—"

"—It's really good you read so much, Dave," Lou chided, "but I swear to you, I heard one. In these woods. Scared the shit out of me. It sounded like a woman in pain."

"Or a baby crying, right?" Blink added, and Lou nodded.

David jammed the stick he'd been twirling in his hands into the fire, sending up sparks. "That's ridiculous."

Mush shot a look at Blink. "It is ridiculous. Don't listen to them." He inched away from Dana.

Conversation wandered elsewhere, and eventually David decided to brave the possibility of a cougar attack to get a better look at the stars – he'd never seen so many. He crossed the broad plain of rock to a space not inhabited by drunken, groping couples and lay flat on his back to look up at the swath of the Milky Way against the black sky. He didn't feel tired yet, even though he still wanted a shower, and he had stopped worrying about his trumpet and bike after Mush had assured him they were safe in the band room.

It felt good to be here, David concluded. Good to be in band, and at this school. He was (as usual) excited for classes to start Monday, and looking forward to the interview he'd set up over e-mail with the editor of the school's newspaper staff. Even though his sister was kind of a brat for completely ignoring him, he was getting along fine without her influence – and after years of her criticism and advice, only having to deal with her as drum major was kind of a relief.

A breeze off the lake sent a chill over David's arms and legs. He decided it was time to return to one of the fires and got to his feet. Walking back into the flickering light, he looked around for an empty seat by a fire. Sarah sat huddled with Jenny, her best friend, across a fire pit from Skittery and others. Mush and Blink were still entertaining the girls, whom had gotten progressively giggly. David moved toward the fire Racetrack and Jack sat at until he recognized Lexie's short, spikey hair from behind. Taking Mush's advice, he steered clear toward the next circle of flames.

Spot sat at one edge of fire, elbows slung on his bony knees and taking a deep sip of the bottle in his hand. He wasn't alone, exactly, but it appeared the underclassmen around him had lost a drinking game or four – most of them were passed out.

"Kids can't hold their liquor," Spot said as David tentatively took a seat next to him. He glanced sideways at him. "You're that twitchy kid I drove over here with Dutchy. Here—" he fished at his other side without looking and brought up a bottle, set down the one he'd been sipping on, then reached for his keychain. He popped the bottle open with his drum key and handed it to David. "You need to drink more."

"Um, thanks," David said, accepting the drink. He knew Denton's caution hadn't gone unheeded and that several band members were staying voluntarily sober to make sure people got down off the mountain and home okay. A select few had brought sleeping bags and sweatshirts and planned to sleep out for the night, but many had already opted to go home, some claiming they had to get up for church in the morning. David wasn't much of a drinker, and he did want to make it back to his room at some point, but he had the feeling Spot wasn't going to let him sit there if he didn't drink with him.

David gestured to the sprawled bodies, one of which he recognized as Dutchy. "Are they okay?"

"They'll wake up tomorrow, if that's what you mean," Spot answered. "You never been to a college party, kid?"

"Yeah, I have. I transferred from another school."

"Why the switch?" Spot nursed his bottle.

"More opportunities here. Further from home." David shrugged, pretending nonchalance.

Spot snorted. "More opportunities? Where'd you come from, kid?"

"Chicago." He quickly added, "But at bigger schools it's harder to get involved and get experience. And they didn't have a band at my other school."

David studied Spot's reaction in sidelong looks – he only nodded and swallowed a gulp of alcohol. "Yeah, well, in this band, everyone is dry or drunk, saved or damned."

Spot's sudden turn at philosophy surprised David. "Saved or damned? You mean the party?"

A derisive laugh escaped Spot and he turned his head to look at David fully for the first time. "Don't tell me you haven't noticed. Jacky-boy tells me you got brains."

David sipped his own beer and considered. "The CCC? That kind of saved?"

Hand still wrapped around the bottle, he pointed a finger in David's direction. "Brains," he said. "Well, I got brains, too. Brains enough to avoid that shit, anyway." He glared at the fire. In the dim light, David could tell Spot's arms were slender and sinewy, probably from hours of drumming.

"So, which are you?" David asked cautiously, already guessing the answer.

Spot laughed loudly. "Me? I'm drunk and damned. Drunk and damned. Hallelujah." He toasted the air with his bottle.

Trying to inject enough sarcasm in his voice to prevent pissing off Spot, David asked, "So you're not in with Snyder and the gang?"

"I'm not in with anybody." Spot snapped, then tilted his head back to finished off his beer. "Least of all him. And if you know what's good for you, you'll keep away, too."

David had the distinct sense he shouldn't push his luck by asking why, exactly.

It was just after two in the morning when David began the descent back down to the parking lot with Mush, Blink, Racetrack, and Jack. Spot had fallen into silence, staring at the fire, and David was pretty sure that meant he was going to stay, so he took advantage of seeing Mush disentangle himself from a sleeping Dana and asked for a ride back to the dorms. David offered to drive someone's car, but Racetrack dangled a set of keys and said he had been charged with responsibility of his suitemates.

Blink was pretty plastered and leaned heavily on Mush with an arm around shoulder. Because Dana had made sure he kept a beer in his hand all night, Mush didn't look much steadier, but together they managed not to fall over. Jack's stride, David noticed, was looser than usual as the flash light's beam silhouetted him now and again as they picked their way down the path.

Remembering what Lou had said about cougars – even though she was probably kidding, David told himself – he jogged forward a few steps to walk next to Jack, who smiled at him momentarily but said nothing as he trotted along, hands slung in his pockets.

The trip back to campus featured Blink singing "On Broadway" from the middle of the backseat while Mush fell asleep with his cheek smooshed against the window pane and mouth open, which made Racetrack grumble something about just having cleaned his car. Jack sat behind David quietly and patiently; somehow David found it eerie Jack got less talkative when he had a buzz.

After Racetrack and David had propelled Blink and Mush up the stairs to their room and Racetrack was unlocking the door to their suite, David waved them goodnight. "See you Monday," he said and saw Racetrack jerk his chin in an inverted nod.

To his surprise, Jack followed him down the hallway. "I thought you roomed with Race," David said."

Jack shook his head. "Nope. Blink rooms with Race. Crutchy – orchestra kid – is Mush's roommate." It was the most he'd spoken in almost an hour.

They reached his door and Jack smiled as he flicked the construction paper cut-out of a cat's paw that read "Welcome David!" on it. David unlocked the door and flipped the light switch. Without asking, Jack entered behind him.

"My roommate hasn't moved in yet," David said sweeping his arm around the half empty 12 x 12 cinderblock room. "I guess he'll show up tomorrow. Er – later today." He shot a look at his alarm clock – already close to 3:00 a.m.

Jack nodded. He surveyed the books on David's desk, noted at the Indiana Jones poster David had sticky-tacked to the wall, and half smiled at the fact that David's bed was neatly made. All without saying a word.

David hadn't taken off his shoes or even put down his keys. "Jack, why don't you stay here tonight?"

Jack swung his head toward David and cocked it slightly, like he was trying to place where he'd seen him before. Then he snapped out of it – just like that. "Ah , no, thanks. I got my own place."

Until Jack spoke, David hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath. "Right. Yeah. I mean . . . I just meant if you didn't want to walk home. . . ."

"That's real nice of you, Dave," Jack said seriously, hand back in his pockets. "But I think I should go. The walk'll do me good."

"Okay. Sure." David assented, suddenly aware his palms felt sweaty. "So, I'll see you Monday. At practice."

Jack pursed his lips and nodded. "Monday," he said, turning to go. David followed cautiously, so he could shut the door behind him. "Night, Dave," Jack said without looking back as he stepped into the hallway.

"Bye, Jack." He closed the door on his section leader – his sister's ex-boyfriend, he remembered – not waiting to watch him walk away.

David pressed his forehead against the door and hit the light switch – darkness reclaimed the room. He didn't move until his heartbeat slowed to its normal pace.