A/N: whoa. I've been out of it. Not like anyone cares.
So- we were standing at attention. Dang, the band behind us is too perfect, I thought. It's pouring for them, too, and you can actually hear them, and I'm not picking up any gasps from the audience, so Perfect Band hasn't yet turned into one big struggling pile. I bet we wi- no. Can't think negative. Must not.
I took a deep breath and forced my eyes to bore into the neck of the baritone in front of me. Concentrating on one droplet of water clarified my mind enough to run through the show, thinking up last-minute advice to myself. Don't step on Offstep Guy, like I had at Fresno. Well… it had been funny later, but a disapproving glance from some section leader as we laughed about it had soured my mirth. And avoid the backmarching drumline. They were the bane of our existence, seriously. So many times, I'd curved around them, quaking, as the quads got dangerously close. There was the memorable time where we'd had to leap out of their way… at a competition. Here, that would be deadly. I also had to get between the right tall guys- not mess up the horn maneuver, not knock my teeth out, not hit my flute on anyone during the turns, not get slaughtered in the scatter set… oops.
I finally began listening as the drum major called us to attention. I'd zoned out during his speech. Not good.
"Left- HACE!"
We turned sharply, off-balance as the wet grass slithered out from beneath our shoes. I silently cursed each blade as I teetered precariously for a second, and then settled into an uneasy, shivery attention. The rain had finally found a way into my uniform via the back of the neck, and was allowing an elite few drops to find their way in. I could feel each one worming a path down my back, then disappearing into my t-shirt.
"Mark-time- HUT!"
I began pounding the errant grass below me into mush. Ahh, revenge. How sweet it felt- sweeter yet as we began moving, which forced some life into my legs. The uniforms were thick and all, and despite the rain were still dry inside, but the dampness down my back sent unpleasant chills to wherever it could- legs and fingers included. Damn the rain.
We marched out onto the field, divided into our follow-the-leaders into the picture-frame set. I followed Offstep Guy, who wasn't in step. As usual. Oh, whatever- like the judges were looking at him. They were probably watching our perfect drumline… at least they could march.
Suddenly I realized I was supposed to be turning to my spot off some yard line or another. And I'd forgotten which one. Shoot. A quick search of my memory dredged up something about 2 steps off the 20-yard line, and I acted on that. Nobody hissed vile band curses at me so I assumed I was right. I was.
However, from there my luck went downhill. It often does that, doesn't it? Somewhere in his studio, the weatherman was thumbing his nose at us, as he sent an eddying wind to enhance our performance. It playfully whirled through the band as we sullenly stood at a loose parade rest, lightheartedly stuffing rain into our ears (it went through an alto's head and came out the other side… really it did…), up our noses and blindingly into our eyes, as we promised the weatherman a million deaths and such torture that he'd commit suicide before we could kill him. Or at least I did. Maybe the others had retained some sanity…
I looked up at our drum major and switched to a relaxed attention. I watched as the wind mischievously swirled his cape, while he put down his sword and saluted. A tidal wave of applause rose from the audience, as he radiated such assuredness, even though it was a wet assuredness. It was probably the broom-bristles on his helmet, I decided. Maybe we should all get broom-bristles. Too late for this season, though…
"Squad-atten'- HUT!"
"ONE!"
All around the field, the picture frame flashed to attention, instruments winking- wetly, as everything seemed to be- from the glare of the stadium lights. All together, in one single sleek motion, power-packed and serious. This band was ready.
