Chapter Two – Drumstick Hurricane

Mr. Genvei looked proudly at his band, marveling in their size and sound. The trumpets blasted away his ears, causing the flute players to wince as the song continued. The drummers rocked back in forth in their dance, and the trombones' slides slid up and down in perfection.

"It's the final countdown!" he heard someone in the stands singing as the trumpets began to scream the melody of the song. He smiled to himself, bringing up a hand to his mouth to smother the action.

They were his band. His one pride. Genvei almost felt a twinge of remorse as he remembered that this was his last year teaching music—he was retiring after this one last year—and this, this one game, was his last football game.

Almost worthy of sentiment, he thought as the drums ended the song like a roll of thunder.

Genvei raised his hands to get his attention. He saw Lu hold her piccolo comfortably in her hand, waiting for his next instructions. Katie was similar, her trumpet easily resting in her right hand.

"Start up a cadence," he announced to the drummers. Mark, his ears perked up as he strained to hear the director over the din of cheers, nodded eagerly, a broad grin appearing on his face.

The snares began a roll, the quints suddenly pelting out a fast-paced solo. Lu turned and saw Mark, his hands moving too quickly to follow. He had traded with another drummer to play the solo and now everyone was breathless. He had talent.

Noticing that Mark was hardly concerned with the solo and that he was actually looking at her, Lu smiled at the drummer, watching his hands roll over the quints, the sticks moving with the speed of lightning. The drummer returned it tenfold, his solo ending and the cheers of his fellow band members erupting madly.

*** *** ***

Kenny's fingers slammed against the keys of his tuba in an impatient tapping. He was no section leader, no senior or upperclassman. He was simply Kenny, the tuba player.

The same shy Kenny who had a solo in the song for the field show.

Who did Genvei think he was, giving him a solo? He never should be given solos! His stomach twisted and squirmed uneasily as he sat in the stands. He was nervous and his hand shook as his fingers came to rest on the keys of his trusted tuba.

You will do fine, or so his mother and father told him. He turned his head, catching sight of him in the stands above him. Hundreds of people were in the stands, their eyes on the field—where he would stand.

Kenny sighed. He was going to mess up! In front of everyone!

A lump of nervousness formed in Kenny's throat. His foot began tapping on the metal of the stands in some vain attempt to rid himself of the overpowering fright. It didn't help.

And Kenny was helpless to that fear, and so he sat there in the stands, the drumsticks dancing in the distance.

*** *** ***

Mark set down the quints, his hands twitching in the aftermath of his excitement. A drummer clapped him on the back, praise for his solo.

"Yeah, thanks," Mark told him, giving a grin. He glanced at Genvei who was talking with a few of the saxophones lower in the stands.

Mark looked back to his drummers with a dangerous, devilish smile. His drumsticks under his arm, he beckoned them closer. The drummers eagerly leaned forward, waiting for Mark's new plan.

The drummer was always thinking of something new, like putting the small French horn player into the largest bass drum. Or, like during band camp, playing fetch with the drumsticks.

At all of those times, Mark had worn the same, dare-deviling, gravity-defying grin, the twinkle always in his eyes. The rest of the drummers hung on his every word.

"Genvei wants us to play the Monkey Dance cadence out on the field," Mark told them. They shrugged, already knowing that. The Monkey Dance was one of the easiest cadences; all of the drummers could play it in their sleep. Still, Genvei had wanted to take no chances on this last game—he wanted it to be perfect.

"So what're you planning, Marco?" a bass drummer asked, his Spanish accent thick. Black hair fell in front of his face as he spoke, but Mark didn't seem to notice.

Mark paused, letting the suspense grow. "I want us to try out the Hurricane."

Mouths literally dropped. The Hurricane? Not a chance, they all thought immediately. Mark might be able to do it, sure, but not everyone.

"We'd look like crap," a snare griped. "We haven't practiced—"

"Yes we have," Mark interrupted in a sudden flash of anger. "Quit complaining, Taylor." The snare drummer closed his mouth obediently.

Mark looked at his drummers carefully. "Are you all in?" He glanced at the scoreboard, catching sight of the ticking clock. "We've got five minutes before we head down to the sidelines. Hurricane or no?"

The drummers as a collective turned to look at each other, weighing their chances.

"What the hell," one said with a weak smile. "I'm in."

Mark grinned. He knew that when one drummer says yes, the others are not usually eager to disagree.