Chapter One
Well, She Dared Him to Lick the Floor
(They Don't Kiss Anymore)

Before Chris knew that it was finally over, and before he had realized the futility of hope, he still had the ability to dream, and his sister, as she would be known, still had the nasty habit of hiding behind walls, never looking twice at him, and still managing to get him to do whatever she wanted. He can't say he liked her, but then again, he can't say she liked him, either, or even cared enough to pass some kind of judgment. But things have a surprising habit of changing when you least expect it, and endings have an annoying habit of inching closer unnoticed, like an abrupt shadow stalking a beginning; every time the damn thing gets you by surprise. And dreams, well, they don't mean anything in the end.

It was in the summer, that kinda summer when the most you have to look forward to is sleep, or maybe primetime TV if you're really lucky, when Chris awoke that one morning thirty minutes after his alarm, dug through his closet for a rusted piccolo, and opened a month-old music envelope. He swallowed his breakfast whole, flung clothes into his bags, and threw himself into his decrepit Toyota, all the while daydreaming the same damn dream he had the audacity to conceive two years ago.

He drove into school, over the bumps, past the gate and there they stood: six lumbering charter buses, their lights flickering through the morning fog. He parked on the scorched grass, staggered across the parking lot with his bags, and herded himself through the band, flinging the weight onto the belly of bus number five. But before he climbed the steps, an arm pulled him to the side.

"I need you to do me a favor." Rachel said. Her hand clung to his shirt, and her body pressed him onto the bus's headlights. "This is the first time she's been alone. Look after Cat. Look after all the flutes. You have to take my place." She loosened her grip, and smiled. "She trusts you more than me." She pecked him on the cheek. "That's for the oranges." She turned around and faded beyond the fog. The bus rang its horn, and Mr. Burns called for any stragglers.

Chris floated up the bus steps, down the walkway, and into his seat next to Cat. Before they took off, he glimpsed Rachel again, sitting on the curb. The fog was less dense, and he could see her crying. Before the bus turned a corner, he thought he saw her running - it must've been to the parking lot - but then she disappeared.

Cat refused to talk during the first hour of the trip. She spent her time gazing out the window, with nothing but endless highway rolling over her eyes. When she finally spoke, it was a whisper toward the glass.

"It's my fault she can't come, isn't it?" She tapped her fingers on the armrest. "I know you know. Tell me." A horn blared outside. She stared at the passing cars. Envious. Her feet curled up onto the seat, and she rubbed her leg. It was cold; the driver refused to turn off the AC. "You like her, don't you?" She sniffed and her fingers tapped faster. "Of course you do. Who doesn't?"

"She told me to look after you."

Cat tore her eyes away from the road, and whipped around. "She doesn'tcare about what happens to me." Her hand nearly slipped from the armrest, coated in sweat. "Don't you get it? It's justice. You're gone. Her precious flutes are gone. She has no one left. I've spent the last five years without anybody. She can handle onegoddamn week." She turned away, back to the window, and didn't say a word for another hour.

He leaned his head on the head rest. The first drops of rain laced the window, and its patter came through the bus's ceiling. Reality melted away, like fine chocolate on an eager tongue. He gulped it down, savoring the taste; it was better than holding on, letting it rot in his mouth. It wasn't the best taste, but it wasn't half-bad either, at least not that first bite, that first day so long ago. He could still remember; the whole goddamn movie played in his head. The rain's constant beating dribbled away, Cat's constant tapping slowed to a distant click, the passing headlights flickered off, chocolate dripped down his spine, and reality, well, to hell with reality.

The stadium was filled, the torrent of noise rushed over his senses. He could hear them all, each sound, each word in every cheer. He could count each clap and recognize each of their rhythms. The stadium lights burned through his eyelids, along with the gaze of the audience. He could feel all of them staring. They were waiting. Each pupil burned with more curiosity than the next. They were waiting for him. Even with his eyes closed, he could feel all of them watching. Waiting. It was finally his turn, so long had he waited. It was here. Finally here.

And that was where he would always wake up. Falling awake. That is what it felt like. It was gorgeous up there in his dream world. He was on a pedestal. They could see him. For the first time, they actually cared to notice. And he had something to show them, something they would like to see, and something they'd like to hear. He would give it to them without a second's hesitation. All in exchange for their eyes, for their attention, for just one single smile. Not from all of them. Just one would do. Just one. But he would wake up. He would always have to wake up. And when he did, everything fell down to reality. And reality sucked.

The Florida sun was already burning, as it usually did, and the sky was bereft of a single merciful cloud. It was perfect whether for this sort of hell. There was no way of escaping the heat. It radiated from every crevice. It danced on the pavement below, watched from the sun above, and sunk its way into every bead of sweat. Somehow, they found it tolerable here. Chris never understood it when they tried to explain. Each bead was a sacrifice, a small hint of passion for the art. And each one fell, evaporating on the pavement. A curious fertilizer, he thought.

In the uniform room, they would complain of the smell. They couldn't help it. If the sun was their biggest enemy, the pungent uniforms were the second. He let them complain. After all, it was their style. But someone was always quick to ask for a description, and always found the same reply. It smelled like teamwork. He found it funny the first time. He still laughed the second and third time. But never once, did he give it any thought.

Now, he was trapped between them all, standing on this moist floor, intoxicated by this smell of teamwork. He knew most of them. He could recognize their faces and place them with an instrument. That's how he remembered them: the tall trumpet player or the girl percussionist. Beyond that, they were hallow cut out figures. They never talked to him, and he never talked to them. Yet, somehow, it wasn't bizarre. They were part of the marching band, a part of his team. He guessed that's all he needed to know.

He sat down on the hot pavement, as he was told, watching them form their imperfect circles. Old faces mixed in with new. Some confident, some nervous, others downright scared. He looked at them all. Just more cardboard faces. The fearful ones would leave. The confident ones would break. The nervous ones were perfect. Still, they were all here. Here and on time to endure the hell that was coming.

They gathered around their section leader, pacing in the center. Rachel was beautiful. That kind of supernatural beauty that must of shocked the nurse that pulled her from the womb. Every line culminated into a curve and every pigment soaked up the sun. She could leap a building or crumble at a touch, and anyone near her was intoxicated with the same sense of fragile strength. Her beauty was only enhanced by the fact that she had no idea how angelic she actually was.

But she had a romanticized view of her position. She would take it too seriously. They would say that leadership was beautiful, that the highest compliment was that sort of blind obedience. Chris had the faint hint that she believed it. She was quick to smile, and quick to correct. But for all her effort, she was still inefficient. She had an air of distance that few could penetrate. He could never see beyond the fog that surrounded her mind. But then again, he could never understand much of anyone, no matter how warm. But he tried. All last year he tried. Small attempts that amounted to nothing. She was enamored by her own superiority. All she saw was her position so all he saw was her in it.

"Welcome to the Jordan high school marching band." She smiled as if in front of a camera. It was no more real than that. "Welcome to the flute section. I'm Rachel, your section leader. I expect great things from this group, especially since were going to travel this year." She clasped her hands together. He could almost believe she was excited. "Let's start with introductions."

He was already accustomed to the normal round. All the new faces and all the names soon forgotten. The voices were a little shaky, and all were apprehensive. But it was all the same. They gave their names, followed by their interests. Always with a polite remark to band or flute. He could have sworn they had a script somewhere. When it was his turn, his voice was shaky, too.

"I'm Chris. A senior. First chair wind ensemble." He smiled. "And as far as I know, the only boy flute player on the face of this earth."

The first day was always the hardest on the freshmen. They were unaccustomed to the heat, and lacking the self-control it took to endure it. Few could stand still. Rachel went through them in her usual way, dispelling compliments and correcting mistakes. She didn't have to stand in all the positions or march every step. Her only job was to watch her section. He thought she took it for granted. She walked in a slow patient way down the line of flutes, checking each person. She was slower than a crawling bead of sweat, Chris thought. It was almost painful waiting for her, forced to stand perfectly still. But when she passed, she would always compliment him and creep to the next person.

After their morning marching rehearsal, everyone broke into sectionals. It was a long walk from the parking lot's pavement to the cool air-conditioned room, but patches of shade blessed them in between. He walked separated from the crowd, straying a little behind. Usually they wouldn't notice, and he convinced himself he preferred it that way. But this time, he wasn't the last one.

A freshman walked behind him, more separated from the group than even he dared to walk. She walked almost calculated, keeping a precise distance from everyone else. When he slowed down, so did she. When she forgot herself and stepped too far, she quickly stepped back. But he noticed that her distance was slowly beginning to shrink, and when the group came to a stop, she was beside him.

"Chris, right?" She had a high-pitched voice, even for a freshman. It felt new, preserved as if she rarely ever used it. She was smaller than most, too. She reminded him of a mouse. A little scared mouse. "First chair in wind ensemble, too. You must be pretty good."

"I like to think so." He tried to be friendly. It made her smile, and she fished through her mind for more words. It took a while. She seemed to have no more skill in conversation than he had.

"How long have you played?" she said.

"Since sixth grade."

"Me, too." The other flutes walked single file behind Rachel; Chris couldn't decide if it was at her command or just an assumption out of fear on their parts.

"What chair were you last year?" he said.

"First."

"So, you're pretty good."

"I like to think so. They're letting me audition for wind ensemble." There had not been a freshmen flute in wind ensemble for as long as he could remember. It was the top band in not only the school, but the entire county. There were only five seats for flutes. A freshman getting in was impressive. At least now, they had something to talk about.

When they reached the section room, Rachael filed everyone inside, putting an end to their conversation. She demanded silence, and only a few were brave enough to ignore her. He never got to know the freshman's name, he thought, as he entered the room. But that could easily be fixed. He took his instrument from his case a little quicker than he usually did. He thought himself strange at that moment. He felt something. He hadn't felt it in a long time. The conversation was over, and he couldn't help being slightly disappointed.

He stood next to the freshman girl all throughout sectionals, cramped in that tiny room. Rachel insisted that they make a circle around her, as they would on the field, and she made sure to keep them all on their feet. After a tiring morning of marching, few could stand not complaining, but Rachel chastised them in her usual way. The freshman did not seem to notice the exhaustion she must have been feeling. Having to stand meant nothing to her, he noticed. When he risked a glimpse at her face, she didn't seem tired at all. She looked nearly happy.

Throughout the sectional rehearsal, Rachel had them play through the songs they had gotten over the summer. She drilled the Jordan High School fight song, their Alma mater, and their small collection of stand tunes into their minds. To him, it was a cycle of nauseating boredom. He had played these songs for two years already. Even back then, he already hated them. He played them from memory now, without the slightest bit of effort. In the middle of the songs, his attention drifted from Rachel's hands, attempting to keep a steady sense of time. His mind floated. He felt numb, almost tired. The boredom was exhausting. It held on like sap to a tree, sucking him dry.

He saw the freshmen, all staring eagerly at their music, trying desperately to keep up with Rachel. It couldn't be this hard, he thought. He saw some of them struggling. Honestly struggling. They would play the same toxic list of songs until each was played to perfection. If not today, then tomorrow and the day after. He hadn't noticed that he was still playing, and now, the fact that he had stopped failed to register in his mind.

Then he saw her. The freshman next to him stood out from the others. She wasn't struggling. She stared strait ahead, into Rachel's hands, keeping the tempo. Rachel would unconsciously slow down and speed up. The freshman would follow without missing a beat. He concentrated on her sound. It was the same tiring song, but somehow it was different. It was almost enjoyable. He had never heard it played that way. Not even listening to himself. It was not in her tone or her technique. He couldn't put a word to it. It seemed as if she liked it. She found pleasure in playing. Even through the fog of noise that surrounded them, he could tell. Even through that simple song, he could feel it. She enjoyed playing the flute, he realized, and he enjoyed listening to her.

After sectionals, they all broke up and went to lunch. It was the hour he dreaded. He could stand the morning marching under the unforgiving sun. He would not complain about standing in sectionals. But lunch was different. He felt out of place. He had nothing to do, and he hated having to pretend he did. His table wasn't empty only because he bothered to sit there. He had no one to talk to, and he almost convinced himself it was better that way. If he thought sectionals were boring, than this was downright suffocating. The staff served in order of seniority, so it was a while before a small shadow found its way onto his table. "Is it okay to sit here?" He recognized the small voice. It was the freshman. He nodded and she sat down across from him.

They had the same average lunch he had grown to expect from his previous years: warm pizza, potato chips and a can of soda, the natural fuel, necessary for a hard day of marching. It wasn't anything inedible, but he expected that he had grown used to it over the years and her look of disgust confirmed it.

"It isn't all that bad," he said. She gave him curious look, as if she had just realized he was a lot braver than he looked, and poked her pizza over to him.

"You take the first bite," she said. "Make sure it's safe."

"I don't risk my life for strangers." He got his fork and poked it back over to her. She stared at it reluctantly before taking her plastic knife and dissecting it like a limp frog. He found if funny how she ate pizza with utensils, and even funnier when she realized it didn't taste half as bad as it looked.

"So, what do you think so far?" he said.

"I think it's pretty amazing, and it's still just the first day." She noticed the look of disbelief on his face. "I mean, we're surrounded by people who love music." She spoke with her mouth full. "Two hundred of them, all after the same goal."

"Wow, you're pretty obsessed for a freshman. You sound like our section leader."

"Why aren't you section leader?" She spoke with her mouth full. "You're first chair. So, you're the most qualified. You have the most advice to give."

"Leading is more than just playing the flute well," he explained. "Rachel's a better leader. She's the type of person who loves control. She's good at getting people's attention."

"And you aren't?"

"Nope." He tried to make it a joke, but she didn't laugh.

"You got my attention," she said. "Anyway, there's more to a leader than grabbing attention. Convince them you care. Convince them that you're obsessed and that it's a good thing. They'll listen to you. Set an example. Hard work is contagious. And when we're all equally obsessed, well, there's nothing to stop us."

"You got this all figured out, don't you." he said. "You should apply. We need people like you." He couldn't help feeling she was right for the part. She was just a freshman, but he could easily imagine her in the position. He remembered when he first saw her that morning. She seemed so different now. The more he looked at her, the more she seemed familiar, as if he had met her somewhere before.

"I will if you will."

"I'm a senior, remember?"

"You haven't heard?" He gave her a puzzled look. She only smiled. "Well, you'll see. If I lose, I rather lose to you than anyone else. Besides, if I win, I'll have something to brag about. So what do you say?" She held out her pinky.

He could almost laugh at the situation. He never intended to apply for section leader before. He was always content with first chair. This morning, he never thought that the girl would be bold enough to apply, either. But here they were, this girl who looked like a scared little mouse when he first saw her was asking him to do something he never dreamed of. It caught him by surprise, the way she asked it, and it caught him by surprise the way he responded. They sat at their table, unaware of anyone else, with pinkies interlocked, and promise sealed.