Reunion Re-Percussions
The Competition: Part I
The morning of our home competition dawns bright and clear. When I go outside to fetch the morning paper, it's warmer than it's been in weeks. I decide to wear my favorite denim capris, along with my guard crew shirt. It's actually a really cool shirt; Chris designed them for the entire guard. Each one has a nick name and number on the back. I'm T-Ara, with my lucky number fifteen. Below that is our own special touch – our crew motto: "Crew: We Spin PVC."
Chris picks me up around eight, and I can see he's ready for spring as well, clad in shorts. We cruise to the high school with the windows down, radio blasting, not a care in the world.
The band parents hold a short meeting that morning before everything gets started. Nametags are handed out, and jobs assigned. Glenn, Chris, and I are designated as floaters, basically helping out wherever we're needed today, be it the kitchen, gym, or warm-up and staging areas.
After the meeting breaks up Chris and Glenn goof to find walkie-talkies for everyone, and I start chopping celery and carrots in the kitchen.
I'm in a good mood until lunch time. Noon was pretty much universal break time, and everyone crowds into the cafeteria. I manage to snag a seat with Audrey, Chris, and Glenn. That's when it starts raining. And I don't mean a little drizzle. I mean out right down pouring. And then I got this feeling in the pit of my stomach; the one that makes me feel that something hugs is about to happen, but I can't tell if it'll be good or bad.
I try to shrug it off as we eat our lunch, but I can't even participate in the conversation my friends are having. I just can't shake off that feeling that something's going to happen.
After lunch, we split up again. Audrey goes off with the other guard members to welcome the guards and drumlins who are competing today, and should be arriving within half and hour. Chris and Glenn are going to help direct buses where to park, so they're off to the other side of the school. I'm unsure of where I'm headed until one of the band parents rushes towards me.
"Mrs. Williamson had a family emergency, and had to leave." She says frantically. "Can you take over in the auditorium, Tara?"
"Sure." I reply. "Anything to help."
I make my way to the auditorium, where the drumlines will be warming up. It's empty when I get in there, and I realize I'll be here all day, which means I won't get to see the drumlins perform. Although, I will get an up close mini-performance of my own while they warm up.
The first drumline that comes in is soaked, and I run to the janitor's closet for towels so they can dry their instruments. Other than that though, I just sit in the auditorium and watch the drummers warm up, thinking that next year, I'll be performing, too.
Around five o'clock Glenn and Chris turn up. I'm actually so engrossed with watching drumlines that I didn't even realize how long I'd been there. The guys ask if I want anything, and bring me a slice of pizza back from the kitchen a few minutes later. Then they're off to the other side of the school again, to wait for the last few groups to arrive.
By six I've grown tired of sitting in the audience all alone, so I move onto the stage. I'm sitting on a platform by the curtain, as the last drumline files in, their backs facing me. After they warm up a little, they start running through parts of their show, which turns out to be Mars and Jupiter from The Planets, my favorite.
After a few more minutes, their instructor stops them and tells them to run through any problem spots on their own, while he runs to check out the competition.
As soon as he leaves, the auditorium is filled with a mesh of different sounds, which is actually quite comforting. Then someone shouts, "Damn!" above the din, and all the snares cut out. The tallest one, the one who yelled, takes off his drum and kneels next to it. The other snares all take off their drums, too, and crowd around him. From this angle, I can tell that he's broken his snare head. One of his friends gets an extra head that they brought just in case, and the tall snare drummer starts digging around in his uniform pocket for something.
"Damn," he says again, and now I think his voice sounds sort of familiar. "I can't find my drum key!"
"I've got one!" I say, jumping up, and fishing around in my pocket for the drum key I always carry with me. "Here," I say as I approach the tall snare player, holding out my hand. He turns around, and our eyes lock instantly.
It's James.
For a moment, everything falls silent, and you could cut the tension with a knife. My brain is only screaming run, run. The silence is shattered by the metal clanging of my drum key hitting the floor. I pivot, and run.
James manages to sputter, "T-Tara!" But it's no use. I'm already running to the nearest door. My vision is clouded with tears as I push open the door, and race out into the pouring rain.