Major Crush, Page 3

  Drew half-stood as if he were coming to help me up.

  Too slow. I jerked up my backpack of books and ran for the door. A lunchroom lady blocked my way because I didn’t take my plate to the dishwasher. Hurdling chairs, I raced back to my table, scooped up the plate, and made for the dishwasher. Drew was already there. He passed me, heading out.

  I followed him as he sprinted down the hall. The bell rang, and the hall flooded with people. They blocked his way. They blocked my way too, but I was smaller. I ducked between them.

  Then came a lucky break for me. The vocational ed teacher caught Drew by the arm and lectured him on running in the hall. Shameful, a responsible senior like himself. I blew right past them. I had a lead on him, but he would gain on me if we took the same route. I kicked off my flip-flops, stuffed them in my backpack, and took a shortcut outside the building.

  “Ha,” I puffed triumphantly as I sprinted barefoot through the cool grass. One for every step: “Ha ha ha ha ha!” I rounded the last corner of the building and heaved back on the heavy band room door. My eyes hadn’t adjusted from the bright sunlight outside, but I dashed in the general direction of Mr. Rush’s office. “Ha!” I shoved at the door.

  The door said, “Ooof!”

  The door gave way into the fluorescent-lit office, and I fell in with it. On top of Drew. Drew lay flat on his back on the floor, and I straddled him. We’d knocked sheets of music from a shelf as we fell. They fluttered down around us.

  Mr. Rush peered over his desk at us. “A h, Morrow and Sauter. Don’t you knock?”

  Without looking Drew in the eye, I backed off him and into one of the chairs in front of Mr. Rush’s desk. I could have held out a hand to help Drew up, but I didn’t.

  Drew pulled himself into the other chair and dusted himself off, glaring at me.

  Mr. Rush walked over, slammed the door, put his hand on my shoulder, and squeezed. “The first thing I want to know is what happened to this guy O’Toole. They wouldn’t tell me shit at the job interview.”

  Right then I decided that Mr. Rush was the coolest. It wasn’t that he cussed. It was that he cussed in front of us and trusted us not to complain to our parents, like he thought we were adults. Plus, he was coming to us for information about another teacher. I tried to recover, and answer, and act like nothing strange had happened.

  Drew beat me to it. “He got fired.”

  “He didn’t get fired,” I corrected Drew, feeling superior because my information was better. “He quit.”

  “He got fired,” Drew repeated, “because he was sleeping with Virginia.”

  “What!” Mr. Rush exclaimed. He looked from Drew to me in outrage. “A nd I have my hand on your shoulder!” He jerked his hand off my shoulder. “A nd I have the door closed!” He stepped behind me to fling open the door. “That’s the first thing they teach you in education classes,” he muttered. “Never touch your students. Never close the door while you’re in conference with your students. I’ve been on the job one weekend and already I’m in trouble!”

  I’d never seen a teacher throw a fit before either, so normally this would have held my attention. But I was busy calculating the meaning of what Drew had said. So it wasn’t just the Evil Twin making up stories about me. I wondered how far the story had traveled, and how long people had been repeating it.

  Maybe I’d gotten over the initial shock when the twin first accused me in the bathroom of sleeping with Mr. O’Toole. It never occurred to me to get really alarmed, or even to defend myself. A nyone who knew me knew how ridiculous the idea was that I would trade my virginity for drum major votes.

  Besides, my parents had put the fear of God in me. Or anyway, the fear of sperm. My dad and A llisons dad were ob-gyns. This meant that they were doctors who delivered babies and otherwise took care of women’s—you know—parts.

  This meant that after I was home sick from school, my mother would scribble an excuse for me on a pad printed with a cartoon uterus and the slogan of a menopause drug: “Just like the estrogen she used to make!”

  It meant that boys asked me if they could be my father’s apprentice.

  It meant that dinner table conversation every night was about the fourteen-year-old girls who had come to the hospital that day to have their second babies, and the evils of teen pregnancy. Sometimes I wished my dad worked at the cotton mill like everybody else.

  Finally I turned to Drew and said, “It’s irresponsible of you to start a rumor like that.”

  Score one for me. I was right on target with his responsibility fetish. He looked like I’d slapped him. Then he recovered enough to say—to Mr. Rush, not me—“It’s not a rumor. She did—”

  “Of course I didn’t,” I interrupted him calmly. “Mr. O’Toole is eighty years old.”

  “He’s more like forty-five,” Drew corrected me, as if this were going to sway the jury.

  Sitting down at his desk, Mr. Rush held up one hand for silence. “I don’t know what you’ve been up to,” he said to me. He turned to Drew.

  “But I know you’re acting like a jackass. If the rumor isn’t true, you’re irresponsible for spreading it. A nd if it is true, what do you think you’re doing? Tattling on her for having sex with a teacher?” He looked through some papers.

  I felt redeemed. A nd then, the more I thought about it, not.

  Drew took a deep breath. “Excuse me, but did you say—”

  “Jackass,” Mr. Rush repeated without looking up. “Let’s start again. What happened to O’Toole?”

  “He quit,” I said. “He’d been waiting for a position as a mail carrier for three years, and it finally came through last week.”

  “See,” Drew said, pointing at me. “How does she know that?”

  “Because I asked him,” I said.

  Mr. Rush made a show of stacking his papers, turning them and stacking them on another side, and placing them just so on his desk. “Let me tell you what I know. I’m living in a town that’s so small and remote, it doesn’t have a McDonald’s. I’ve taken a job that’s so bad, the guy before me was dying to break out and start his stellar career as a mailman.”

  His calm voice rose. “I have seventh graders for breakfast, eighth graders for brunch. For lunch, I have a class of a hundred and fifty teenagers and no assistant. A nd the two people I was counting on to help me are petty and immature”—he was looking at me; he turned to Drew—“and irresponsible!” He held up his hands on either side of his head and wiggled his fingers, like he knew irresponsibility was a scary monster for Drew.

  Now he rubbed his temple like he did while talking to me Friday night, as if we were giving him a headache. “Kids, I’m going to have to insist that you cut the crap and help me out. I can’t do this job by myself. I may have had a little argument with the football coach at the faculty meeting on Friday.”

  “Wasn’t that your first day?” Drew asked.

  Mr. Rush winced. “Okay, but that guy is an ass. He may have told me that the band needs to stop trampling ‘his’ football field”—he moved his fingers in quotation marks—“because it’s turning the grass brown. I may have told him where to go. I found out after the meeting that the football coach is quite close with the principal.

  “My contract runs out next summer. I need some leverage when it comes time to renew, or it’s back to Pizza Hut for me. A nd tempting as that sounds right now, I have student loans to pay off.” He shuffled through papers again and looked at some notes. “The two of you got the most votes in this drum major election, but there was a third candidate, right?”

  “Clayton Porridge,” Drew and I said together.

  “Great. The two of you start getting along. You’re dividing the band like East Coast-West Coast, Tupac and Notorious B.I.G. Clean up your act. Make nice with each other. Make sure the band gets high marks at the contest in three weeks, or I’ll fire both of you and make Clayton Porridge drum major. Got it?”

  This couldn’t be. I ventured, “Have you seen Clayton Porridge?�
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  “Plays trumpet?” Mr. Rush asked. “Looks like he eats paste?”

  You can’t do that, I thought. A ll the work I’d put into trying out. A ll the plans I had. I’d wanted to be the first girl drum major, wanted it worse than anything, for so long. But of course Mr. Rush could do whatever he wanted, because he was the band director.

  Now I didn’t think he was the coolest anymore. I thought something else entirely.

  “You can’t do that,” Drew said.

  “You’re going to college, right?” Mr. Rush asked.

  “God willing,” Drew said drily.

  “Need a teacher recommendation? I can give you one. Play nice with Sauter, and you know what it will say? ‘Works well with others.’ Don’t play nice with Sauter, and it will say ‘Fired.’”

  “I have another idea,” Drew said, taking charge again. “Last year I was drum major by myself. We went to three contests. I made high marks at all three, and I won best drum major at two of them. The band did great too. A nd Virginia”—he gestured to me without looking at me, like I was one of the filing cabinets lining the walls—“was the section leader of the drums when she was only a sophomore. The drums are so bad now because she and Walter left.”

  “Who’s Walter?” Mr. Rush demanded.

  “The frog from Friday night,” I told him.

  “Virginia’s boyfriend,” Drew said.

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” I said.

  Drew finished, “So why don’t we just go back to doing what we did last year, which worked?”

  Mr. Rush stared at Drew. It was the I dare you stare he’d given me Friday night. Drew shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Part of me wanted him to hold the stare. Part of me wanted him to look away.

  He didn’t look away.

  Finally Mr. Rush said, “I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you, Morrow? No dice. But I do agree that Sauter should work with the drums. That would help the sound of the whole band. A nd it’s not my forte. I flunked percussion in college.”

  “How did you graduate?” I asked.

  “It’s called a grade point average,” he said self-righteously. “A n F in percussion is canceled out by an A -plus in oboe.”

  I nodded. “So now I’m assistant drum major.”

  “No.”

  “I’m percussion drum major.”

  “No. We’re making the best use of your talents.” He turned to Drew. “Is she always this suspicious?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Drew said.

  I was relieved Mr. Rush didn’t take Drew’s advice and toss me out on my butt. But I worried about making nice with Drew. We’d been Tupac and Notorious B.I.G. all through band camp (and I hoped I was Tupac).

  Mr. Rush drew a line through an item in his notes, then tapped his pen on the page. “Now, Sauter. Can you tell me why you made that particular choice of drum major uniform?”

  I shrugged. “Because that’s what Drew wears. That’s what he wore last year.”

  “Drew is a boy,” Mr. Rush pointed out.

  “Well, I don’t know about that,” Drew said.

  Mr. Rush rolled his eyes. “Spare me the manly macho crap, Morrow.” He turned back to me. “Morrow is a ‘man,’”—he moved his fingers in quotation marks again—“and you’re a ‘woman,’ and you need to stop trying to look like a ‘man.’ Trade in your pants for a miniskirt. Find some of those knee-high boots.”

  I remembered what Walter had told me at the bus: Be yourself rather than trying to be a small, blond Drew. But the outfit Mr. Rush suggested wasn’t exactly the look I was going for either. “You want me to wear a miniskirt and long boots?” I asked him incredulously. “If I wasn’t a slut before, I’m going to look like one now.”

  “I have news for you, missy. Your friend the princess is strutting around the football field in a sequin-covered bathing suit.”

  “Virginia knows,” Drew chimed in. “She was a majorette herself, for about two days.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” said Mr. Rush. “A nd you made some JonBenét Ramsey crack, Morrow, and she went off and got her nose pierced.”

  “What?” Drew looked at me in shock.

  “That’s not why I quit the majorettes,” I told Drew. “I mean, that wasn’t the only reason.” I turned to Mr. Rush. “Ill probably get expelled for saying this, but you’re a real—”

  Drew slapped his hand over my mouth. “Don’t fall for it,” he told me, watching Mr. Rush. “Remember he’s trying to get rid of us.”

  I stared wide-eyed at Drew. Besides trying to pull my arm off in the bathroom Friday night, it was the first time he’d ever touched me. This close, he was so foxy that he almost gave me the shivers. Clarinets swooned over Drew. But I made it a point not to swoon over anybody, ever. Especially not somebody who’d just accused me of prostituting myself to an eighty-year-old.

  Then Drew realized what he’d done. He snatched his hand away.

  Mr. Rush put his chin in his hand and gazed at us, looking bored. “Here’s the thing, Sauter. You’re a pretty girl.” He turned to Drew. “Can I say that as her teacher, or is it sexual harassment?”

  “You’re on the line.”

  “Then you tell her,” Mr. Rush said. “Don’t you think she’s a pretty girl?”

  Drew looked at me and seemed to be studying me. I could feel myself turning red. Finally he said, “She’s mean.”

  “Me!” I squealed. “What about—”

  Mr. Rush held up his hand for me to shut up. “But is she pretty?” he asked Drew again.

  “I have a girlfriend,” Drew said.

  “I’m not asking you to take her to the prom,” Mr. Rush said, his voice rising again. “I’m asking you if you think she’s pretty.”

  “Yes,” Drew exhaled, not looking at me. I was relieved to see that he was turning red too.

  “Prettier than you?” Mr. Rush asked.

  Drew laughed. “Definitely.”

  “A nd after Friday night’s debacle, don’t you think we should use any means available to interest the audience and improve morale in the band?”

  “Yes.”

  “A nd to that end, don’t you think her uniform is inappropriate?”

  Drew turned to me. “The trombones call you Mini-Me.”

  I said, “The trombones can shove it up their—”

  Mr. Rush held up his hand for me to hush again. He repeated, “Get some boots and a skirt. Short. But not too short, do you understand me?

  I don’t want to get arrested. Can you do that by Friday?”

  I nodded. I would put my mom on the case. She could order something from a band uniform store online and have it overnighted. She’d be thrilled for me to show some leg again.

  Drew asked, “While you’re at it, can you make her wear shoes during band practice?”

  “I think it’s cute that she doesn’t wear shoes,” Mr. Rush said. “Oh, my God, did I just say that?” Shaking his head, he drew another line through his notes.

  Next item. “A nd what’s with your military salute at the beginning of the show?” he demanded. “This ain’t the army. Spice it up a little.” He pointed at Drew. “Dip her, like in the tango. Work on that in practice today while I try to undo whatever damage you’ve done to my marching band.”

  Drew closed his eyes. “I don’t dance.” He sounded very tired.

  “You don’t have to dance,” Mr. Rush said. “Just do this one move. Sex sells. Throw the audience a bone.”

  Drew opened his eyes and folded his arms. “I don’t think I can do that.”

  Mr. Rush said, “Sauter, do me a favor, would you? Lean out the door and ask Clayton Porridge to come in here.”

  “A ll right!” Drew bent down and banged his head on Mr. Rush’s desk. Voice hollow against the metal, he said, “This was so much easier last year.”

  When Mr. Rush finally let us go, I jumped out the door of his office and ran to tell A llison the news that I had become a boots-wearing hussy of a drum major who seduced elderly men.
/>   “Sauter,” Drew called after me.

  I didn’t stop. The tile was cold on my bare feet.

  I heard him speed up behind me. He caught up in two strides and touched my elbow once, lightly.

  “Virginia,” he said.

  I stopped and looked up at him.

  “Since we’re supposed to be friends, ride up to the stadium in the truck with me. Please.”

  I glanced back toward Mr. Rush’s office. He stood in the doorway with his hands on his hips, glowering at me, sending me a telepathic message: Remember the Pizza Hut.

  “A ll right,” I muttered.

  Drew always parked his dad’s farm truck in the band room driveway like he owned the place. Boys in the band had already dumped the daily load of hay bales and farm implements—scythes or whatever—out onto the grass.

  A line of boys stretched from the truck through the band room and into the instrument storage room. They tossed drums and the biggest instrument cases all along the line to land in the truck bed so Drew could drive them up to the football stadium for practice. I stepped forward to join the brigade.

  A nd promptly got hit in the chest with a bass drum. I nearly fell with it, which would have made three times in one hour, a record even for me.

  “Girl in the line,” a boy murmured. A nother said in falsetto, “Mini-Me.”

  I managed to hand off the bass drum just in time to get crushed by a tuba case. This time I smacked onto the cold floor with the huge black case on top of me.

  “Ooooooh, aaaaaah,” said the line.

  Drew didn’t say it. But Drew and the other trombones had started the “ooooooh, aaaaaah” to make fun of one of Drew’s brothers when he was drum major. It hurt like Drew was saying it to me.

  Drew lifted the case off me with one hand and swung it by the handle back into the line. Then he helped me up. He cupped his hand to my ear and whispered, “I told you to ride with me in the truck. I didn’t tell you to load the truck. That case was bigger than you are.”

  “You didn’t tell me to do anything,” I said, not bothering to keep it quiet. “You asked me nicely. When you start telling me to do things, that’s when—”

  He glared at me, reminding me that I was about to get us fired. I glanced over his shoulder at Mr. Rush, who lurked, arms folded.