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sectional

noun. a specialized rehearsal for sections in a musical ensemble.

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SUNDAY'S BAND PARTY WAS A perfect example of the 'little barbs' phase in the rivalry cycle.

Callum and I weren't viciously hostile in the lead up to an argument, nor were we ignoring each other in the wake of a argument. We can unhappily co-exist. Though I'm pretty sure it was because there is an entire summer and a week of non-stop band camp between our last fight. A few months of time-out can do wonders for the temper, though I wonder whether Callum would have helped me like he did (bringing me water, relinquishing clothes and his bed and his space to me) if he'd been mad at me.

He probably would have. I know he's a good person. Ugh.

So it goes: little barbs, big barbs, altercation, radio silence. Like a oceanographer tracking tides, a volcanologist tracking hotspots, an astronomer tracking the planets' orbits, I have expanded our rivalry into its own little scientific study, with its own factors and equations and axioms.

Fall semester begins on Monday. I sink like a stone back into the rhythm of classes and marching band. Differential Equations III, Linear Algebra III, Modern Political Philosophy (studying all the white liberalists of the Enlightenment era) and Climate and Environment Philosophy (anthropocentrism? Don't know her). Our drill rehearsals are Tuesday and Thursdays; section leaders have to run a minimum of one sectional, usually on Wednesdays, and the band leadership meets briefly on Friday to review the music, summarize the progress of our sections, receive updates and plans from Keller, and (sometimes) do a little team bonding exercise or two. I'm dead busy, but I like it. Being swept off my feet by a hectic schedule means I don't have time to fall down on my own.

The first show sits like a half-formed hunk of crude marble before me. We still need to chip, clean and polish before it's ready to debut on a halftime field. Sun, with bright, cheerful music, speaking to the power of positivity and hope. A unifying force for the world in these end-of-times days. The environment is dying, human rights are being violated in all cardinal directions, and late stage capitalism is choking its labor base towards apocalypse but—

Positivity!

Jazz hands!

Batons! (All derision aside, I actually think the dance squad and color guard have put together a fucking impressive routine.)

I'm the one to call an extra sectional for the drumline on Thursday.

We rig up our drums and find a shady, secluded corner of the Music Department to march in, marking time, and run through our pieces. This courtyard is fringed by oak trees and smells like late summer, like soil and leaves, humming with cicadas. Callum's two spaces over from me, wearing the t-shirt that I slept in.

When I woke up in his bed after the party, sober as a corpse, I was surrounded by his scent: lemon laundry powder and a trace of his usual smoky musk. I changed into my own clothes and crept downstairs. In the living room, he was sound asleep on the couch—curtains drawn, cups, bottles scattered about, stagnant beer hanging in the air—looking like some fairytale prince, or a hero of the Classics. Tanned from summer, a tendon snaking up the forearm that hugged a pillow to his chest, the bridge of his nose dusted with freckles, his unruly golden curls falling gracefully around his carved temples and into (thankfully) closed eyes. I admit, I stared for a bit.

Then I left the house without a sound, note or online message.

That party was four days ago, and neither of us have acknowledged his gesture since. I find myself wondering if Callum's washed the t-shirt since I wore it.

As we play, my ears tune into details.

"Stop," I blurt. The rumble of the basses, the staccato snaps of the snare, and the hollow strikes on tenor drums all halt. "Quads. When you're traveling around your drums, you're landing too heavy on the first beats. Like—" I demonstrate on the snare hanging at my hips, drumstick bouncing freely, dut-dut dut-dut "—when it should be even. Gotta observe the dynamics." Dut-dut-dut-dut. I'm exaggerating for demonstration purposes, but it's a detail that shouldn't be overlooked.

This feedback is not received well. Callum and I have been advised by Mr. Scott, a prominent drummer in his day and now the de facto fountain of knowledge for all Halston percussionists, of teaching strategies to apply in sections. Chunking, where we isolate difficult bars; slowing down to consolidate sticking patterns; Third Time's the Charm, an exercise where we can only move on from a challenging portion of the music if everyone has played it three times perfectly, consecutively. Except, in a group of twenty-five, mistakes happen nearly every single time.

The main problems are dynamics and sticking, especially for the run of doubled semiquavers in bar one-nineteen. Doubles are a fundamental technique of drumming, two consecutive strokes by the same hand. The trouble comes with getting them both to sound perfectly even, not the first one with most of the gravity force and the second one with the leftovers. At speed, the trouble comes with keeping them strict, proper doubles instead of just drum-rolling.

These eight bars have stumped us for nearly half an hour, but I can't let us continue. What if the same mistakes crop up in a performance? We can't sacrifice technique for ease.

"Again," I say. I ignore the acrid misery settling over the group.

I strike my sticks together four times, and the drumming begins in earnest.

Again, I interrupt, "Stop."

One of the senior bass boys, Robby, over whom I have less authority because of the age parity, mumbles under his breath, "Fucking hell."

I ignore that, too, directly my gaze to a girl on the quints. The tenor subsection of the drumline is fading in patience and energy. "Maria, I'm sorry to nitpick, but I saw you fumble the sticking pattern."

"I know," Maria says stiffly. "Sorry."

"Can the quads play from one-eighteen?" Four clicks to count them in.

Maria and yet another person fumbles the sticking at the same place.

I can feel the rest of the drumline biting their tongues, stamping down restlessness. Glancing around, I find Callum inspecting a loose screw on the rim of snare.

Callum. If he senses my stare, he doesn't show it.

I jump a bit on the balls of my feet, shaking out my hands and feet. "It's okay. Shake it off. Loosen up."

Tension is death to drummers. Loose wrists, snappy fingers.

"Okay," I suggest, "let's try this." I tell them to imagine a dynamic marking that isn't actually there on the sheet music, one that will shift the emphasis of their strokes when it comes to that particular difficult portion of sticking. I get them to show it to me slowly, and then at speed, and then all the quads play the eight bars seamlessly, and then the entire drumline does, twice, thrice—

"Fuck yes!" Callum whoops, pulling his snare drum off and setting it gently on the ground. "Three time's the charm!" He walks around giving and taking high-fives from the drummers. The relief among my band mates feels like an elastic band, pulled to breaking point, slowing going lax. We're okay. We survived.

"Let's take ten," Callum suggests. "Water break, bathroom break. See you guys soon."

Twenty-three drummers trickle away. Callum, smiling to himself, picks up his water bottle—he must have found it since he cock-blocked me to ask—and splashes himself in the face. When he glances over, his smile fades a touch.

"Why so sour?" he wonders.

I lower my marching snare to the concrete. With the weight off my body, I roll my shoulders and try to dig my knuckle into a knot of lactic acid on my upper back. It's an uncomfortable place to massage myself, but I manage to find some relief. "The momentum's built, I can feel it. We're past the roadblock now."

"Did you notice the swung semiquaver problem? It doesn't happen always, but I know when the quads are preparing for bar one-twenty-three they neglect the dynamics on all the previous bars."

Callum's smile melts completely, a confronted expression widening his eyes. "Yeah. I noticed that."

"And you don't want to call them on it?" I ask acidly.

He exhales raggedly, running a hand through his tousled mop of hair. The very ends of the very front are wet from when he splashed his face, pearls of water dripping and absorbing into his t-shirt. "I know a bunch of them have assignments due tomorrow," he reasons. "I just thought today could be a more lightweight sectional. We're good enough."

Since when was Callum a good enough player? He's always wanted to be the best player, and play in the best drumline. He's got at least a decade of drumming experience on me. His technique is flawless, his ear for dynamics precise, and his internal metronome constant like the Sun. Fuck, this show is invading every part of my head.

"Our first show is this Saturday."

"And our practice is going to be more productive if we don't keep digging in a well with no water," he points out. "Did you not feel the vibe just now? They were this close to disengaging and giving up. If that happens, pushing them more becomes pointless."

"I know that," I mumble. "I was trying to be helpful."

"Yeah, well, a break does wonders. We'll be ready. Just chill out."

I swap sides and try to knead out the knot in my other shoulder. Callum's eyes follow my hand and I shoot him a withering glare. "We'll be ready if you don't let your standards slip."

"That's not what's happening here." He offers a conciliatory smile, so friendly, so easy-going. I hate it.

When we fought last year at the Spring Recital, I accused Callum of throwing me under the bus. I didn't mean he would throw me under the bus by insulting me, spreading rumors, or even arguing with me in front of the other percussionists. I meant that he would just be Good Cop, so passive and agreeable, that it would force me to pick up the slack in his absence. He's a nice guy, and I'm the authoritarian shrew with a stick up her ass. But he and I are not section friends.

We're section leaders.

"So when they all come back," I argue, "if I don't call any more mistakes, will you step up? Because I know you think I'm being a perfectionist, but I can let it go like this," I snap my fingers, "and just play the song once more till the end and go home. I can be chill. I have assignments, too."

Callum chuckles helplessly. "Okay, we still need more practice than that."

"Then fucking help me lead that practice instead of being one of the boys until it's time to collect high-fives."

Our eye contact battles it out for three beats of silence, but then Callum nods. "You're right. Yeah, you're right. I'm sorry."

Around the corner, the first of the drummers are walking back—I can hear their laughter. Already their moods have lifted from the tired, defeated atmosphere before.

"Apology accepted." I nod back to Callum. He nods back.

Damn it.

"Bay—"

"It was a good call to give them a break now," I admit, in as quiet a voice as I can muster. "I should have thought of that earlier." Swallowing my pride tastes so bitter, but I do it. For the sake of the drumline.

"Teamwork," he shrugs, offering his fist to me.

Bewildered, and more than little wary, I stare at his hand like it's poisonous before hesitantly bumping my knuckles against his. "Teamwork."

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Saturday dawns, and I'm up before Renata. WISA runs a tailgate every home game day, but they shuffle the responsibility around their members, and today is not her day.

"Good luck, Bay," she slurs, still clinging to sleep, "Yurgonnakillit."

The morning is chilly and dew-dusted, but the sun is starting to simmer with a vengeance. Either I can actually already smell liquor and barbecue in the air, or my olfactory synapses are anticipating it. I'm already sweating in my armpits and behind my knees by the time I arrive at the Music Department.

The marching band loads up the instruments into the buses, drives down the long avenue through campus that takes us to the stadium, and performs the Sun show once more on the football green. Then we relinquish the turf to the boys football team to use until kick-off. Hours later, all the sections huddle up to do their own pre-show traditions. Some sections have chants, some sing a song they have morphed into their section meme, others play a warm-up game to dispel the nerves. The dance squad is stretching in a circle together, arms around each other's shoulders for balance as they lunge forward, swing their legs, rise up and down on their toes.

The drumline has its own tradition. Callum makes the percussionists stand in a circle and deliver a lilting beat with stomping feet and clapping hands. Then, in a whisper bristling with energy, he says, "What do we do at Halston U?" Everyone has to go around the circle, maintaining and observing the beat, and contribute something we do at Halston U. Take names, take numbers, get bitches, suck toes—from one of the senior boys who made 'being a class clown in high school' forever part of his identity—one-ten percent, deliver, step step-clap step, et cetera.

Keller calls us together before we perform for the first time this season. She tells us to have fun and watch out for each other. Now is the time to enjoy what we worked for. When we line up and march onto the field, the band's anticipation crackles through the hair, down my spine, on my bare cheeks, like static electricity.

I still get really nervous before shows.

I thought nervousness was something to numb, something to overcome, until the day in sophomore year when Keller told the marching band: "Being nervous means you care a shit ton about what happens next. I don't ever want you guys to stop caring and stop being nervous. A good amount of nerves is fantastic for performers."

Since then, I let myself feel every part of the marching experience, good and bad. Stress, elation, triumph, defeat. It's all part of it.

I can see when the drum major's posture shifts, Alice's artistry shooting to each finger, drawing her shoulders back and tipping her chin up to the audience.

We step off.

I love the feeling that possesses me in the middle of shows. All my anxiety and nerves become redundant because the show is unfolding before my eyes, at the base of my feet, at the end of my drumsticks. In my periphery I keep myself in formation as we march through different sets, shoulders twinging, every fold of skin sweating, my lower body protesting against the strain. I listen out for the problem spots in the drumline pieces and smile to myself when the quads ace them all.

If you don't think that ten minutes of glory can make up for weeks and weeks of pain, strain and pressure—you don't know the glory of marching band. It burns in the stomach. It stings the throat. It's addicting. My favorite drug.

Just like that, Sun is over, halftime is over, and I'm a panting, sweaty mess on the football field as the confetti cannons go off and the home crowd hollers and cheers. We still have to keep it together as the drum major directs us to march off the grass in tight formation, the drumline beating out a repetitive refrain to keep all two-hundred musicians in time.

But in the backstage area on the stadium—all our empty instrument boxes, greasy concrete walls and looming exposed pipes and air ducts overhead—everyone breaks out into furious cheering. Two hundred voices all screaming our joy and victory.

Keller lets us get away with it for five seconds before blowing her whistle and directing us to filter back into the stands, positioned for the post-game fight songs and dance hits. Despite the equal amounts of time I've spent with the drumline, they flock to Callum. He peels off his marching snare to hug his friends, clapping the boys on their backs and lifting girls in the air, making them squeal in surprise. I think they like being lifted and spun in the air; it's romantic, it's novel, it rarely happens. He makes people believe the life they have is special, by sprinkling little special moments over them.

I'm watching a king in his court, beloved by all. His eyes slide across his kingdom, and through a gap in the adoring heads, our eyes meet. And he doesn't smirk or present that cheesy grin of his. Instead, the corner of one lip tugs up, a shy smile, the exact smile he gave me after we kissed for the first time. Shit.

I can only look back for so long before the nerves well up in my stomach, clawing at the sides of my torso like they want out. I hate this. I hate him, I hate him. I have to hate him.

"Remember to drink water, kids!" Keller yells. "No fainting!"

I feel like I could faint, but not from dehydration or exhaustion.

Turning away, I steadfastly ignore Callum for the rest of the night.