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calando

adverb. gradually decreasing in volume and tempo.

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IN EARLY JANUARY, KELLER SENDS me an email.

From: [email protected]

Subject: Percussion - Spring Ensembles

Dear Callum,

I and the rest of the Music Department were very impressed with your leadership in marching band last semester. With your technique, skill and rapport with the University's percussionists we believe you would be a fantastic section leader in our spring ensembles.

Should you accept, I will send through an agreement and the relevant documentation (very similar to last semester). There would be no need to meet before rehearsals start.

Sincerely,

Maude Keller

This happened last semester; Keller sent an identical email to both Bay and I, throwing us together without warning in a bold and risky leadership model. Honestly, I expected as much to happen again. By some stroke of luck, Bay and I actually make a good team when paired together. My exuberance compliments her grumpiness; her steadiness grounds my high but mercurial energy. I want to see her again, I can't wait to see her again.

I reply back to Keller, accepting the role of section leader and asking whether it would be a good idea to meet with Bay to clarify the division of responsibilities between the HSO percussionists, pep band percussionists, and drumline who sometimes may or may not play with the pep band. With basketball and the winter and spring sports vying for shows, it's a more complicated system than marching band in fall, which enjoys the unified efforts of every musical student and staff member.

But she responds: Hi Callum, Bay is not participating in any spring ensembles, so no need.

The ground falls out from underneath my feet.

Sitting at my desk, my hand grips the wooden in search of a stable surface. I read Keller's email without blinking. What does she mean, Bay's not participating? In none of the bands? For the whole semester? Immediately, my brain conjures up worst-case scenarios. The only reason Bay wouldn't play music is if she physically couldn't. She loves band.

Bay took a tumble and broke both of her wrists, rendering her unable to play any percussion instrument. Or she has carpal tunnel syndrome, or early onset arthritis. Some unprecedented injury. No-one notified me because there's no-one to do the next-of-kin responsibilities, and no-one even knows how important she is to me, and she's all alone in hospital right now—

I force myself to breathe, to relax and think logically.

I pick up my phone and dial Bay's number, fully prepared for her to tell me to stop being stupid—Keller made a mistake. Of course she's still in the band. See you in the spring, idiot.

When the call connects and I hear, "Yes, Vierra?" in her usual lazy drawl, I nearly collapse in relief.

"What does Keller mean," I grit out, unable to contain this weird concoction of grief and anger and surprise gusting through my veins, "you're not participating in band next semester?"

"Just that," Bay answers tersely. "I don't have the time to spend on extracurriculars anymore. Enjoy, section leader. You'll do great."

Fuck that. "Is it money? Do you want to pick-up more shifts after classes or what?" I wonder. "Is that why you don't have the time?"

"Rude of you to ask."

"Maybe I'm making like you and abandoning civility," I snap back, feeling so euphoric and so furious that I have her voice in my ear, her anger on me, our banter flowing like a living thing again—but only because I'm never going to play alongside her again. "Maybe I don't want to feel like I won by forfeit."

"Well, I'm forfeiting. Be upset or don't."

"Fucking tell me what's going on," I hiss. "Does anyone else know you're not coming back? Other people would like to know about this."

"No-one else knows," she informs me. In a maddeningly casual tone, "And if they would like to know, now you can tell them. Thanks."

"I swear to God, Bay—" I suck in a breath and hold it for five seconds. Why am I so panicked?

Isn't this what I wanted? A percussion section free of vexation and opposition, a band with only good vibes and positivity, a leadership role without rivalry? I wanted this exact situation not even a year ago. I wished for a day like this, an email like the one I just read. Bay admitting defeat.

Calmly, I say, "Fine. You don't have to explain. I'll tell whoever joins the spring ensembles. I just hope you're okay."

This seems to satisfy Bay, because she makes a thankful sort of noise. "Okay, Vierra. Take care." Take care like we're never going to see each other again. Fucking hell. I hate her, I hate her, I hate her.

I pocket my keys and wallet, race down the stairs and poke my head into the living room. Christian is eating a messily-assembled sandwich for lunch, and he only blinks in confusion when I say, "I'm going for a drive. Don't know how long I'll be. Tell Mom and Dad if they get back from work before me. Don't burn the house down."

"What about dinner?" Christian wonders.

"I'll buy something," I answer, tugging my laced-up sneakers over my heel. Then I'm out the door, forcing my car's frozen engine to turn over without warming it up, and blurring down the roads towards Halston University.

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Bay steps out of her residence hall wrapped in a knitted cardigan, hair loose. She crosses her arms around herself, rubbing away the goosebumps. Recent snowfall has been scraped to the sides of all the footpaths, the air brittle and the sky clouded in white.

When I told her I was outside her dorm, she was stunned and then indignant. How dare I intrude on her day of doing nothing unannounced? Tough shit, because I wasn't going to let her throw away her greatest love—music—without at least trying to find a solution. If she didn't want to tell me over the phone, then I guess she'll have to tell me in person.

It's too cold to converse outside for the fun of it, so she takes me up to her and Renata's room, glaring at me through the lobby and in the elevator and walking the corridors to her bedroom.

I'm an imposition, I know. I couldn't care less.

I'm briefly interested in her side of the room, the plain gray comforter on her bed, the blank walls, sparse shelving and schoolwork supplies scattered around the desk. One potted plant sits on the window sill.

"Why are you leaving?"

"That's what this is about?" Bay groans. "I told you, I won't have time. I'm trying to get my GPA up. I want a scholarship to pay for my master's, and staying in band will take time away from that study. There's no big scandal, Vierra."

I nod, swallowing the bitter truth. That makes perfect sense. We can't stay kids forever, drumming our days away untethered by commitments. I myself had to secure a software engineering internship as part of my studies, and it was only by stroke of luck that the part-time commitment was completely compatible with the band schedule—two shifts on each day of the weekend, performed remotely.

I'm about to excuse myself when I notice something propped up on her desk, a black slip of card with a white illustration. Her birthday card from me. Why keep it in the middle of her workspace, unless she likes to be reminded of it? Bay follows my gaze, flinches, and then tries to school her face back into uncaring stillness.

But I know what I saw. Uncertainty. Fear. Her face is beautiful and blank, but her fingers nervously fiddle with the hem of her sweatshirt.

Everything snaps into focus. "Is this about me? About what we did?"

Bay scoffs. "Fucking ego you have." But that's not a denial, and it might just be my desperation, but a small flicker of hope springs up, curling between each rib and heating me from the inside out.

"Say you quit the bands. Fine. Do you ever want to see me again?"

"No," she immediately says. "I hate you."

"And yet that wasn't enough to avoid me last semester, so what changed?" I venture. "You hate me even more or are you feeling something different?"

Provoked, Bay squints at me. "Why are you here?"

"Why do you think?" Her eyes widen, lips part slightly. "God damn you, Bay."

Bay knows by now. Surely. She has to. I followed her through Pittsburgh, her over everyone else, her over my best friend, and sought her out on campus, and tried multiple times to reach her this winter. I want her so badly it makes my lungs ache.

She refuses to voice it, and so do I. But someone should say it, should put on record the truly fucked-up result of our affair.

I remind her, "False modesty is beneath you."

Her laughter, a tinge too sharp, cuts through the room.

"You don't like me. You've never liked me," Bay says, as if trying to convince herself. Her hair is a tangled mess down her back, and a sheen of panic flickers in her eyes.

Good to know this is freaking her out just as much as it freaked me out. "Don't tell me what to feel."

"Don't tell me what to say." Her chin tips upward in defiance. She knows what that does to me; she knows what she's doing to me. I want her fire, even if it's meant to burn me alive.

Especially if it's meant for that.

I inhale harshly. "Do you ever tire of antagonism?"

"If it's you? Never."

Maybe entering a bedroom with Bay, alone, is a bad idea. Because now the lines between verbal sparring and verbal foreplay (our usual brand of foreplay) are heavily blurred, and so are the lines between rivalry and partnership, and between hate and something much scarier. Bay is staring expectantly up at me, her brown eyes so stubborn and damning that I feel my thoughts slipping.

How is it fair that when I'm with her I can't think, and when I'm without her, I can't think of anything else?

I should leave the room, step away. It takes a second for me to convince myself not to do anything (just go home, sleep on it, and discuss with Bay calmly another time) and a second more to see Bay wet her lips, her nervous breathing pulling a tendon in her neck to the surface—one I want to trace with my tongue—to lose it completely.

I've missed her so fucking much.

I plant a steady hand on her bed, shove her against the frame and kiss her hard enough to taste the coffee she must have had this morning. On Bay's tongue, and accompanied by a raspy sound of surprise and arousal, it is the most addicting thing I've ever tasted.

Her hands coil into my hair, her fingers twining around the ends above the nape of my neck. Her body is warm and relaxed and craning closer to mine, and I finally manage to articulate one of the emotional threads that has been tangled around me.

I know what my problem is. I want Bay. Not her body, writhing and sweaty underneath mine—though this would be great, too. I want her to fall asleep and wake up with me. I want us to talk about our childhoods and our favorite memories. I want her to wear my hoodie and feel proud, instead of cautious, about being in public with me. I want her to meet my family. I want her to like my family, and for my family to like her. All that domestic shit.

I want this because...

Because I've fallen in love with her.