“Or dead,” Will grumbled. “How does he wear that getup in this heat?” I could see why Will was concerned. Even in his shorts and tee, with his hair as short as Izzy could have cut it without shaving it, sweat dripped down his temple, and his cheeks gleamed with it.
“I told him not to put on the costume in practice during the heat of the day,” I said. “He says he wants to get used to it so he doesn’t pass out during a game.”
“So you’re seeing him again?” Will asked. “You didn’t tell me that.”
His question shocked me. He hadn’t mentioned Sawyer, or sounded particularly jealous, since Monday.
No, I wasn’t seeing Sawyer. That is, I’d never been seeing him in the way Will meant. And something about bantering with Will during practice had made me feel almost like I was seeing him, and going out with Sawyer would be cheating.
Of course, if that was true, Will was cheating on me every night with Angelica. And Will had no business thinking I should keep him updated on whether I was seeing Sawyer or not.
Logically I knew this. But Will and I were operating on a different plane from everybody around us, it seemed to me. He was in a relationship. He thought I was in a relationship. We shouldn’t have feelings for each other, but we did, and they were more important than anything else—at least when we were together.
“Um,” I said as he tapped one stick lightly on the rim of his drum, nervous for my answer. Part of me wanted to tell him I was seeing Sawyer, just to give him a taste of what I’d felt like when he’d lain on the beach with his hand on Angelica.
The school bell rang through a speaker on the outside of the school, loud enough for us to hear across the parking lot and down in this hole. It was the signal for the end of the period and the beginning of announcements. The rest of the school sat in classrooms and listened to the principal go over test schedules, game schedules, and threats of no more artificial sweetener for anyone if students kept sprinkling Equal on the floor of the lunchroom and yelling “blizzard!” Though the announcements had never struck me as earth shattering, the principal thought they were so important that she typed them up and e-mailed them every afternoon to DeMarcus so he could read them to the band and cheerleaders (and insane school mascot) using Ms. Nakamoto’s microphone. I explained this to Will, and we dumped our drums and harnesses onto the grass.
DeMarcus’s reserved monotone was great for being the guy in charge of the band, but not so good for reading announcements. Bo-ring. In fact, though we were supposed to be paying attention, I thought we were veering toward dangerous territory where Will would ask me again whether I was seeing Sawyer. I preferred to let the question hang there, unanswered. That way, I wasn’t telling a lie, but Will had to wonder about Sawyer and me.
So, to spice up the announcements a bit, I started translating them into Spanish in an even worse monotone than DeMarcus’s. After an initial burst of laughter that made the cymbals turn around, Will pressed his lips together while I entertained him with the Telemundo version of soporific crap.
“That’s all wrong,” he said. “The Spanish I’ve learned has been super animated. I thought that was part of the language.” He took a stab at the next announcement, enunciating it like an overenthusiastic thespian.
“You just mixed up ‘swimming pool’ with ‘fish,’ and ‘swimmer’ with ‘matador,’ ” I informed him. “I’m glad you’re not really announcing this, or people would be dressing very strangely for the swim meet tomorrow.”
“That’s it.” He grabbed me and wrapped his arm around my shoulders, threatening the headlock.
“No fair!” I squealed. “The terms of the headlock are very clear. I did not mention lutefisk.”
“Mr. Matthews, get off Ms. Cruz,” Ms. Nakamoto called through the microphone. When Will stood me up straight, she was handing the microphone back to DeMarcus so he could finish the announcements.
Turning around on the towel he was sharing with a trombone, Jimmy tapped his watch and told Will and me, “Fifty-six minutes. Not a personal record, but a damned good time.”
In answer, Will held one drumstick out beside him, flipped it into the air so that it tumbled three or four times, and caught it without looking at it. This was his answer to pretty much everything drummers said to him that he didn’t like, and it was effective at awing them into silence.
“How do you do that?” I asked. If he managed to escape back to Minnesota early and left me high and dry as drum captain, I could sure use a trick like that. I’d never awed anyone into silence in my life.
“Like this,” he said, showing me his drumstick in his palm. I imitated him. “Now . . .” He raked his thumb under the stick and flipped it into the air. He caught it neatly. I tried it and accidentally launched the stick at his head. He caught that, too.
“Not quite,” he laughed. “Look.” He took my hand in his, pressed my stick into my palm, and showed me how to scoop the stick out and upward with my thumb. I wanted to learn this trick, really. All the warmth spreading across my cheeks had everything to do with excitement at learning a stunt, and the oppressive heat of the afternoon, and nothing to do with Will standing inches from me, his hands on mine.
“Oooooh,” the band moaned loudly enough that I glanced up to see what the commotion was. The entire band, all hundred and eighty of them extending in lines and curlicues across the grass, turned around in one motion to stare at us.
At least, that was my first impression—that they were staring at both Will and me. Maybe DeMarcus had paused in his drone to hand the microphone to Ms. Nakamoto, who’d scolded Will and me for touching again, and we hadn’t heard her over our own laughter. But DeMarcus was still reciting the announcements.
I hit on the answer. The band was staring at Will, not me. I still didn’t know why, but I wasn’t surprised anymore. People stared at Will a lot, even when he was wearing a shirt. I spent a good portion of my day trying not to do it myself.
No, that didn’t seem right either. Girls might gaze longingly at Will as they passed him on the grass, but the whole band wouldn’t turn around to say “Oooooh!” unless he’d gotten in trouble.
“What is it? I wasn’t listening,” I said to Will as a joke, because the fact that I hadn’t been listening was pretty obvious.
“I don’t know,” he said, giving the band a suspicious once-over, “but they’re still pointing at us.”