But after all Drew’s fake flirting, I didn’t feel like telling him the truth. I felt like embarrassing him, if I could. I gave it my best shot.
“Poor Drew,” I said. “You’re so innocent.”
We’d walked close enough to the band that Luther heard this. He laughed really, really hard. Drew just stood there. Luther ,put his arm around Drew’s shoulders. “Bro, we need to talk.”
A s Luther led Drew away, Drew gave me a sideways glance. He didn’t look mad at me anymore. Dark eyes darker, long lashes heavy. He looked … I wasn’t sure what that look was.
But he wasn’t mad.
I watched him duck with Luther past the flags. Then I turned to A llison. “Luther’s cute,” I said hopefully. He was in her A P classes, like Drew.
I had thought before that Luther might have taken a shine to her, and that the shine might be mutual.
Well, maybe not. A llison tossed her head. “He dresses like the ’hood.”
“That’s ridiculous. You’re such a snob. He dresses cool. A nd our town isn’t big enough to have a ’hood.”
She sniffed. “So, did Drew ask you out yet?”
“No, Barry asked me out. Drew just went down on me. Did you see it?”
She fluttered her eyelashes, like a well-bred hostess whose cocktail party had just been crashed by a motorcycle gang. “For a virgin, you have the dirtiest mind.”
“You’re one to talk, Rapunzel. Let down your hair.” I poked one of her gelled finger waves.
She removed my hand with two manicured fingers. “A re you kidding? It took me hours to get it this way.” She glanced after Luther and Drew, like she was concerned about what Luther thought of her finger waves, after all.
Then she said, “Speaking of hairdos. The majorettes wanted me to tell you that your dip with Drew is so romantic.”
I shouted laughter, and the nearby saxophones turned to stare at me. “Y’all are real bored over there,” I said.
“A nd that in the third grade, one of the Evil Twins attacked a girl’s hair with safety scissors because of a boy.” She touched the back of my head, where my short hair grazed the nape of my neck, like she was worried.
Despite myself, I searched the milling crowd for Tracey/Cacey, and found at least one of them giving me an unfriendly look.
I said, “I’ll keep that in mind.”
For the rest of the week I took Walter’s advice and ran a one-woman public relations campaign. First, on Wednesday morning, I cornered Tonya, Paula, and Michelle in algebra and told them I didn’t appreciate the way they’d treated me in the restroom at the game. Now that they were away from the mob, they said they were sorry. I fed them some touchy-feely lines about how Drew and I were having a hard time adjusting to the partnership but were dealing with our problems.
A fter Tonya, Paula, and Michelle, I worked my way through the rest of the band, talking to all one hundred and fifty of them alone or in small groups. A ll of them, that is, except Drew’s senior trombone friends. A nd the Evil Twins.
People actually were nice to me about it and at least pretended to understand and cooperate. By practice on Friday, I could feel a change in the atmosphere, like the pressure had dropped.
Or the reason for the weather change could have been that the band sounded so much better with a solid rhythm section underneath it. I’d worked hard with the drums all week. They finally sounded like they were playing their parts rather than dropping their drums and drumsticks from a ten-story building.
Friday after school four buses parked in front of the band room. The band was headed for the farthest football game of the year, down somewhere in southern A labama. It would take forever to get there. We were only waiting for Mr. Rush to show up from his faculty meeting.
I was stuck chaperoning the freshman bus. I should have complained that I got the freshman bus and Drew got the senior bus. It made me look like assistant drum major. A nd I didn’t look forward to the three-hour ride with screaming freshmen. That was a downside of being drum major—the responsibility. I’d claimed the front seat as a sort of escape hatch.
I sat on the stairs of the freshman bus, tapping my drumsticks on the rubber footpad of the stair. Drew sat with the twin on the wall next to the band room door.
I tried not to look at them, but it was only natural that I would glance in their direction every now and then. They were the only thing to look at against the expanse of concrete and grass. A nd I was there first.
Drew glanced over at me. You dummy, I thought. Of course the twin caught him looking at me, and she glared at me like I’d drawn his eye on purpose. Then they had a little chat. He glanced up at me again, uncomfortably. She glared at me.
Finally I got tired of the whole thing. I put my drumsticks down, put my knees up and my elbows on my knees and my chin on my fists, and just stared the hell out of them. I stared Drew up and down like he was something good to eat. I even licked my lips when he wasn’t watching and the twin was.
Well, that was it. Now she really glared at me. We eyeballed each other like it was a game of eye-chicken. A nd it wouldn’t be me who blinked first.
Drew passed a hand in front of her face like she was blind, and she blinked. Then he pushed her off the wall with a very inappropriate love pat to the derrière that was probably against school rules, and she scampered to the senior bus.
Mr. Rush was finally walking down the hill from the school. With him came Ms. Martineaux, the track coach, who was about his age and two inches taller. He said something to her and pointed her toward the senior bus. Then he motioned to me. I met him in the grass, along with Drew.
Mr. Rush rubbed his hands together. “The two of you are getting along great, right?”
Drew and I looked at each other uncomfortably. It wasn’t the us against Mr. Rush look anymore.
“The show is coming along well for the contest, right?” Mr. Rush went on. “Because I may have gotten myself in some more trouble.”
I asked, “Can’t you just stop going to the faculty meetings?”
“This had to be done, Sauter. You know how you have a white Miss Homecoming and a black Miss Victory every year? This violates desegregation laws. I can’t believe no one’s questioned it before.”
“Probably because it’s a holdover from forty years ago,” Drew said, “when the black and white high schools were separate. The white high school had their Miss Homecoming, and the black high school had their Miss Victory. When they integrated, they kept both.”