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?”
“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.