That bathroom is disgusting, sir.
Sure. Yeah. Serves its purpose. I’m good.
Where were we?
Right. Last day of school. That was nine days ago. Feels like a million years ago though. I stole money from Dad so I could drink all the Code Red in the world.
Actually, I tried not to go to school at all. After breakfast, instead of heading outside and down to the corner where Justin usually picks me up, I sat back down on the couch and shut my eyes.
By the time Grandpa noticed I hadn’t left the house (and was asleep on the couch), I was too late to make gym (too late for Mr. McCartney to call me names one last time).
“What the hell?” Grandpa shouted when he saw me.
“Sick,” I said, opening my eyes.
“No, you’re not,” Grandpa said. “Get in the van!”
Grandpa drove me to school in his dumb orange van, which I didn’t appreciate.
Nobody seemed to notice or care that I’d skipped a class. I’m sure it would’ve been a big deal if it hadn’t been the last day of school. I bought my first Dew and shuffled to second hour.
The morning was only notable for a couple reasons.
One, someone had stuffed a note in my locker saying, I’m sorry, Gabe! I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry!
That’s the note Dad handed you this morning, sir. Guess he found it when he was digging around my room last night. It’s from Baba Obi and I don’t have a clue why you guys think it has something to do with this pop machine robbery because it doesn’t.
No, I don’t know any Baba Obi.
The handwriting is a girl’s. I’m sure Camille was sorry for something. It’s nothing.
Baba Obi is no one.
Two, Ms. Feagan, my English teacher, asked me to stay after class following third hour. “Gabe, are you feeling all right?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “I don’t feel good.”
“Do you need help? Can I help?”
“I just don’t want to be funny anymore,” I said.
She laughed for a second. “Okay,” she said. “That’s fair. You don’t have to entertain me or anybody, but I’ve missed you this week.”
“Sorry,” I said.
“No,” Ms. Feagan said. “Don’t be sorry. You do what you need to do, okay?”
I nodded and left, but that meant a lot to me. Ms. Feagan is meritorious. (That’s a vocabulary word from her class.)
Yeah, the morning was quiet. The afternoon wasn’t.
Band changed everything.
Usually, the final day of band is a jam session. When I was a freshman, Mr. Shaver let us play our favorite songs of the year but also sort of improvise our parts, which was really hilarious. It was really, really great. Man, I love band. I love it, Mr. R. It’s so fun. And Shaver is an awesome teacher and no one acts like a jerk or calls anyone names (well, except Austin Bates). We just play music. Some of it is boring, but lots of it is loud and bouncy sounding. It’s so good. Last year, during the final day jam session, people got up and danced and whooped and crap. It was probably the best time I’ve ever had.
I’m serious, sir. I love band.
But this year, the last band class wasn’t the jam session I was expecting at all, and clearly, I needed some joy in my life, right?
We all got to the band room and Mr. Shaver told us not to take our instruments out. He asked us to sit in our sections. His tone scared me. Dark.
Tess Cook, who is an airhead and maybe half deaf/crazy, didn’t pay attention to instructions. She pulled out her clarinet and began to put it together and Mr. Shaver, who is about the sweetest dude in the world, flipped out. “Damn it, Tess. I said no instruments.” The room fell totally silent. We all stared at Shaver. I had a hard time swallowing because his shouting freaked me out. He’s not a yeller. He’s a sweet old dude. (I mean, I thought he was until last week.)
Shaver got up on the riser, where he usually conducts. He said, “Big announcement. Big announcement. Sit down, Tess.”
Tess was only up because she was putting her clarinet away. “What?” she asked. Her face turned red.
“Sit, kid. Jesus Christ,” Shaver said. “Jesus!”
Tess sat with half her clarinet in her hand.
My hands were shaking by that point. I felt faint. (I’d already had five Code Reds, which likely added to my shaking.)
Then Shaver took this deep breath, shook his head, and delivered the blow. “I’m very sorry to say there will be no marching camp this summer.”
There was an audible gasp. More like a hiss or a balloon losing air.
Someone—I’m not sure who—shouted, “Why?”
“Unforeseen circumstances,” Shaver said. “Changes. Things come up. Get used to it. Things get in the way in life. You all enjoy your time off.”
“Wait!” Camille shouted. “Seriously…why?”
But Shaver had already stepped down from the riser. While we watched, mouths hanging open, he walked across the room to his office, walked in, and slammed the door.
You might think the band would all riot or call out in anguish or something. Shouldn’t we have pounded on Shaver’s office, demanded an explanation, planned our resistance? No way. We all just sat there, barely breathing, waiting for Shaver to come back and further direct us about what we were supposed to do.
No leadership in the house.
The seniors were on their way out. It was their last day. They couldn’t give a flying squirt about marching. The juniors who will be seniors are a class almost totally devoid of any intelligence or talent. It’s like the smarts in this town skipped a generation. They can’t play music. They can barely read. They’re dirty and dumb.
Yes, I’m happy to say that some of them are my friends now.
But you have to have leaders if you’re going to fight the power, man. Are sophomores who are used to being buried near the bottom of the shit heap going to be quick to stand up? Justin was the most likely dude to do it, but he didn’t because he was already secretly dating Janessa.
That’s right—Janessa Rogers!
People started whispering. The volume increased. They all talked and talked about what might’ve happened. Maybe Shaver’s sick. Maybe he’s tired or he has to travel someplace. Maybe he doesn’t like us anymore. Maybe the marching band is losing its funding for next year.
Whoa. Stop the presses.
I hadn’t partaken (partook?) in the conversations at all because of my state of mind, but—
Maybe the marching band is losing its funding for next year.
Okay, when I was a freshman, Jacinta Smith was the president of the student council, and she also took community college classes at night from my dad (accounting). And I actually read one of her papers where she talked about how various student activities were funded and the band, sir, the band’s summer programming was entirely funded by proceeds generated from the pop machine in the cafeteria! I thought about Deevers telling me and Justin about property values and resort money and how there wasn’t enough money.
I mean, balls!
Suddenly, I knew in my pounding heart of hearts what was going on. A high holy effenheimer danced on the tip of my tongue. I sucked it in and let it expand in my chest. My heart pounded, man.
Maybe the marching band is losing its funding for next year?
I tried to breathe. I tried to swallow. I watched and waited. Pretty soon, conversations turned to summer plans and college and all kinds of crap that didn’t matter. Only I knew we were being victimized (totally bamboozled).
My blood boiled, not just for me but for all us geeks.
Look at me, Mr. Rodriguez. Here. I’m going to stand up. Do you think I like marching? I love the music—but marching? This is me marching. I look stupid, right? In fact, I hate the hell out of the marching part of band. The stupid tight pants and fur ball hats and the big white belt that crushes me across my midsection. I can’t breathe in the bullshit uniform in the first place. Then march me around in circles while I blow my guts out on this brass instrument that requires all kinds of wind? I look like a dying blimp wearing a costume and blowing a big metal robot wang.
What I’m saying is while I love concert band and pep band with my whole heart, I don’t like marching one bit. But I’d had enough of getting the shaft. I’m not a joke. I’m not going to be a victim!
Waiting for the bell to ring, I thought about Seth Sellers calling me a turd. I thought about the stinging price of Code Red and all the ways it crippled me (physically and emotionally). I thought about Deevers. I thought about the health class experiment and how I wasn’t the only one screwed over. I thought about McCartney and name-calling.
I thought, None of this is by accident. I thought, Somebody is trying to use us up. I thought, If Kailey or Janessa were in the band, we’d have all the money we need to be the best band we can be. Property values and resort money don’t matter! They take my stuff because I make it easy! I just laugh and roll over!
I exhaled hard. I stood up. Everyone stared at me.
“I have totally and completely had enough of this bullshit,” I said. “This means war!”
Austin Bates, a junior percussionist, laughed. “Ha-ha!”
I gave him the finger.
And then the bell rang.