Left, Right, Left (p. 4)
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 "Hey, you're Jeff Henning's son, aren't you? I thought you were in the band."
Kevin declined to reply to the woman in the ticket booth. He grabbed his change and hurried in through the gate, hardly noticing the bedsheets spraypainted with slogans like "Bomb the Green Knights" and a picture of a knight shouting "Run away! Run away!"
He stopped and stood awkwardly in the pit area between the flimsy aluminum grandstand and the refreshment booth. He had a hankering for some pierogies. But the Band Parents ran the snack stand, and he didn't want to have to face them.
Kevin looked around at the crowd gathered on the track, searching its whorls for familiar faces. He had tried to call Matt, but there had been no answer. Dan, it turned out, had gotten a job at IGA and was scheduled to work until nine. Trevor had gone off somewhere with his girlfriend.
He forced his legs toward the track. Until then, he had other friends. Over there was that girl who sat next to him in English. And those two guys had done that presentation on global warming last year. They were talking to Beth Suarez -- no, Rodriguez -- well, something Spanish, anyway. He idly noted the trombone gliss that marked the kickoff.
Neither Matt nor Trevor was around to see West Mountain take a 10-7 lead just seconds before halftime. Kevin, on the other hand, had a beautiful view of the Slate Hill quarterback's fumble right into the hands of a slippery West Mountain lineman, who easily ran in the touchdown. He had ascended the bleachers, hoping that a higher vantage point would help him spot his friends. But all he saw were alumni and townsfolk gathered in hopes of seeing Slate Hill crush its archnemesis.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please direct your attention to the field for tonight's halftime show, brought to you by the Slate Hill Blue Bomber Marching Band." A few members of the crowd, likely band parents, clapped enthusiastically.
"Tonight's show is a tribute to the great men of jazz. It kicks off with Duke Ellington's signature piece, 'Take the A Train.' After that, we have Thelonious Monk's masterpiece, 'Straight, No Chaser.' Next we will hear Horace Silver's immortal 'Sister Sadie.' Our show closes with a tune made famous by the King of Swing, Benny Goodman - 'Sing, Sing, Sing.'" Kevin laughed. The names sounded so silly now - "Take the A Train"? "Sister Sadie"?
A brisk drum cadence accompanied the band as it entered the field from the end zone, three straight lines and Erin limping along on crutches. Reaching their positions, the players snapped around to face the home side. They waited patiently while Erin crawled up onto the platform, fighting against her cast in order to retain some dignity.
The opening riff of "Take the A Train" caught Kevin off guard. He hadn't heard Erin's shouted count-off. The band heard, though, and they slid into the second set of the number - the word "DUKE." But now it seemed to say "DUKF." Kevin could see Jeremy edging out, trying to cover the hole. It wasn't working very well. Then again, Kevin doubted if he'd be able to tell what the formations were supposed to be if he hadn't marched in them.
The crowd had only a few seconds to clap politely before Erin started "Straight, No Chaser." Deciding that he needed to use the bathroom, Kevin headed down the bleachers, filling his ears with the clang of his feet on the aluminum stairs.
By the time he returned, the band was playing "Sister Sadie." Rounding the turn onto the track, Kevin saw the bow tie formation fold into a single line. He noted a gap in the line as it swung forward, a spoke slightly detached from the axle. Jeremy dashed out of the line, finding the soloist's place on the 50.
As Jeremy's slide pumped in and out, Kevin could feel the muscles in his arm tensing and relaxing just a bit, accompanying the solo. His lips fought to draw back into deep dimples as the notes rose, and relax as they moved into the lower register. He smacked his forehead, trying to knock the useless band knowledge out.
The sousaphone seemed to grow louder as Erin and those players who were watching her conducting most closely (drums and sousaphone, mostly) fought against Justin for the song's tempo. Kevin shook his head, hearing Jeremy slip away from the beat that Erin was dictating. The trumpets, stationed on the outstretched wings of the formation, played their fills uncertainly at a compromise tempo.
The solo ended, but by that time half of the band had been ripped away from the drum major's control. Erin's head sagged as she conducted the melody reprise. Kevin saw the notes in his head, knew that he would be able to follow Erin's beat. Clumps of strangers and near-strangers wandered by, chatting and laughing. One female voice distinctly said, "I wonder if Matt Rowley is going to be here?"
Kevin kicked at the blue plastic recycle bin labeled ALUMINUM CANS ONLY - BENEFITS THE SLATE HILL BAND PARENTS ASSOC. The bin bounced against the side of the bleachers and fell onto the gravel. The lid popped off, spilling battered Coke and Sprite cans. Kevin kicked the plastic bin again, sending it rolling onto the track.
The band launched into "Sing, Sing, Sing." Kevin turned and stomped off toward the gate. As he went, he noticed that he was stomping in step with the music.
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