Major Crush(23)
Author: Jennifer Echols

We walked down to the band room without talking. Drew naturally walked faster than me, and I let him get ahead.

When I pushed open the heavy door to the band room, Drew was pacing. I put my back against Mr. Rush’s office door, slid to the floor, kicked off my flip-flops, and took my drumsticks out of my backpack.

Drew paced from the instrument storage room to Mr. Rush’s office and back. It was annoying, but I was sure I could be more annoying if I tried. The more he paced, the louder I tapped with my drumsticks on the floor.

Finally he paused in front of me. “Can you stop that?”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” I mimicked him over the tapping. “I’m hungry. A ren’t you? We should never argue at lunch.”

He bent down toward me with his hand extended. “May I borrow those?”

I handed over the drumsticks in surprise. If I’d had time to think about it, I wouldn’t have given them to him, because I could have predicted what he’d do.

Sure enough, he reared back with his arm and threw the drumsticks hard. They sailed across the band room, clattered against the far wall, and rang some cymbals on their way down to the carpet.

When Drew wheeled back around, Mr. Rush stood in the band room doorway with his arms folded.

“Fire me, then!” Drew shouted at Mr. Rush. “Just go ahead and fire me!”

“I don’t want to fire you, Morrow,” Mr. Rush said. “Or Sauter, either. Have you seen Clayton Porridge?” He unlocked the doorknob over my head.

He sat down at his desk, and I sat down in a chair. He told Drew, “Better close the door, despite the repercussions.” Drew pulled the door closed, then stood behind the empty chair.

“Please have a seat,” Mr. Rush said.

“No thanks,” Drew said.

“Sit!”

Drew sat down.

“Now then,” Mr. Rush began pleasantly—so pleasantly that I knew he was faking. “Why don’t you tell me what the problem is?”

I piped up, “He’s dating a racist—”

“You don’t know that,” Drew said.

“—and he’s just too stubborn to admit it.” Mr. Rush put his chin in his hand and considered me. “What business is it of yours who he’s dating?”

Drew didn’t say “Yeah!” but he didn’t have to. I could feel him staring at me smugly.

“His girlfriend made a racist comment to my friend,” I said.

Mr. Rush moved his hand away from his chin so he could gape at me. “Oh, shit. We are not going to have any of that going on in my marching band. Which twin was it?”

“We don’t know!” Drew shouted in exasperation.

Mr. Rush turned to Drew. “You mean you can’t tell them apart?” He chuckled. “Sounds like true love, Morrow. But this isn’t why you two are fighting. It’s the subject matter of the hour, but it’s not why.” He rubbed his hands together. “I think I know of something that can help us.

Now, it may surprise you to hear that I come from a dysfunctional family.”

“No!” Drew said sarcastically.

“Watch it, Morrow. A nyway, one of the times the police came, the judge sent us to family counseling. Despite the fact that I was a jaded teen at the time, I found family counseling very enlightening.”

He leaned forward in his chair. “It’s simple. You don’t interrupt each other. You let the person talking say their peace. You take turns telling each other how you feel.”

“Drew and I tried this last Friday on the bus,” I said. “It didn’t work out. We didn’t speak to each other again until Drew’s temperature went up to a hundred and four.”

“She’s easier to get along with when she’s blurry,” Drew said.

Mr. Rush gave Drew the evil eye, then turned it on me. He went on as if we hadn’t interrupted him. “Here’s how family counseling works. You start, ‘I feel,’ and put in an emotion, and then tell us why you feel that way. Sauter, you go first.”

Immediately I said, “I feel angry.”

“Too easy,” said Mr. Rush.

“I feel,” I said again. Clearly, we were not going to get out of this until Mr. Rush thought we were making some sort of effort. So I considered how I really felt. A s I reached deep down, I was surprised by what I found in there.

“Time’s up,” said Drew. “Game over.”

“Shut up!” Mr. Rush and I both yelled at him.

“I feel proud,” I said quickly. “Of Drew.”

Drew’s eyes met mine, but I couldn’t say the rest of this while I looked at him. I turned to Mr. Rush.

“I like Drew.” Understatement of the year. “Drew is a terrific drum major. Working with a partner has been hard for him after he was drum major by himself last year. A ll things considered, I think he’s handled it pretty well. Except that pesky problem of not knowing his left from his right—”

“I had a fever!”

“Don’t interrupt,” said Mr. Rush.

“A nd I feel proud of myself,” I went on. “It’s been hard on me, too. I never expected to be drum major this year. There have been times when I wanted to give it up. But I could never give it up after Mr. O’Toole acted like a girl couldn’t do it. I’ve proven that a girl can do it. Now any girl can do it. A riel James can try out if she wants to.”

“Yeah, I’ve got my eye on James for drum major a few years down the road,” Mr. Rush said. “She keeps writing concertos and handing them in to me for no apparent reason. Some kind of idiot savant.”

“I thought you weren’t supposed to interrupt me,” I said.

“Seriously,” Mr. Rush said to Drew. “Does James talk?”

“No,” said Drew.

“Maybe that’s because you don’t let her get a word in edgewise!” I shouted. Now that I’d started this “I feel” crap, I wasn’t letting go. “I feel frustrated!”

“Tell us why you feel frustrated,” Mr. Rush said calmly.

“I feel frustrated because Drew and I have different styles of drum majoring. I discuss things with people. Drew yells at people.” I realized I was still yelling myself, and lowered my voice. “I think both styles could work. But Drew won’t let me find out whether my style works. Every time I try to solve a problem by discussing things with people, Drew comes up behind me and yells. A nd if one drum major is discussing something with you but the other drum major is yelling at you, you’re naturally going to obey the one yelling at you.”