Major Crush(8)
Author: Jennifer Echols

Then Drew realized what he’d done. He snatched his hand away.

Mr. Rush put his chin in his hand and gazed at us, looking bored. “Here’s the thing, Sauter. You’re a pretty girl.” He turned to Drew. “Can I say that as her teacher, or is it sexual harassment?”

“You’re on the line.”

“Then you tell her,” Mr. Rush said. “Don’t you think she’s a pretty girl?”

Drew looked at me and seemed to be studying me. I could feel myself turning red. Finally he said, “She’s mean.”

“Me!” I squealed. “What about—”

Mr. Rush held up his hand for me to shut up. “But is she pretty?” he asked Drew again.

“I have a girlfriend,” Drew said.

“I’m not asking you to take her to the prom,” Mr. Rush said, his voice rising again. “I’m asking you if you think she’s pretty.”

“Yes,” Drew exhaled, not looking at me. I was relieved to see that he was turning red too.

“Prettier than you?” Mr. Rush asked.

Drew laughed. “Definitely.”

“A nd after Friday night’s debacle, don’t you think we should use any means available to interest the audience and improve morale in the band?”

“Yes.”

“A nd to that end, don’t you think her uniform is inappropriate?”

Drew turned to me. “The trombones call you Mini-Me.”

I said, “The trombones can shove it up their—”

Mr. Rush held up his hand for me to hush again. He repeated, “Get some boots and a skirt. Short. But not too short, do you understand me?

I don’t want to get arrested. Can you do that by Friday?”

I nodded. I would put my mom on the case. She could order something from a band uniform store online and have it overnighted. She’d be thrilled for me to show some leg again.

Drew asked, “While you’re at it, can you make her wear shoes during band practice?”

“I think it’s cute that she doesn’t wear shoes,” Mr. Rush said. “Oh, my God, did I just say that?” Shaking his head, he drew another line through his notes.

Next item. “A nd what’s with your military salute at the beginning of the show?” he demanded. “This ain’t the army. Spice it up a little.” He pointed at Drew. “Dip her, like in the tango. Work on that in practice today while I try to undo whatever damage you’ve done to my marching band.”

Drew closed his eyes. “I don’t dance.” He sounded very tired.

“You don’t have to dance,” Mr. Rush said. “Just do this one move. Sex sells. Throw the audience a bone.”

Drew opened his eyes and folded his arms. “I don’t think I can do that.”

Mr. Rush said, “Sauter, do me a favor, would you? Lean out the door and ask Clayton Porridge to come in here.”

“A ll right!” Drew bent down and banged his head on Mr. Rush’s desk. Voice hollow against the metal, he said, “This was so much easier last year.”

When Mr. Rush finally let us go, I jumped out the door of his office and ran to tell A llison the news that I had become a boots-wearing hussy of a drum major who seduced elderly men.

“Sauter,” Drew called after me.

I didn’t stop. The tile was cold on my bare feet.

I heard him speed up behind me. He caught up in two strides and touched my elbow once, lightly.

“Virginia,” he said.

I stopped and looked up at him.

“Since we’re supposed to be friends, ride up to the stadium in the truck with me. Please.”

I glanced back toward Mr. Rush’s office. He stood in the doorway with his hands on his hips, glowering at me, sending me a telepathic message: Remember the Pizza Hut.

“A ll right,” I muttered.

Drew always parked his dad’s farm truck in the band room driveway like he owned the place. Boys in the band had already dumped the daily load of hay bales and farm implements—scythes or whatever—out onto the grass.

A line of boys stretched from the truck through the band room and into the instrument storage room. They tossed drums and the biggest instrument cases all along the line to land in the truck bed so Drew could drive them up to the football stadium for practice. I stepped forward to join the brigade.

A nd promptly got hit in the chest with a bass drum. I nearly fell with it, which would have made three times in one hour, a record even for me.

“Girl in the line,” a boy murmured. A nother said in falsetto, “Mini-Me.”

I managed to hand off the bass drum just in time to get crushed by a tuba case. This time I smacked onto the cold floor with the huge black case on top of me.

“Ooooooh, aaaaaah,” said the line.

Drew didn’t say it. But Drew and the other trombones had started the “ooooooh, aaaaaah” to make fun of one of Drew’s brothers when he was drum major. It hurt like Drew was saying it to me.

Drew lifted the case off me with one hand and swung it by the handle back into the line. Then he helped me up. He cupped his hand to my ear and whispered, “I told you to ride with me in the truck. I didn’t tell you to load the truck. That case was bigger than you are.”

“You didn’t tell me to do anything,” I said, not bothering to keep it quiet. “You asked me nicely. When you start telling me to do things, that’s when—”

He glared at me, reminding me that I was about to get us fired. I glanced over his shoulder at Mr. Rush, who lurked, arms folded.

“That’s when I’ll go wait in the truck,” I said, forcing a smile.

I climbed up into the enormous cab and slammed the door. A llison passed by with the majorettes just then. She did a double take when she saw me in Drew’s truck. I could tell she was asking the other majorettes to wait for her, and I rolled down the window.

“How’d it go?” she asked. But then she saw the look on my face, and she understood exactly how it went. “That bad?”

“Drew told Mr. Rush that I spread my legs for Mr. O’Toole so he’d make me drum major.”

“Busy girl. You’re getting a lot of that lately.”

“I know it. Maybe someone’s trying to tell me something. My nightly sexual escapades are catching up with me.”

“Really,” said a passing drummer in mock shock. A nother put his hand up to his cheek, with his pinky and his thumb stuck out, and mouthed,

“Call me.”