The One That I Want(44)
Author: Jennifer Echols

“Gemma!”

Susan was motioning to me. Squeezing Delilah’s knee to comfort her, I slid past her and clopped down the aisle in my knee-high boots to the band officers. The East band’s head majorette and another majorette were grinning at me.

“It’s Gemma, all right,” the head majorette said, looking at my hair. “It’s so great to finally meet you in person! I’m LaShondra, and this is Val.”

“Boy, have we heard a lot about you!” Val exclaimed.

“From Max,” LaShondra added.

“Really?” I asked, trying not to seem too eager. “Carter told me he and Max had an altercation in chemistry.”

“They did,” Val said knowingly, like it had been something to see.

“Carter told me Max got sent out in the hall,” I said.

LaShondra waved one glittering arm dismissively. “Yeah, but Max talks in class a lot. He pretty much lives out in the hall.”

“We’ve been hearing about you for longer than that,” Val said.

LaShondra said, “First day of school, he corners me and says, ‘LaShondra! I met this girl! She goes to West, she has purple streaks in her hair, she’s really funny, she twirls batons like they are part of her, and I have never seen a girl so hot.’”

Val cackled. “You sound just like him!”

It was a good imitation of Max—so good it almost made me tear up, thinking about him. “He may have felt that way before, but we had a pretty big argument last night.”

Val shook her head. “He still feels that way. He picked me up to bring me to the game, and he told me to tell you hi.”

I put a hand over the warmth in my chest. “Awww! That is so sweet!”

“You’re going to get back with him, right?” LaShondra asked.

I nodded. “I hope. I didn’t want to talk to him on game day and mess with his mojo.”

I thought I might have to explain what I meant by Max’s mojo. But they both said, “Ohhhh,” nodding, and stepped back a pace.

“He’s very superstitious about kicking,” LaShondra said.

Our drum major blew a couple of blasts on his whistle, which meant that the band had to file out of the stands and line up in the end zone for the halftime show. The majorettes from East waved to me as they walked away, and LaShondra mouthed, Good luck. I made my way back to my seat to retrieve my batons. The butterflies that had been living in my stomach all day were growing into a small species of bird.

In contrast, Delilah seemed okay. It wasn’t until we were in place in the end zone and the scoreboard showed one minute to halftime that she started hyperventilating. We were supposed to be standing at attention, which for majorettes meant both batons on our hips and our grins cemented to our faces. But I couldn’t ignore the quick, labored breathing behind me. I turned around to look at her. “Think about something else, Delilah.”

“How can I, when this is staring at me?” With a small movement of her baton, she gestured to the packed, screaming stadium.

I tried to talk her down. In the back of the band, the drum major caught my eye. He shook his head at me and motioned for me to face forward. But I couldn’t abandon Delilah, and Mrs. Baxter was no help. She’d climbed up into the press box to watch the show.

Robert was standing with his trumpet right next to Delilah. He could talk to her without turning his head. “Robert!” I whispered. “Tell Delilah some jokes until we go on the field.”

He looked at Delilah, whose sequined bosom rose and fell rapidly, then at me. “Jokes about what?”

“Anything but fainting.” I turned around, put my hands on my hips, and grinned my majorette grin.

Behind me I heard Robert say quietly, “A priest, a rabbi, and a majorette walk into a bar.” I lost his voice in the crowd noise after that, but periodically I could hear Delilah giggling, which was a good sign. It meant she was still breathing.

The drum cadence began. We marched onto the field—that is, the band marched, and the majorettes high-stepped. Glancing at Delilah on one side of me, Addison on the other, and the rest of the majorettes lined up perfectly beyond her, I thought we looked pretty cool.

The halftime show was a blur of adrenaline, song after song and toss after toss. I only knew that I performed every routine exactly right. I felt high—almost like I’d been kissing Max.

It was only after we’d marched off the field that I heard the other majorettes whispering. Delilah had managed not to faint, but Addison had dropped her baton four times. And Addison wasn’t playing drama queen this time. She was unnaturally quiet.

We stood on the sidelines to watch the home band’s show and clapped for them. When third quarter started, we filed back into the stands to sit down, and the game got interesting. Carter threw for a touchdown, and Max kicked the extra point. Our team scored a touchdown, but our kicker couldn’t put the ball through the uprights for seven. In the fourth quarter, Max kicked a long, beautiful field goal. Our team made yet another touchdown with yet another missed extra point. I bet our coach was really wishing he had Max for a kicker just then.

It would have disappointed Max and Carter, but I would have loved for the game to stop right there. Our team was winning by two points, but Carter had gotten his touchdown, and Max had proven his worth with his field goal. Everybody could have gone home somewhat happy. But when there were only seconds left on the clock and it looked like there was no way their team could win because they were too far from the end zone, their coach sent Max in to kick a forty-eight-yard field goal, nearly impossible for a high school player. If he made it, they would win by one point.

No pressure.

“Gemma!” someone called above me in the band. I turned around to see Robert in the trumpets, cupping his hands to yell at me. “Is that your guy?”

I grinned proudly and nodded.

“Can he make that goal?”

I nodded again. I had seen Max in action.

Robert cussed. I laughed as I turned back to watch Max.

The crowd had been feisty all game, but that was nothing compared with the roar around us now. As the play clock ticked down, Max performed the ritual I’d seen him do before his last field goal. He stood beside Carter, who would be catching the snap. He counted a pace to one side and a pace upfield to find his position. Just as he was signaling Carter to call for the snap, whistles blew everywhere.

“What does that mean?” Delilah asked impatiently.

“Our coach just iced the kicker,” I grumbled.