Chapter One
It’s hard to leave the past behind when it’s glaring at you from across the room.
Unfortunately, my past doesn’t want to let me go and has a bad habit of following wherever I run. It comes with a stupid nickname, too. If everyone called me Jimbo, I’d wonder what I’d done to deserve such punishment rather than wear the label like a designer suit.
Jimbo’s real name is James Fossoway—Jimmy when we first met—and I’m blissfully ignorant of when that changed. I am not, however, blissfully ignorant of his presence. Especially when his shirt is damp with sweat and clinging to his body in such a disgusting way, his stupidly veined, muscly arms crossed over his broad chest, and the way he mouths angrily at me, Pay attention.
I’m going to continue to zone out just to spite him.
Actually, I’m flirting with unconsciousness because I’m pretty sure I’m dehydrated. And maybe a tiny bit too proud for my own good. Jimbo offered me his water bottle when he found out I’d forgotten mine during morning drills in the blazing sun, but I’d sooner swap spit with a rabid opossum than ever drink from anything his lips had also touched.
“Now, I know you’re all wondering who will be head drum major this year.”
The booming voice of our band director, Dr. Kimball, snaps me out of my brain fog. As does the smug grin spreading across good ole Jimbo’s full lips. If he’s going to ruin my life with his persistent existence in my world, then I can at least enjoy watching him be disappointed over and over again. I’m a shade petty that way.
“As I’m sure our rookies have learned by now, college marching band isn’t like high school.”
Awkward, exhausted laughter ripples through the band room.
“You might have felt like freaks and geeks as the band nerds wherever you came from, but here, at this level, we work our asses off because we’re not satisfied with mediocrity. In the words of the late George Parks, ‘A band is not proud because it performs well; it performs well because it is proud.’”
The cute freshman babies gasp at our director’s use of a curse word. Sweet, innocent, young things have no idea how real shit is about to get at this level of geekdom. I almost wish to go back to that time. When the world was still my oyster, anything was possible, and a whole new life of experiences and opportunity was waiting to kiss me with its gift of hope.
That was all, of course, before I spied the ugly mug of my sworn enemy among the ranks of other trumpets my freshman year at State’s mandatory band camp.
The director continues after silence blankets the auditorium once more, “Our drum majors are leaders by example. They were chosen as the best of the best from among your ranks through rigorous auditions. But this year, we want you all to be involved in choosing the candidate who best meets your needs as a collective group and as individuals on the cusp of making smart decisions to launch you into adulthood.”
Jimbo’s posturing deflates a bit, and I hate, hate, hate that I share his sentiments.
For the last three years of my time with the State Miners Marching Band, the first night of band camp has always been revered as the traditional announcement of the head drum major. Sure, in a band of over three hundred members at one of the most prestigious football schools in the country, a group of five drum majors is chosen every year to lead. But being the head drum major is a mark of distinction. You’re not just the cream of the crop; you’re the crème de la crème. You’re like the valedictorian of Harvard Law’s graduating class. You are it, and you are going places.
“Throughout this next week of full band camp, your drum majors will be competing against each other for one thing—your vote. This is an opportunity for you to be involved in a democracy where you choose your ideal leadership and for them to become worthy of such an honor. To that end, we will make the announcement for head drum major before our first halftime show of the season. May the best candidate win!”
A ripple of shock from the upperclassmen and confusion from the freshmen volleys through the band room.
But from across the room filled with sweat-soaked bodies who have given their all for the day, my past sets his shoulders in a way that can