Boys in the Back Row Page 4

  “Thanks! So … you and Eric are gonna be roomies at World of Amazement, right?” Hector asked as I closed my locker.

  “Yup,” I said as I headed for Eric’s locker. Hector’s locker was even closer to the music rooms than mine, and he hustled to catch up and walk next to me. “How about you?”

  “That was what I was gonna ask,” Hector said with his usual super-cheerful expression. “Jack and I were wondering if you guys would room with us, like a team of four.”

  “What about teams of four?” Eric said, closing his locker just as we got there.

  “I mean us,” Hector said, spinning his index finger in a circle between us.

  “That’s only a team of three,” Eric said.

  “Us and Jack, I mean.” Hector pointed past Eric and at the very end of the hallway, where a kid with brown hair and terrible posture was about to turn the corner leading to the school’s front doors. “HEY, JACK, WAIT UP!”

  Jack Browning played a regular old alto saxophone, but it looked like a tuba when you saw it next to his bony torso. He was like a blade of grass with feet.

  “Hey, guys,” Jack said in his usual droopy-dog tone. He wasn’t a sad kid, he just sounded that way. “What am I waiting up for?”

  “For us, obviously!” Hector smacked Jack on the shoulder. I shouldn’t have been surprised that Jack didn’t stagger or anything, but he seriously looks like you could knock him over by looking at him too hard. “You got roommates for the World of Amazement trip yet?”

  “Ow. No. Why?”

  “Why do you think?” Hector said, grinning at me and Eric like we were in on some big secret. He was so clearly happy that I couldn’t help grinning back, even as I wondered how it wasn’t obvious that Hector was asking Jack to room with us.

  “We need one more person for our room, Jack,” I said.

  “You guys know that trip’s not for …” Jack paused and literally counted on his fingers, which was entertaining. “… seven months, right?”

  “We know!” Hector smacked Jack on the shoulder again.

  “Ow. Could you maybe not do—”

  “So are you in?” Eric smacked Jack on his other shoulder.

  “Ow. Will you guys stop hitting me on the shoulders if I say yes?”

  We all cracked up, and instead of hitting Jack’s shoulder I just put my hand on it as we started walking, and Jack ended up in the middle of our group as we all headed for the front doors.

  “Dude, you actually said yes!” Hector said.

  “Why do you say that, Hector?” Jack said everything so slowly that he sounded like some kind of dork cowboy, in a good way—it’s like he was hilarious without actually meaning to be.

  “You never say yes when I ask you to do stuff.”

  “Oh, that’s not true—”

  “Wait, how many times have you asked Jack to do stuff?” Eric said as we went through the doors and strolled down the big, wide steps in front of the school.

  “Like three times!” Hector said.

  “I didn’t know you two were such good friends,” I said.

  “I don’t know if my dude here thinks we are,” Hector said, nudging Jack with his elbow.

  “Sure we are,” Jack said. “Your timing is just bad, Hector.”

  “Oh, it’s my timing, guys.” Hector looked back and forth at me and Eric, nodding his head in a fake-serious way. “That’s what it is.”

  We stopped at the bottom of the steps where the usual post-school crowd scene was happening. Some kids were getting picked up by their parents or babysitters or whoever, but most people were either milling around and talking, or doing the smart thing and walking away from school as fast as humanly possible.

  “Anyway, we’re all set for the trip, then,” I said.

  “Yeah, thanks for making that happen waaaaay before it needed to, Hector!” Eric grinned and elbowed Hector, just to make it obvious he was joking.

  “No problem! I’m taking off, roomies, later!”

  “I’m going that way too, Hector,” Jack said. “So long, roomies.”

  “I don’t know, man, you sure you want to be seen with me?”

  “You’re pretty funny, Hector.”

  “We’re really doing this ‘roomies’ thing, huh?” I said as Hector and Jack started walking away.

  “We’re SO doing it!” Hector said over his shoulder. He raised a fist in the air, and Eric and I laughed as we turned and went in the opposite direction.

  “That was kind of cool,” I said.

  “Yeah, one less thing to worry about!”

  We passed Summer Oh (Skye’s older sister) and some girl I didn’t know, who were standing and talking right at the curb.

  “It’s just so much pressure, you know?” Summer said, throwing her hands in the air. “How am I supposed to know what I want to study for all four years of high school before high school even starts—”

  “Can’t you just tell your mom you want to go to Lodestar High instead?”

  “You don’t know my mom—”

  High school! Holy crap! I was glad I didn’t have to think about high school yet, and even more glad that when the time came, I’d at least get to deal with the terrors of high school side by side with Eric. I couldn’t imagine doing it without him.

  Eric and I started hanging out a little more with Hector and (sometimes) Jack, which turned out to be not bad. We even went trick-or-treating together on Halloween, with me and Eric dressed as Rocket Cats (the Ursu twins, to be exact), Hector as a luchador zombie like he’d said, and Jack as a surprisingly cool robot. So, things were going okay in November even though we couldn’t go to DefenderCon.

  Then the Thanksgiving parade came along, like it always does. It’s the biggest marching band event of the year, at least during years when we weren’t going to places like World of Amazement, and of course this year was my first time playing bass drum during the parade, which meant I’d probably be more sweaty than usual. Sure, the temperature starts getting down to 50 degrees by the end of November, but it doesn’t matter that much when you’re carrying a giant drum while wearing leather shoes, polyester pants and jacket, and a big tall hat with an even bigger feather sticking up on top. At least we didn’t have to wear the hats Dad wore when he was in marching band—those things looked exactly like giant, white Q-tips. I felt embarrassed for Dad just thinking about it.

  “Got all your stuff, buddy?” Dad said as we pulled up in front of school on the Saturday morning before Thanksgiving.

  “Yeah. I think. It’s still weird not carrying my piccolo.”

  “I was thinking the same thing. Looking forward to seeing you in the drum line, though!”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  I gave Dad an extra-tight hug, just because he was being so awesome about the drum thing even though I knew he wished I was still playing piccolo, then headed inside.

  The outer doors to the music wing—which were on the same side of the school as the front doors but all the way over by the corner of the building—were propped open, so I walked in that way. The band room had that exciting, busy vibe where everyone’s getting ready to perform—the equipment closets where we kept the drums, flags, and super-big instruments like the tuba were open, and people were tuning up their instruments, helping each other adjust their uniforms, and talking about whose houses they were going to for Thanksgiving (if they were going to someone else’s house).

  I was the first drummer to arrive, and I didn’t feel like lugging my bass drum around until I had to, so I left it in the closet and waited for Eric to get there.

  “Good morning, people!” Mr. D swept out of the music office with a gigantic coffee cup in his hand, surveyed the room—two-thirds of the band hadn’t shown up yet, but there was still ten minutes until we were officially supposed to be there—and then swept back into the office.

  I said hi to some people as they came in, tolerated Skye’s frowning inspection of my uniform, and accepted a high five from Hector that almost felt mandatory b
ecause he was so enthusiastic about it.

  “First parade as a drummer, huh?” he said.

  “Yup. Feels weird.”

  “No doubt, but it’s awesome.” Hector did a “let’s go” wave as he headed for the big equipment closets, and after another look at the door to see if Eric had just arrived, I followed him up there. We took our bass drums and mallets over to our usual seats and put them on the floor. The harnesses were basically big, padded U shapes that went over our shoulders, a straight piece of metal that rested against our chests and stomachs, and a couple of hooks to rest the drums on, so they didn’t need to be adjusted or anything like that.

  The room gradually filled up with people, but Eric was still nowhere to be found. Sean and Kenny walked in together, hooting and snorting about something, with their uniform jackets unbuttoned and hanging open like a couple of slobs. They clomped over to the trumpet section, sat down, and kept talking, not even pretending to get ready for the parade. Typical.

  Hector made a last-minute trip to the bathroom, and as he hurried out of the band room Eric passed him on his way in. I let out a long breath of relief—he wasn’t usually late to stuff—but as he walked up the steps toward me I saw his face. It looked like he’d either been crying or yelling, or both.

  “You okay?” I said as he reached me. He shook his head.

  “Mom got a phone call just as we were leaving the house,” he said. “There’s a new restaurant that just opened that only does desserts—the chef is kind of famous, and he offered her a job.”

  “Oh. Okay. Well, that’s cool for her, I guess.”

  Eric snorted.

  “Yeah, for her. She says it’s her dream job, and a lot of pastry chefs would kill for it.”

  “So what’s the catch …” I had a sudden, horrible feeling that I knew the catch.

  No. Don’t let it be that.

  Eric took a deep breath and banged his fists down onto his knees.

  “The restaurant’s in New York.”

  No. No no no no no no.

  “But that’s on the other side of the country.”

  Eric shook his head, looking like he might cry or yell or do both again, and he furiously rubbed his eyes and nose with his forearm.

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re moving?”

  “Not yet, but yeah.”

  “When??”

  “Right after the last day of the school year.”

  No. This wasn’t happening. Except it was. At the end of the school year, three weeks after the marching band competition, right after the last day of school, Eric was moving. Meaning I’d have to spend all of seventh grade, eighth grade, and high school without the best friend I’d ever had.

  No.

  NO!!!

  “Hey, Matt, are you okay?”

  I would have jumped if I wasn’t wearing a huge drum on my chest, so I just twitched instead and glanced at Hector, who had a worried look on his face.

  “What?”

  “I don’t know, man, you just look really upset.” Hector was standing right next to me with a bass drum mallet in each hand. The big black feather on his hat was almost as tall as his whole head, and his green-and-black marching band uniform looked super crisp and smooth, like it’d been ironed. I looked like a wrinkled-up slob in comparison, but I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything, including the parade.

  “I … I’m … you know what, I’ll tell you later,” I said. “Fine. I’m fine.”

  “If you say so, dude. Come on, it’s showtime.”

  “What’s the matter, Wang?” I actually did jump when Kenny (who’d snuck up behind us) barked right in my ear. “Did you and your boyfriend have a fight?”

  Sean snort-laughed as he finally appeared, with his uniform buttoned up and his bass drum on his shoulders.

  “Go away, Kenny,” I said in a monotone voice.

  “Bro, you need to get a life,” Hector said to Kenny. “Seriously.”

  “No, you need to get a life!”

  “Good one, Kenny,” Eric said, sounding as miserable as I felt. “So original.”

  “Hey, man, you better get in line before Drabek comes over here,” Sean said to Kenny.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Kenny said, but he actually listened to Sean and left.

  My favorite part of any band performance is usually when we all line up by section in the hallway leading to the back door of the school, file out into the parking lot (which is always empty on parade days), and mill around until it’s time to march. The color guard is there too—they kinda feel like a totally separate thing from the band since they don’t share a room with us in the building, so it makes it feel like even more of a big deal when they’re out there too. Everyone’s laughing and talking and nervous and scared and excited all at the same time; it’s when we feel the most like an actual team, trying to do something cool together.

  This time was different, though. I mean, obviously. Eric was standing next to me on my other side, just like we’d planned. It should have been awesome and fun, but Eric looked like he’d been hit over the head with a brick, and I felt like he looked.

  “Okay, kids, it’s showtime!” Mr. D shouted over the general chatter as he moved to the front of the band with his baton in hand. “Fall—IN!”

  Everyone stopped talking and got into formation, which didn’t take too long—we were mostly bunched up in our own sections already. I tried to focus on the parade instead of Eric having to move. March. We’re about to march. Get ready.

  “Marching band! Ten-HUT!”

  Everyone snapped their feet together and stood up straight.

  “Horns—UP!”

  We raised our instruments into playing position. For us bass drummers that just meant raising our mallets to the middle of our drums, ready to thump out quarter notes.

  “Mark time, mark! And—one! Two! Three, and four!”

  We started marching in place, keeping an eye on Mr. D as he waved his baton in time, but it was really hard to concentrate—I started a beat late and stepped with my left foot when everyone was already stepping with their right, so I had to stand on one foot for a beat to get in sync, and then I almost missed it when Mr. D said “forward—MARCH,” and almost quick-stepped to catch up even though I didn’t actually miss it.

  We marched across the parking lot and around the school building. The starting line for the Thanksgiving parade was about six blocks away from the school, in front of the fire station, and people were already starting to bunch up on the sidewalks by the time we arrived.

  “Prepare to halt!” Mr. D said as we got closer and closer to the other groups who’d already gathered. “And—BAND, HALT!”

  “One, two!” everyone shouted, stomping our right feet down on “one,” and our left feet down next to them on “two.” A bunch of people started clapping and cheering, and I felt suddenly mad at them, which didn’t make any sense, but nothing was making sense anyway.

  “At ease,” Mr. D said. “Stay in formation, though—we tune up in five minutes, and the parade starts in ten.”

  Everyone lowered their instruments, slouched out of attention and into normal standing-around positions, and started talking. Not me and Eric, though. We looked at each other, and I wanted to talk to him about him moving, but I also didn’t want to talk about it because I didn’t want it to be true. I couldn’t think of what to say or how to say it, anyway, and Eric must have felt the same, because we just stood there and stared at the tops of our drums without saying anything.

  It was unprecedented in the history of us being best friends, and it was horrible. Thanksgiving, ha. Eric was going to move, and it was already messing things up. I didn’t feel like giving thanks at all.

  “HAPPY THANKSGIVING!” someone in the back of the crowd shouted. Of course.

  “Easy—” I had to stop and clear my throat, since I’d been fighting off tears since we’d started marching back at the school. “Easy for you to say.”

  I didn’t speak loudly enough for w
hoever that person in the crowd was to hear me, but Eric snorted, and it sounded so much like a normal, nonsilent, Eric-style snort that my heart went zing! in my chest.

  “Yeah, happy Thanks-for-nothing-giving,” he said in a croaky voice, which was when I realized he’d been crying too.

  Mom and Dad like to say how it’s okay to cry, crying is healthy, boys need to cry too, blah blah blah, but they don’t understand how dangerous it is to cry in front of other kids, especially other boys, and there were a lot of kids from school in the crowd, so Eric and I tried to make it look like we were coughing and shielding our eyes from the sun instead of clearing our throats and wiping our eyes. Even that was better than not talking to each other at all, though.

  “Band! Ten-HUT!”

  Everyone had stayed in line, so we all snapped to attention fast.

  “Mark time, MARK! And one, two, three, and four …”

  We started marching in place, and Eric and the other snare drummers set the beat by hitting their drumsticks together, click, click, click, and click. We were right behind a bunch of fancy cars full of important old people like the chief of police and the city council, and we heard their engines starting up for a second before the crowd drowned them out by clapping and cheering. I risked putting one mallet-holding hand on Eric’s shoulder for just a second, and he looked sideways at me and nodded his head in an “I’m okay” kind of way, but I knew it wasn’t true. He wasn’t okay, and neither was I.

  “Band! Forward, MARCH!”

  The show had to go on, though, and as the parade started moving for real, I felt a gloomy relief about playing the bass drum instead of the piccolo, because another lump had formed in my throat, and I was pretty sure I wouldn’t have been able to play a single note.

  Thanksgiving felt as thankless as I thought it would, and December wasn’t much better. I usually like December—there are Christmas presents and two weeks of no school to look forward to, and Eric’s mom usually makes a bunch of amazing desserts—but the news that Eric had to move was like a fog of awfulness hanging over everything. It was also hard to eat those amazing desserts without thinking about how they were kind of the reason Eric’s mom was making them move away. I ate them anyway—they were still really good—but I wasn’t, like, 100 percent happy about it.