Forward March by Skye Quinlan

Forward March by Skye Quinlan

Author:Skye Quinlan [Quinlan, Skye]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Page Street Publishing
Published: 2022-02-04T00:00:00+00:00


CHAPTER NINETEEN

THE BAND ROOM HAS YET TO FEEL LIKE HOME AGAIN. It doesn’t feel like I belong here. It doesn’t feel like this band is my family and this room is where I go when I need to be surrounded by the familiar—familiar walls, familiar faces, familiar sounds—a room where I’m part of a whole and no one cares about who makes up the bigger picture, just that the picture exists. But it’s different now, all hushed whispers and curious eyes and a chair that isn’t mine.

Rebecca is slouched against the back of my old chair, her face smug as she idly taps against her saxophone keys. Mrs. Devereaux is working with the flutes, nailing down their feature in next week’s halftime show, and Rebecca doesn’t care enough to look over the sheet music that Bellamy passed out to us. We won’t be rehearsing it until next week when we finally retire “Bad Guy” by Billie Eilish and replace it with “All Along the Watchtower,” but she’s made herself comfortable and is confident that no one will challenge her.

She’s right.

I’ve been fumbling through our music since the start of rehearsal, my fingers slipping down and pressing keys that aren’t meant to be pressed. My saxophone honks out each note, slides through rests, and lingers too long at every downbeat, a far cry from the smooth, rich sound I’m accustomed to. I wonder if someone has tampered with it, or if they’ve plucked off my keypads or shoved something inside the bell. But it’s not the instrument that’s broken, it’s the player, and I’m huffing into the mouthpiece as if I’ve forgotten every aspect of breath control.

My reed is chipped too, which doesn’t help.

Mrs. Devereaux returns to her podium at the front of the room and sighs. The clock reads 7:56 p.m.; there’s not enough time for another run-through of our set list. “Anyone want to challenge for a chair?” she asks. The look on her face is damn near begging us to keep our hands down, so we do, keeping our chairs as they are. Mrs. Devereaux sighs again, relieved. “Good. Pack up your shit and get some rest tonight. Harper, can I see you for a minute?”

My insides twist into something foreign, something painful and aching that sucks all the air from my lungs. No one gets called into Mrs. Devereaux’s office unless she’s planning on taking away their marching privileges. There’s a game on Friday and since I’ve already missed two rehearsals this week, she’s within her rights to tell me I’m not allowed to play.

Suddenly, Bellamy is at my side, hunching down with their hands on my knees to keep balanced. “Hey,” they say, taking my saxophone case and sliding it beneath my chair. “Devereaux knows you’ve had a rough couple of days, okay? And I put in a good word for you this morning. She gets it, Harp. She’s gonna let you march on Friday. The band needs you.”

My hands are shaking as Mrs. Devereaux knocks on her office window, motioning me inside from behind the glass, and twists the blinds shut.



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