Ten Years Ago

The rich and squawking noises of the high school band tuning up were overwhelming. Even from the back of the room by the percussion instruments, I had to grit my teeth to get through it. Luckily, a triangle doesn’t need much in the way of tuning.

I wished I had something else to concentrate on. Because right now? All I could think of was that a concerto with next to no percussion parts wasn’t exactly going to get me an A. And I needed an A.

I hadn’t gotten through three and a half years of high school with straight As to falter in my last term. Not with plans to go to college in Minneapolis. Not with my parents as excited for me as they were. And especially not with Mr. Schumer assigning me to play the fucking triangle in our biggest piece of the year.

I was almost fuming so hard I didn’t notice him come in. Not Mr. Schumer, he’d been sitting at the front of the class for a good twenty minutes polishing the obnoxious brass pipe he always held in his mouth when conducting, never mind that smoking hadn’t been allowed at Glendon in eons. Talk about affectations.

No, there was a new kid. I guess ‘kid’ is stretching the term. This guy was, well, fully grown. Tall, sandy haired, and slouching into class like he barely cared whether he was alive, let alone on time for the first session of Band 402.

Normally guys like that drove me nuts. Oh, you think you’re so cool, acting like you’re better than everyone? To me, it’s more important to try than it is to act like you never bother. Like I said, straight As are my jam. But this particular guy made my palms sweaty when I looked at him.

And then he saw me looking. My palm sweating intensified and I gripped the triangle like it was going to sprout wings and fly away from me. I felt a strange warm sensation swimming around in my belly, causing my Cheerios to do a somersault. His eyes were so blue.

Why was he looking at me?

“Mr. Sargent, glad you’ve decided it might be worth your while to join us,” said Schumer.

The new guy nodded at Schumer, then stood next to him for a second. Just a little too close. Schumer fiddled with the pipe before shoving a pile of sheet music into the guy’s hands.

“You’ll be on the timpani,” Schumer said, no longer looking at the Sargent kid while he spoke. His attention had already returned to the glossy-haired girls in the flute section.

New guy grunted and walked up the risers to the percussion section. My section. I blinked rapidly as I tried to quell the weirdness in my belly.

No dice.

“Hey,” said a voice. It took me an embarrassing amount of time to process that the voice had come from him. The new guy, standing right next to me, looking at me with those haunting, rich blue eyes.

He hadn’t spoken to Schumer but now he was talking to me? I struggled to contain a laugh as it crossed my mind he might have thought I was…cool. Or at least a bit disaffected, standing up at the very back of the classroom, assigned an extremely minor part in the concerto. Then I realized I actually was in a bit of a snit.

“Hi,” I said, willing myself to maintain eye contact. Part of it was hard because this guy made me feel all wobbly inside, and part of it was hard because I was suddenly struck with a need to rove my eyes a bit. See more of him.

“Winston,” he said. And then some of the cool-guy attitude melted off and he grinned at me. The wattage of that smile, full of shiny white teeth and a genuine crinkle to his eyes, threw me off yet again.

He extended a hand to me.

Oh God, he wants to shake hands? Think quick, Kaycee. Your palm’s soup.

So instead of wiping my hand on my jeans and shaking with unmistakable dampness, I nodded slightly, in the same way that Winston had at Schumer, and raised my eyebrows in acknowledgment.

“Kaycee,” I said.

And it somehow, miraculously worked to make this gorgeous new member of the percussion section maintain the illusion that I was a bit edgy. His smile melted into a smirk and he set out the sheet music on a stand near the timpani. Which, technically, were right next to me.

It was going to be hard to concentrate. Winston was about a foot taller than me, wearing a tight blue t-shirt that only emphasized his unreal eyes, and from where I was standing I could see that he had the kind of muscles a lot of 18 year olds would kill for.

Also? My part was seriously just a ‘ting’ every sixteen bars or so. Stupid modern concerto. Schumer had clearly only picked it because it was heavy on the flute and made his bubbly, popular band girls happy. Make no mistake: just because band geeks aren’t cheerleaders doesn’t mean there isn’t a social hierarchy.

Some geeks are geekier than others.

Luckily for me, we started playing after about a minute of my studied, false attention to circling my parts with my mechanical pencil. Winston, I noticed, had a few more notes to play than I did. But not many. He also didn’t care to mark up his sheet music, just spread it out and stretched a bit in front of the timpani.

I’d like to say I didn’t notice the way his stretching highlighted the muscles in his back, which were tight against the fabric of his t-shirt. And I’d also like it if I could plausibly comment that his jeans weren’t perfectly fitted against the taut curve of his butt. There are lots of things I’d like, but unfortunately this class wasn’t shaping up to be anything remotely close to what I’d wanted.

I was also getting distracted from that A.

Damn. I guess the last term of high school might be harder than I thought. Ok, focus.

Schumer counted the band in and the trumpets and cellos started their parts, notes blaring almost discordantly. Under some circumstances, that jarring sound could have been attributed to us not being a particularly good band. This time, though, I knew we were playing the piece correctly. It just sucked cause it was composed by some recluse ten miles out of Beech Lake who insisted it be played locally.

As I waited for my first ‘ting’ in rapt, stubborn attention, the thought occurred to me that Schumer could have written the concerto himself and lied to us about its origins. The mental picture of my current personal nemesis, an odd man to begin with, coming up with such a petty way to promote his own creative pursuits made me smile.

I almost lost count and missed my cue.

Just barely in time, I struck the triangle as elegantly as I could and let the sound ring out. Schumer gave me a terse smile and moved on to his beloved flute section, gesticulating with such a serious expression on his face that I smiled yet again. A bit wider this time.

And Winston, thumping the timpani every two beats or so, his hands lazily holding the mallets as if he might drop them at any moment, saw me smiling. It made him grin that wicked grin all over again, the light in his blue eyes flashing.

He looked outright devious. Inside my stomach, everything wobbled again. I could feel a slight blush rising on my cheeks, the color one half embarrassment at being caught doing anything less than excelling at my part, and one half sheer dizziness at how handsome this guy was.

He shouldn’t have been allowed in band—too cool, too hot, too…distracting. I lost myself in thought, gluing my eyes to the page of my music so that I wouldn’t stare indiscriminately at Winston, even though I technically wanted to. Might even say longed to.

And then I missed my next cue. I realized it a half beat too late and was torn between wanting to play a note to show I noticed I missed it and knowing that playing at the wrong time was worse than just waiting until the next one.

Schumer glanced my way and frowned before counting in the tuba.

When I exhaled my frustration, Winston’s eyes fixed on me. I looked at him, half-heartedly playing the timpani through this cacophony of a concerto, and another smile grew on my face. Then, before I knew it, Winston dropped his mallets onto the timpani in a muted clatter and grabbed my triangle.

“Hey,” I hissed at him, “That’s mine.”

As if in consolation for the robbery, Winston shoved the timpani mallets at me and nodded as if we should swap places. I stood in my spot briefly considering my options, eyeing Schumer to see if he’d noticed anything.

Not yet.

“Ok, fine,” I whispered to Winston. It didn’t matter to me if he wanted to do even less work. At least I could have a slightly more complicated part to keep me awake and focused on the music. I picked up from where the band was playing and tapped at the timpani gently, just enough to produce the sounds dictated by the sheet music.

Then the triangle rang out, louder than I’d played it, a sharp, high note completely at odds with the rhythm of the piece.

I gave Winston a quizzical look and he widened his eyes at the triangle as if horrified by it playing itself without his permission. Despite myself, I laughed a little, silently. My face was warm with the thrill of his insubordination.

Schumer looked up at us, seeing for the first time that we’d swapped places. He rolled his eyes and continued, a fact that would normally have me scrambling to restore good graces enough to secure the A I wanted. Something about Winston’s goofy smile calmed me, though.

He played another clashing note, holding the triangle up high as if to amplify its effects, or to show off his playing widely.

I stifled another giggle, playing the timpani slightly more quietly now because my attention was divided.

And then Winston turned to face me, held the triangle out triumphantly, and started to play it every single beat, loudly and confidently. While he hit the triangle, he danced. Not a subtle dance, enjoying the music the band was making. Winston was dancing as if he were at a raucous mosh pit, his whole body rocked by each note he played.

Except it was a triangle.

Schumer glowered but kept on, as if he were in a power struggle with Winston and acknowledging him would grant him more attention than Schumer thought he deserved.

I lost it. I gave up any pretence of playing the timpani and dissolved into laughter. Though I tried to keep it quiet, I couldn’t manage a silent enough peal of giggles to avoid detection. While I laughed, I raised my eyebrows at Winston.

“What is wrong with you?” I whispered, half angry and half in awe.

And he kept dancing and playing, coming in closer to where I stood hunched over the timpani, and he whispered in my ear: “Needs more triangle.”

At that comment, I could no longer muffle my laughter and burst out into louder giggles. Even so, Winston kept on playing the triangle as if it were a proud and essential part of the concerto, and he danced vigorously along with it.

Schumer motioned to silence the rest of the band.

“Mr. Sargent! Miss Goodwin!” he yelled.

I straightened up and wiped tears of laughter from my face, trying to appear as respectful and studious as possible. Within a few deep breaths, I’d calmed somewhat.

Only, Winston kept playing, kept dancing, and waggled his eyebrows at Schumer from across the room.

The growling yell that emanated from Schumer echoed impressively in the room. Guess we had better acoustics than I’d thought. Go Glendon.

“Both of you, out of my classroom! NOW!”

And I blushed, knowing that I had pretty much zero chance now of getting an A in this class. I scurried out as quickly as I could, cursing my weakness in the face of…would we call it temptation? Distraction?

Winston.

He followed me out, trying to take the triangle with him though Schumer stopped him and grabbed it before he could.

At the doors to the room, which were swiftly closed behind us, I stopped and took a ragged breath. My amusement at Winston’s antics was undeniable. But reality was starting to sink in. Years and years of hard work, late night homework sessions and careful planning to achieve the best grades possible were unravelling in front of me.

I was glad I’d already been accepted to the University of Minnesota and that the A in band was more a point of pride than a necessity.

Still.

“What the hell?” I said to Winston. He’d reclined against the wall outside the classroom as if he’d meant for every single part of that to unfold the way it did. His eyes ran from my face to my clenched fists and back again, lingering ever so slightly at my chest.

I tried to ignore the way his gaze on my body made me feel. I had to let him know that even if he could make me laugh, he couldn’t jeopardize my academic career like that. Just because he was a class clown didn’t make me his willing sideshow participant.

Even if he was cute.

Even if the way he was looking down at me right now made me want to feel his lips on my skin, his hands on my hips, his breath hot against my neck.

Especially if he was going to stare at me like that, his eyes hungry and amused all at the same time.

“You got us kicked out of class!” I said, stepping closer. He smelled like cloves, or some other warm spicy scent. It was intoxicating. From this distance I could see the thick sandy eyebrows framing his face, could notice each fleck of color in his stunning eyes.

Don’t let his rakish good looks distract you, Kaycee.

“Come on, man,” I said. “You might be some cool dude sliding into the room like you don’t give a shit, but I do. I’m going to go to college and then law school and work to try to make the world a better place, however small a change I can make, and to do all that I need to be a good student.”

He tilted his head at me as if considering the rambling statements I was making. I knew that connecting a failure at band class to law school was a logical stretch, but I was feeling dramatic. Frustrated.

Wronged.

“Next time you feel like making an ass of yourself in some class you don’t care about, can you do me a favor and not involve me?”

He still just stood there, absorbing my ranting and looking at me with those incredible eyes, a half smile dancing on his face. I wanted to channel my rage into a furious make out session, raking my hands along his back, feeling him push against me with all the force I wanted to push against him.

Focus! Don’t fantasize.

“Don’t you have anything to say at all?” I said, gesturing wildly with my hands, getting dangerously close to Winston’s broad chest. I held my ground, glowering up at him, and I put my hands on my hips for emphasis.

“You’re cute when you’re angry,” he said, smiling broadly down at me with his eyes shining in that crisp, cool blue. With one hand, he reached out to touch my cheek ever so gently.

Oops.