The older boys told us to avoid milk in the morning, it would make us throw up. So when we grabbed breakfast from the cafeteria, much bigger than our K-6 cafeteria, I stuck with orange juice and found my seat with Brandon and Jake.
“Hey where’s the magazine?” I asked.
“In my room.” Jake ate a spoonful of Fruit Loops. “How long is Ms. Pam gonna make us march today?”
We didn’t know. There was a certain grace to marching band, and not only did we have to march gracefully, we also had to play well, and both only came with lots of practice.
“How’re we doing this morning?” Mr. Thompson asked. He gelled what little hair he had left and his daughter was a grade ahead of us. She played the Tuba, an instrument bigger than she was.
“Good,” I said.
Jake and Brandon concurred. Mr. Thompson held up his fist.
“We’ll have a good day today,” he said, while fist-bumping us. His fingers and knuckles were coarse and calloused. I was the last to fist-bump him and I rubbed my knuckles.
“Good luck,” he said, and went to the next table to offer encouragement.
“I just hope we don’t have to raise our instruments above our heads again,” Brandon said. “I almost passed out last time.”
“Listen to you,” Jake said. “Poor fools with your instruments that you have to hold.”
I played the trumpet, Brandon the trombone while Jake had it easy: he banged on the drums. While we were marching around holding our instruments just above chest level (but not above shoulder level, God help us) Jake had his drumset looped over his shoulders. He played by swinging his wrists, merely sweating while the rest of us suffered.
“Me and Brandon play music,” I said.
“What? Drums are music.”
“Drums,” I turned my fork around and started tapping the handle on the table, “is like this. See?”
Jake tried to snatch the fork and I pulled it away.
“The drummer’s the most important part of the band,” Jake said.
“You just chose the drums because you can’t play anything else.”
“I like the drums.” Jake wolfed down the rest of his Fruit Loops and raised his tray.
“What’re you doing?”
Jake ignored us. Jake was one to go his own way. He’d always been like that, from kindergarten to band camp, and the drums were just part of who he was. We chose our instruments late in sixth grade and Jake Wheeler picked last, choosing what no one else had picked.
He drank his cereal milk straight from his tray. I looked around to see if anyone else had noticed. Mr. Thompson was at his third table, encouraging a few girls to not give up, no matter what. I looked back at Jake. He slurped that part of his tray clean and gave me a big, satisfied smile.
“You’re gonna barf out there,” I said.