Today, during band practice, we had to go into the back room one at a time and speak with the Pit Socials.
“Sit in the black chair,” they said. I obeyed, lowering myself nervously into the bucket-shaped plastic. “So, who we fucking?”
“What?” I asked several times, unsure of exactly what they wanted to ask me.
“Who do you like?” they asked, exasperated.
I said, “Not one of you.”
They asked me who. “Are they in band?” A nod. “Are they in pit?” A shake. “Drumline?” A nod. “Bass Drum Kid? Furniture? Dang?” Several shakes, and they believe this because I haven’t turned red yet. “George?”
A nod.
They look at each other and back to me. I’m half afraid I’ll be slapped.
We mess up our hair and walk out the door.
“Must have been good,” says Meghan. “You’re bright red.”
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