You and I Travel to the Beat of a Different Drum

I am on the field in formation while my life stands on the precipice of Hell.

Mr. Skitch is yelling at the Drill Team Captain while our Band Front Director, who I swear was the person after whom Courtney Love modeled her persona, barks about flag angles and rifle heights between drags on her Marlboro.

Estelle inches ever closer in the rumbling, vibrating Pontiac.

I am standing on the 40 yard line, left hand in a fist on my hip, right hand above my head at a 45 degree angle with my flag blowing in the breeze.

I am praying to be struck by lightening.

Mom is trying to get my attention.

I have to ignore her. If I let her distract me now, I will be the equipment girl instead of a drill team member in a matter of minutes. I stay focused.

Still Estelle is making a valiant effort at scrambling my brain.

She inches the bomb a little closer to the crowd of band members. I can tell from the way her pink robe is moving that she is rolling down her window (manually, natch.) I cringe. She is going to actually speak.

Without moving my head, but moving only my frantic eyeballs so that I can see her and perhaps place a crippling hex on her with my Carrie White telekinetic powers, I see that she is placing her hand, turquoise butterfly ring and all, up to her face to project a little better.

Oh.
My.
God.

She is going to yell for me! I am certain I could die on the spot.

But no. Estelle can probably surmise that I am ignoring her, insolent little brat that I am, showing absolutely no gratitude for the fact that she trekked all the way back over to our remotely situated little suburban high school with 2,000 students.

She is doing me one better.

And then I hear it.

Shrill and unmistakably my mother.

“Yooooo Hooooooo!” Now she’s sticking the practice flag out the window and waving it a little. Completely exposing an arm of her bathrobe.

“Yooo Hooo! Can you give this to Elizabeth?”

And just whose attention do you think she got? Of course the heads of all the band members snapped around in disbelief, but try to guess who actually responded and approached the car?

It was Scott, of course. Who, amused beyond description, immediately turned around and waved the flag emphatically and repeated “Yooo Hooo Elizabeth!” with a big shit-eating grin on his face and a falsetto voice that would put Barry Gibb to shame.

Mom smiled and waved and 3-point-turned the bomb around to head for home. Mission accomplished. Total humiliation.

It was a banner day. I had my first ever murderous thought.