Rolls and Rivalry

Chapter One

Coming into senior year, I thought there was nothing left at band camp that could surprise me. But one step into the band room shows me I was mistaken. Past the plastic chairs, black instrument cases, and clusters of excited students is my childhood crush, Max Coleman, chatting with my best friend, Nova.

I freeze at the sight. Mom mentioned his family was moving back, but I hardly let myself believe it. I haven’t seen him in three years. Our parents played D&D together on Sundays when Max and I were in junior high, and we spent countless evenings hovering over board games, watching YouTube, and messing around with D&D ideas we never actually got around to playing. He’d been a great friend . . . who also happened to be very cute, even during that gangly, awkward middle-­school phase. And I was maybe, possibly, obsessed with him.

In the past, of course. Not now.

Though seeing him again after all this time is making it hard to breathe.

He points to Nova’s shirt and says something that makes her smile. That, in and of itself, is enough to catch my attention because Nova does not smile easily. Once she trusts you, she’ll be loyal forever, but otherwise she kind of hates everybody.

Before I can get ahold of myself and walk over to them, a very familiar voice snags my attention.

“Hazel!”

I whip around to see my mom bustling into the music room. She takes a moment to smile fondly at the space, like she does every time she walks in. She played first chair trumpet here in high school, and I doubt there’s another alum alive who loves this band more than she does. But that doesn’t mean I want her hanging around. It was one thing when I was a freshman, but now I’m a senior and I don’t need her fussing over me.

“You hurried away from the car so fast that you forgot your lunch!” She holds up the insulated lunch box like she’s holding baby Simba for the entire animal kingdom to witness. “I was almost out of the parking lot when I noticed. You’ll be starving without it.”

I catch Max’s eye for a split second, but he turns away and looks back at Nova. I was half wondering if he’d come over to say hi to Mom and me since he’s also known her for years, but I guess I can’t blame him for not wanting to engage so early in the morning.

“Thanks, Mom.” I take the lunch from her. “I guess I was just excited to get started.”

“Of course you are! I’d be shocked if you weren’t sprinting into the building. Big things are going to happen for you this year, I can just feel it.” She turns in a dreamy circle to fully take in the surroundings. “Good morning, Sire!” she calls and waves to my band director, who was fondly given that nickname years ago since we’re the Glen Vale Marching Knights.

He waves back warmly, but I’m not loving this. Mom (and Dad as well, honestly) is already overly invested in every aspect of band. The last thing I need is for Sire to ask her if she’d like to oversee first-­day rehearsals. She has a hectic job as the project manager of a local construction company, but she’d 100 percent whip out her phone and call in sick if given the opportunity.

“Okay, well, thanks again,” I say, my voice louder than before. “But I should really start getting prepped and I know you need to get to work, so . . .”

She frowns. “And you’re sure you don’t need anything?”

“Yep. Totally fine.”

“All right, I’ll get out of your hair, then.” She pulls me into a tight hug, and I wither in her arms. I know she means well, but I didn’t want to start band camp looking like a coddled baby who still needs her mom to bring her lunch and give her hugs.

It’s only after she’s walking out the door that I finally look back at Nova and Max. Except that Max is nowhere to be seen and Nova’s watching me with an amused expression. I race to her side.

“Your mom loves band so much I’m surprised she doesn’t try kicking Sire out of his job.” She stands and pushes her short hair away from her pale face. Nova isn’t goth, exactly, but the girl does love her black. She’s been dyeing her already dark brown hair black ever since her mom gave permission when she turned fourteen, and she loves chunky silver jewelry and fitted black clothes.

“You talked to Max?”

She glances around in confusion. “The guy from a few minutes ago?”

“Yeah. He’s the one I told you about before. Remember, the kid who used to come to my house all the time in junior high?”

“Wait, that’s the same kid?” She shakes her head in surprise. “He came up and started talking to me about D&D after seeing the mind flayer on my shirt. You know I hate when strangers talk to me, but . . .” She purses her lips like she’s debating. “He actually wasn’t the worst.”

Whoa, high praise. I need all the details of their conversation, and I need them now, someplace where no one else can overhear us. I’ll feel more comfortable talking to him myself once I’m better prepared for what to expect. I motion Nova to the instrument closet, careful to pick my way past the large black cases on the ground. Luckily, as section leaders, we’re both here early enough that the space isn’t overrun with people yet.

“What did he say?” I ask her, trying and completely failing to keep the high-­pitched intensity out of my voice.

Where Nova is all blasé energy and sleek dark lines, I’m high emotions and wild hair. I admire her ability to be calm and cool under any circumstances, but I’ve never been able to copy that. I have a hard time hiding how I feel. Or hiding in general, given that my hair is curly (and usually frizzy) enough that people need to give me extra space when walking past my desk in a classroom.

She crosses her arms and eyes me. “Calm down, we didn’t talk for long. Are you still breathing? You look sick.”

I give a strangled laugh and lean against the metal shelving that lines the wall. “Sorry. It’s just . . . he’s back. He’s here. He could be standing on the other side of that door as we speak.”

We both turn to look at the door, but thankfully it doesn’t magically swing open to reveal Max’s gray eyes and wavy black hair.

“Okay, what’s with the freak-­out? You always made him sound like some random kid you hung out with when you were young, but you’re about to hyperventilate. Do we hate this dude?” She tilts her head to study me. “Or do we really like him?”

Ugh, of course she’d know exactly what’s going through my mind. Although that’s one of the things I love about her. We became best friends freshman year, after Max had already moved away, when we were both new to marching band and were feeling nervous and lonely. We’ve been inseparable ever since, even though she plays clarinet while I’m in color guard. I don’t need a lot of friends when I have Nova . . . which is good since I don’t have a lot.

“We . . . like him.”

“Oh, I see. Good to know.”

“I mean, in a normal way. It’s just nice to have another friendly face here.”

She smirks. “Right. Of course.”

My cheeks warm. There was never anything romantic between Max and me. We were nerdy tweens, and neither of us was mature enough to date. But that didn’t stop me from thinking about the what-­ifs then or in the years since he left. I knew nothing about boys when Max and I were friends. Sure, he was funny and easy to talk to and accepting of me and my dorky interests, but I didn’t realize how rare that was. I figured there had to be other guys like that, but without Max’s competitive streak and propensity for cheating at board games. But after he left and I started talking to other guys, I realized there was no one else like Max.

I was too naïve before, but now I know. And we’re about to spend our senior year together.

“You know he’s a percussion player, right?” Nova asks.

I scowl. To be clear, I don’t hate all percussion players as a rule. But the Glen Vale percussion and color guard sections have a long history of hating each other. Each year we compete to see who will perform best during the season, and each year the color guard loses spectacularly. Most of our “competitions” result in a handful of percussion players rubbing our suckage into our faces, and I can’t stand them.

“Just because he’s in percussion doesn’t mean he’ll be like Brody and the others. I’m sure he’s better than that.”

She leans against the shelving, facing me. “As usual, you’re way too optimistic about the human race in general, and teenage guys in particular. But we can hope. He did give me some very helpful character advice, so he isn’t dead to me yet. Maybe this is a sign to finally get our D&D game going like we always talk about?”

I snort-­laugh. We’ve been talking about starting our own D&D game for literally years, and we never do it. I’m too intimidated about running the game as the Dungeon Master and Nova never follows through. We’ve tried joining a few other games over the years, but that hasn’t worked out either. We’re just destined to talk about playing forever.

“We could invite Max to join us,” she continues. “I bet that would get you interested.”

Time to change the subject.

Just then the door opens, taking care of that. My stomach flies into my throat, expecting Max to be standing in the doorway like I conjured him with my thoughts. Instead, it’s Mr. Hicks, a.k.a. Sire. He’s a middle-­aged white man with thinning hair, horn-­rimmed glasses like he’s living in the 1950s, and the put-­upon look of a high school teacher who’s seen more than his share. But there’s still a friendly gleam in his eyes that I don’t see in many of my other teachers’. Sire loves marching band, and that makes it easy for all of us to love it—­and him—­too.

But that doesn’t mean he’s laid-­back about band.

He narrows his eyes at us. “Is there a reason why two of my section leaders are hiding out in the instrument closet instead of helping orient our incoming freshmen? I hope you already know that I expect you both to be leaders this year.”

We bob our heads. The last thing I want is to lose his respect just as band season is starting.

His expression softens. “Are you excited for the new show?”