As the hours rolled by, the faint buzz of each period’s bell drifted through the parking lot. Gael tried his best not to think about anything at all, but it was no use. He imagined Anika and Mason, sitting close in the cafeteria, their bodies touching as she ate sour-cream-andonion Pringles, Mason shoving that gross rectangular cafeteria pizza into his mouth. He saw his classmates laughing as they spread the news that Gael had finally found out. His high school was just small enough that everyone knew everyone’s business, popular or not.
He saw himself, shocked and shamed and trailing after the guidance counselor, the school’s official recipient of pity.
Worse, he saw the truth, bold and blaring like the old-timey marquee at the Varsity Theater on Franklin: Anika wasn’t his anymore. Anika was hooking up with Mason now.
Anika, his girlfriend, was hooking up with the guy he’d known since he was seven: the guy who, in fourth grade, had suffered through two weeks without recess for punching a kid who’d called Gael a dork; the guy who frequently said that as adults, he and Gael would marry twin models, buy houses next door to each other, and have an obscenely large home theater system for Gael’s movies and Mason’s video games.
That guy.
By the time 3:15 rolled around and the school’s final bell rang, students eagerly flooding the parking lot, Gael’s sadness had morphed into full-fledged anger. Before he could change his mind, he whipped the car door open and slammed it bitterly behind him, heading as quickly as he could to the band room.
High school marching band was its own little microcosm of the world. More a study in sociology than in woodwinds and brass: There were the band geeks, pimply and a tad too greasy, making out with one another every chance they got. There were the no-nonsense go-getters, eager to fill a line on their college applications, marching without rhythm or passion. There was the percussion section, hipsters-to-be whose arms would be full of tattoos in a few years’ time. And there were the tuba players, chunky and asexual, as if they were slowly morphing into their instrument of choice.
Gael had always thought of himself and Anika and Mason as separate from these stereotypes. Mason was a blue-eyed drummer, sure, but he still spent most of his time with Gael and Anika. Gael joined because his love of old movies had led to a love of movie soundtracks and a love of tenor sax. And Anika was different from Amberleigh Shotwell’s harem of mean-girl flute players, with their sheets of long hair forming a shiny wall that said, Don’t talk to us. We shouldn’t even be in marching band. Anika would never make someone feel like she didn’t want them around, in band or otherwise. She always knew how to fill the space between people, instantly putting them at ease, whether through obsessively quoting Firefly or by complimenting them in genuine, unique ways, like when she’d told Jenna her new bangs made her look like a “posh librarian.” Anika made people feel like they mattered.
It was one of the many reasons Gael had fallen for her. Why he felt that their love was actually real. He and Anika had been a legit band couple, sure, but they weren’t the same as those greasy PDA-mongers in front of their instrument lockers before practice. Their relationship was classy, like a Wes Anderson movie, or a Mumford & Sons song, the kind of love you couldn’t scoff at. The kind of love he never imagined could go away.
And now apparently it already had.
(I can’t help but interject here. Everyone thinks their romance is classy AF. No one sits there comparing their coupledom to the stuff of Lifetime movies. And no one thinks it will go away because, if you did, you’d never take a chance. Luckily, the human heart is not that logical.)
Gael walked over to where his sax was stored. Nearby, Amberleigh made a sad face, looking at him with her bottom lip puffed out.
“Have you seen Mason?” he asked.
Amberleigh shook her head, and he turned away before she could deliver any more pity. Practice didn’t officially start until 3:30. Most kids used the fifteen minutes beforehand to talk with friends, but sometimes, Gael and Anika had gone to her car and held hands across the bucket seats, his thumb circling hers in a kind of dance that was more erotic than the crap Mason watched on his laptop. They’d blast classic rock, lean the seats way back, and just look at each other . . .
The vision disappeared instantly as Anika and Mason walked into the band room together, hand in freaking hand.
Their faces looked surprised, and for a second, Gael thought they’d turn away, but Anika seemed determined not to avoid him. She let go of Mason’s hand and plastered on the stupidest, fakest smile. Mason trailed behind her.
“Uhh, hey,” she said. “I didn’t see you in English.”
“Hey?” Gael asked. “All you have to say is ‘hey’?”
Anika bit her lip. “I guess this is a little awkward. I know you want to talk. I just wanted to wait until you’d calmed down . . .”
“And you think I’m calm now?” Gael yelled. The band room was almost full, though Mr. Potter hadn’t arrived. Everyone was staring, but Gael didn’t care. He turned to Anika. “You cheated on me with my best friend.”