Word Count: 24,643
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Every step felt like the spot where her knees would fail. Her heels screamed when they smacked the asphalt, a pain that reverberated in her thighs and chest. Autumn was slipping into winter. The cold bit her nose and turned her eyelashes into daggers.
Even so, she kept running.
Lap twelve was all momentum so when she reached the concrete lip at the edge of the walkway which snaked to the backdoor of the band room, she lacked the strength to forcefully stop. She skidded on athletic sneakers that had been bought and in two month's time ruined. Painted gold on brass hung beneath her palms, cold enough to hurt. A black strap hooked to that anchor in her hands. It yanked at her neck, forcing a hunch.
But she was standing, for freak's sake, and she'd done what was compelled of her.
Students had to vacate the lot from two to six so the band could practice. Yet, as a member of that band, Harmony lingered in the empty lot even at ten-till-seven. Her boyfriend had probably called to check on her. Her phone was in her instrument case, though. She had no way of knowing.
He was probably comfortably toasty in his apartment, a place where he and Harmony shared meals, Egyptian cotton sheets, and body heat. Her half of their duo longed for that. Instead, her palms stuck to her horn like a thick tongue to an icy pole as she blinked away the stars of oxygen deprivation.
It was long since time to go home. Everybody else was gone — everyone except her and one other.
After what felt like an hour, though no more than twenty actual seconds, Harmony received validation of her existence.
"You done?"
Her chest rose and sank in bursts. She almost talked — almost screwed herself. Instead, she nodded wearily.
"Really?" Up came Harmony's company, all leg with marching-hardened calves. "Because I don't remember saying you were done. In fact, I remember saying that you'd run till I was tired of seeing your fat ass going clockwise."
In came the girl with the potty mouth; even closer to Harmony. But she retracted her fourth step after taking it, like she'd mistakenly come too close. Her hand fanned the air between them. Her nose — a flat-bridged, perfect slope which served to divide a near-symmetrical face — wrinkled. Harmony's nose did the same when she inspected the armpits of a top she forgot was dirty.
"You smell like shit, Brehr. It's why we tell you girls to bring deodorant in your instrument case. Tell me, do you plan on doing anything right today?"
Indignation manifested in a twitch that unlocked Harmony's knees.
Bait. Everything out of this girl's mouth is bait.
Harmony had done nothing but aerobics since five; squats, jumping jacks, invisible chair holds. Before that was an hour long sectional where her tone and timing had been berated unjustly in front of a dozen other saxophone players. There hadn't been a break for anything: not water or the bathroom or the aforementioned deodorant — which was precisely the type of complaint Rachel wanted to hear from her underclassmen.
Rachel wanted a reaction, the more emotional the better. Say something about her leadership style and see how many laps she had you running. Mention how unfair she was and see if your music didn't go missing. Rachel, the saxophone section leader, wasn't above doing whatever it took to send her message: "Do not fuck with me."
Why send a message in the first place?
Harmony didn't know. Nobody did. Did she get her rocks off on screwing over doe-eyed fresh meat? A few people suspected that. It had to make her horny or something. Otherwise, what motivation is there to make freshmen cry, vomit, and sweat till dehydration? If not sadism, it had to be a lack of empathy for the plight of those younger or less skilled. Or resentment for being asked to train the generation that would replace her. Or rebellion against the idea that she could be replaced at all. Yea, Rachel could sink that low.
At the edge of a sigh, she added, "Scales. B flat, E flat, A flat."
Harmony's alto sax rolled upright to her mouth. Her lungs were erratically spasming. When she went to play, the tone came out wispy and weak, falling off only moments after she filled the horn with air. Running with her hands clenched made her fingers jittery too, forcing errors that she thought she'd hammered out when she started playing in Elementary school. Her scales were a wreck. She felt on the verge of fainting from forcing air that wasn't there.
Halfway through the E flat scale, Rachel stopped her. "Nevermind. I forgot how your sound grates my ear drums." She turned to the side and brushed Harmony off like she was nothing. "You've kept me out late enough. It's cold and dark, so I'm going home. But if I were you, I'd keep running till you build enough stamina to actually play and move at the same time." Condescending, her hand lighted briefly on Harmony's shoulder; apparently, she wasn't untouchable. But the way Rachel stroked her sleeve had Harmony wishing she was. "Night, Harmony."
The black plastic on Harmony's mouthpiece lowered with flecks from her chapped lips. She watched Rachel climb the walkway then disappear into the bandroom.
Then, she exploded.
The roar that filled the air above her in a puff of white left her throat raw. "God-freaking-. . ." the swear at the end was chopped off. It was nailed into her head from infancy not to direct her swears at the divine. But a girl with her sort of resentment needed something to kick or throw. Harmony needed to make noise, to feel her knuckles against some solid surface. It was bad — Harmony was erupting.
There were school books in her instrument locker. She left them, knowing that she'd definitely be treated like a child the minute she and Rachel occupied any confined space together. Plus, she didn't want to be held liable for what might be done or said in such a mental state.
Fortunately, saxophones came apart in three easy pieces. Harmony dislocated the thing unkindly, slinging the metal pieces to their spaces before throwing the black case over her shoulder.
Campus shuttles were scarce at such an hour, but Harmony pinged her location anyway. She hoped the guy or gal wouldn't mind taking her off campus, and also hoped the extra fee for such a task wasn't too steep. Her phone glowed with a red approximation of the time her ride would take to arrive: five minutes in the cold and a longish walk to a designated pick-up point. It's clear when five minutes wait and a brisk stroll are enough to piss you off that you are a operating from a place of raw animus.
Seeing a text from Chris, Harmony swiped to the call menu. As her phone rang, she realized her hoodie was in the locker with her school books. The phone line clicked to life just as she started to consider turning around.
