It felt so good to wolf down this big burger. Being out in the cold makes you hungry. He sat up, munching on fries, his shako on the table, his trombone bell-down next to him on the bench.
And then Brigid sat down across from him!
Her breasts with their circlets wiggled a bit as she and Debra and Virginia, on each side of her, sat down with their trays. They sucked on the sodas and chatted about this and that as he tried not to look too directly. He could see down to about the middle of her tummy, and her almost total nudity, all that white skin, now turning white in blotches now that it was finally exposed to warmth again, contrasted with her fully-dressed black friends with their gold braids and buttons and epaulettes. Debra and Virginia had taken off their gloves to eat, carefully setting them to the side, but still had their tall shakos on.
It was a big room, with the whole band around them sitting at tables, and over the hubbub the girls were talking about their driver education class, namely that old big Chevy the school had. “It’s hahd to control that cahh,” Brigid said, and Virginia agreed. “Girl you know it.” Brigid’s accent seemed a little different than the standard white-person Boston accent. Maybe more like a Providence accent. Then she shifted on her hips and he knew that she had dropped her sandals to the floor and was sitting cross-legged.
Now she pivoted her body toward Debra, still engaged in conversation. Girls talked a lot faster than guys and by now they had gotten into going to the mall next weekend with Maria and Shonday. He realized Brigid was pretty popular. It was such a big school, though, that there was no point of contact between his circle of friends and hers. Now as he finished his burger, trying not to look, Debra scooted away from her and put ungloved hands down, and he realized she was massaging Brigid’s half-frozen feet. His eyes leapt as he caught a glimpse, the warm black hands rubbing the circulation back into the white toes, stretching them, spreading them. He supposed it wasn’t so skanky if the person was essentially barefoot all day like Brigid was.
“Hey Brigid!” It was a guy he knew as Willy, something of a wise guy. He held up an ice cream on the way to his seat. “Want some COLD ice cream?”
Brigid squinted sarcastically as he passed by.
He straightened up a bit, automatically, as Old Lady McPherson came around, the Principal. She could be (A), an old witch, or (B), a nice old grandma. Right now it was (B). “How are you doing dear?” she said. “Pretty good,” Brigid said. “You look fine out there. You all do,” she said glancing over at the rest. “We’re proud of you.”
Looking down at Brigid’s feet, then at her hands, Ms. McPherson said, “You did a good job on the nails, girls. I didn’t think you could get another year out of those old bottles.”
“Well they WERE about empty,” Virginia said. “I did the feet,” Debra said proudly, as she held them up for the Principal to see, Brigid trying to spread her still-reviving toes with some effort. This was no small matter. With the disappearance of boots and gloves, fingernail paint and toenail paint had become part of the majorette’s uniform. And like everything else about the band members’ appearance it was expected to be meticulously perfect. The paint was the school colors, black and white, alternating on each finger and toe.
After the old lady had gone on, another guy came by with a giant-sized soda. “Brigid -- want some -- COLD -- soda?” The majorette stuck her tongue out with a sour face.
Sarge came by. “Don’t eat too fast,” he said. “We’ve got a mile and a half to go. How’s everyone doing?”
Having finished his burger and used his napkin, he spoke up with a smile. “It’s hot in here,” he said. Indeed he was getting sweaty indoors, encased in his thermals and full uniform.
“Pfft,” Sarge said with a good-natured dismissive wave. “Talk to Brigid about that.”
It was the first time he referred to Brigid’s plight. With the forecast being for cold, there was some talk about canceling the parade. But that was just impossible. It was to be their big day. At the last band meeting Sarge had talked about it. “Now it will be chilly out, so it will be all right for all band members to wear thermal underwear, except the majorette of course, providing it’s not bulky and doesn’t show.” Half the guys must have looked over at Brigid sitting in the clarinet section. Brigid showed no reaction to this passing mention, but Debra and Virginia glanced sideways at their friend. Everyone could wear thermals except the band member who needed them the most. Of course everyone knew for the majorette it would be impossible. Even a body stocking or something like that would look ridiculous. It probably would make the sandals slip off. And mabye there would be no way to keep the circlets on.
“Hey Brigid,” another guy said as he passed, “are ya -- FRIGID?”
He could detect Brigid giving him the finger from under the table. He was fascinated by her even more now. She could give as well as she got.
“Woo! Look! The girl scouts!” Debra’s announcement got the three of them up. Careful to put her sandals on first, Brigid joined the rest of them as they went up to the big window facing the street. They stepped up onto the low sill and pressed their hands against the glass, waving at their old troop leader, Miss Pikarski, who waved back as she passed by leading the pack of smiling little girls in overcoats. Debra and Virginia, standing against the window covered all up in their jackets and long-legged trousers and boots, and in between, Brigid in her backless sandals, her total nakedness from the rear interrupted only by the little T-string in her butt, and the little cap clipped to her hair.
They got down and for a while they ate silently. Now another clown came by and said, “Were ya frigid, Brigid?” He could see it might become a nickname now whether she wanted it or not. Frigid Brigid.
Her eyes were darting around the room, as if making sure no one was looking. Then she said, “This uniform is killing me.”
Debra and Virginia seemed to know what she meant and looked around too.
“Make sure the coast is cleah, O.K.?” And then his mouth dropped as Brigid took the circlets off with a little sideways squeeze from each hand. He saw now they were kept on by springy metal clips like you use to keep papers together, or on a clipboard -- “bulldog clips”, he thought they were called. God, they must hurt!
Her nipples stood out, stiff and red, like they were angry at being tortured all morning. Brigid sighed and closed her eyes as she massaged them between her fingers. It was almost as if taking them off was as painful as having them on.
And then she opened her eyes and looked up at him for the first time -- smiling and giggling a little bit, with a shyness and sense of slight embarrassment that was unusual for this tough girl, as she cupped her breasts in her hands. He smiled back and felt at that moment like he was in love.
She returned to massaging her abused nipples then put her hands at her sides. Her breasts wiggled a bit more freely now with the motions of her arms as she ate. She looked up warily now and then. Any T---- High majorette was aware of public indecency laws and knew she shouldn’t be out like this.
Her breasts looked even more protruding, more pointy, with her red nipples exposed and sticking out. Again, a fascinating aspect of white girls -- he had never seen a real live white girl’s nipples before, so expressive, angry and red. Especially against the breasts which were returning to the normal white color, as they spent more time in this warm fast food place.
Brigid’s breasts needed more soothing, apparently. She finished her soda with a loud slurp and then she stuck her fingers in it. She fished out two chips of ice which she now held up against her nipples. “Mmmm...” It was a sensual sound that made his dick hard. Fortunately it wouldn’t show under all his coverings. She checked around for grown-ups, rubbing the quickly melting chips against her.
Now a clap from across the room. Sarge’s signal. “Quick, do me up heah,” Brigid said, turning to Virginia and sticking out her breasts. Virginia hurriedly clipped the circlets on. “Ow ow ow,” Brigid said, taking off the left one. Virginia had clipped it too near the end of the nipple. He imagined it must have hurt like hell. Virginia re-did it.
“How do I look?” Brigid said, turning to Debra. “This one’s crooked,” her friend said, resetting one so that the “T” stood straight up.
Then Frigid Brigid shook her breasts violently side to side, making them bounce like miniature soccer balls. This took his breath away. But it was the only way to make sure the circlets were secure.
The band got up and made for outside. He put on his shako and picked up his trombone and followed. Having gotten hot in his uniform, he was almost grateful to feel the freezing air hitting his face as they emerged onto the sidewalk. They were bottlenecked as members filed through the narrow cutout in the three-foot-high snow bank to get back onto the street. Brigid was needed at the front and couldn’t wait. So she took off her sandals and, using her baton as a walking stick, scaled the snow bank in her bare feet, her toes grabbing the refrozen slippery chunks of white with care. It caused people to look but it was simply the sensible thing to do.
Now out on the street, they got into formation. Sarge and Brigid stood in front. When everyone was all set Sarge said, “How are your toes, Brigid?”
Standing in front with the other trombones, he saw her look down, flexing her toes in the dressy flip-flops. “O.K.”
“Folks,” Sarge barked out, “I . . . know . . . we don’t . . . sound too good . . . today.” He was speaking slowly so as to be heard clearly, his breath forming little clouds. “This is probably the coldest parade we’ve ever been in. There’s just no way to play well in this temperature. Don’t . . . worry about it. Concern yourself with formation. We’ll be in front of TV cameras soon . . . so how we look . . . will be what counts.
“I’ve noticed the formation isn’t too good.” He pointed over to the majorette. “Watch . . . Brigid. She’s freezing her . . . BUNS off . . . for us. The least we can do is follow her beat. Brigid,” his voice lowering, “lead as much as possible. Twirl only when the band seems in step, and only one throw at a time.” Brigid nodded.
And with a sound off from the drum guard, they were off, marching forward, beginning “Son of a Preacher Man”. They were still going downhill and now the wind was so stiff that it was an effort to push ahead. The cold sun disappeared and now it was overcast. He glanced up and it looked like snow clouds. Brigid led, her baton jabbing into the air, stepping high, the icy wind no doubt piercing like needles into her near-nakedness.
In a few moments her skin was multicolored again, and he was grateful for his thermal underwear.