halftime scene

      The band milled around in the track area, between the Dad’s Club stand and the end zone, waiting for the signal from Sarge to get into formation for the halftime show.  They had gotten used to the clear plastic ponchos that covered them.  It was a struggle at first, but once they were fully on down to your knees, and you got your instrument organized under it, they were not so bad.

        The band was trying to relax.  But the mobile camera truck loomed over them like it was a tank.  They knew they’d be on the local TV news tonight, watched at home by their families, their parents, and most embarrassingly, by their younger siblings.  Embarrassing, that is, if something went wrong.

        So the air of casualness and joking around was forced.  He played with his trombone slide and shot the breeze with Jamal and Jaysee, who was on a crutch, his calf bandaged up, out of the game and a lot more relaxed than his friends.  Others paced, chatted, blew through their instruments.  The color guard, which would lead the formation, hovered near the edge of the field, straightening their jackets, making sure the flag holders were secure.  To have the flag drop would be a disaster.  As for the cheerleaders, not involved in the halftime show, they were sipping diet sodas at the Dad’s Club.

        One of the more relaxed band members was Brigid, near the fence, talking idly with one of the police, Office McElroy, who he remembered was her uncle.  He was a big beefy Irish cop kind of guy, with a jolly face, in his heavy coat, gloves, with ear muffs and a ski mask under his cap.  On a cold day a guy like him, whose job was just to stand around, had to bundle up.  He had pulled the ski mask down to his chin so he could talk.  Usually he was three times Brigid’s size, but with him all bundled up next to her in her tiny uniform, it was more like ten times.

        The two were laughing at something, Brigid’s circlets jiggling, flexing her purple toes, idly scratching her butt with her baton.  In the chilly, damp wind, her body was a raw red from head to foot, though a little whitish blotch could be seen where the hot tea had splashed her, on the inner slope of her left breast.  If Officer McElroy was thinking about what his niece must be feeling like, he gave no sign.

        They were joking around about the Star Wars present her brother had gotten at his recent birthday party, from what he could hear.  As she scratched her left butt cheek he smiled.  I know what Brigid’s butthole looks like!

        Could anyone else see it? When she was sitting in front of him a few minutes ago, raising her butt to put that black blanket under her, her butt briefly was almost in his face.  The string of her bottom, no wider than a shoelace, bisected her butthole; he could see the sides of her secret brown eye on each side.  Well, it would never show in performance.  Sticking her butt out at the crowd was not part of the majorette’s routine.

        Now Brigid, talking to her uncle, lazily tapped the baton against her shoulder, then dropped it and tapped the rubber end against her bare heel.  Now she casually twirled it, joking with her uncle all the while.

        The rest of the band, of course, had the benefit of the clear plastic ponchos, which it turned out also afforded some warmth and shielded them from the wind.  After the last of the ponchos had been handed out in the stands, Brigid had looked down at the empty box.  Whether this was a surprise to her or not, he couldn’t tell.  But it kind of went without saying that the majorette couldn’t perform in a poncho.  It turned out, like Sarge said, that he could slide his trombone under it, and the drummers could wield their drumsticks under theirs.  But there was no way to twirl in one.

        Actually quite warm now in his full-coverage uniform and plastic poncho, he looked at his band’s majorette chatting nearly naked in the cold and felt in love again.

        He sat across from her in one class, English.  He was hoping she hadn’t noticed how much he looked over at her.  In her turtleneck shirt, jeans jacket, black jeans, Doc Marten boots -- he could picture her naked body under it, knowing how she really looked underneath, the breasts that were hidden in the turtleneck, the butt cheeks in her jeans, the feet and toes in her Doc Martens.  With no other girl could one do that.  He felt like he had x-ray vision and was looking through her clothes.  Then turned away before she caught him staring.

        He imagined taking her to the prom, him in his tuxedo, and her going in her majorette uniform.  It was certainly dressy enough for a nice party like that, though not allowed by the dress code.  Where would she put the corsage he gave her? Maybe it could hang from a circlet.  Or pin it one of the strings of her bottom, below the graceful ridge of her pelvic bone.  Well, no, the string looked too thin and fragile for that.  Better yet, clip it to her red hair, hair that would be braided up like it now was under her cap, so that he could see her lovely neck and bare freckled shoulders.

        Sigh . . . He would never have the courage to ask her to the prom, of course.  It was all he could do not to choke up in her presence even without planning on saying anything.  As to what she would actually wear to a prom, he could guess.  An elegant but modest dress, floor length, maybe sleeveless at the most.  No bare shoulders, definitely no bare midriff or bare legs.  Sandals, maybe.  But all in all, modestly covered up.

        He shook his head, trying to stop fantasizing, but he couldn’t.  What if she went through the school day every day in her uniform?  With everyone else normally dressed?  He pictured her sauntering down the hall, talking with her friends, the clip-clop of her heeled flip-flops along with the thumps of their boots, her breasts jiggling and agitated as she laughed, the circlets dancing their crazy little ellipses in the air, her concave tummy moving with her breathing and laughing.  Or playing in a concern in her uniform, with everyone else in their nice clothes, the boys in their ties, the girls in their black floor-length dresses.  And in the clarinet section, among the black formal fabric, the bare beautiful white body gleaming in the stage lights as she played along with the other clarinetists . . .

        He cleared his throat and blew through his trombone, watching Brigid and her uncle through the corner of his eye.  I’m getting all sappy.  I hardly even know her.  Yet it was hard not to be in love.  Probably a lot of other guys were too.  Now Brigid turned with her back to him, flexing her arms, changing the baton from hand to hand over her head, as she spoke.  From her cap to her backless sandals she presented a rear view of total nudity interrupted only by the tiny T-string of her bottom that disappeared between her butt cheeks.  Then she turned slightly.  He loved her from that angle.  The side of her breast came into view, but not so much that he could see the circlet perched at its tip.  From this angle, she looked like she was topless.

        Uh-oh -- her uncle was looking at him, seeing that he had been looking at Brigid.  “How’re ya doin’, young fella?” he said.

        He smiled and nodded weakly, thinking he was going to get some sharp warning from this big cop about ogling his niece.  But the cop’s smile didn’t seem to hide anything stern.

        Then Brigid turned and said, “Oh hi, that’s the guy who was on TV with me.  Come heah,” she said in her Providence accent, waving him over.

        Still not at ease with the cop, and nervous as he always was about approaching Brigid, he walked over, making a show of conscientiously blowing through his trombone under the poncho and checking the slide.

        “Yes, I remembah,” the cop said, with the same accent.  “You and Brigid put on a good show.”

        “Th - thanks.”

        “Even though Sahge had us mahching for almost five hundred yeahs,” Brigid said.  A reference to Sarge’s slipup saying that the band was founded in 1527 instead of 1927.  She laughed and he did too.  He tried not to look at her circlets wobbling.  The fine mist had given a sheen to her reddened skin.  The scald mark was barely visible, a slightly less reddened area shaped like a flame, along the side of her breast, almost touching the circlet.

        He smiled and looked down at his trombone, watching his high boots next to the red bare toes in the sandals.  The mist had formed little beads of condensation on the toenail paint.

        Now a gust of wind.  “Geez, it’s cold,” her uncle said, shaking his arms under his coat.

        “Yeah,” Brigid said, shaking her bare shoulders.  A rare acknowledgement from her.  As she shook the circlets danced.  And she smiled, enchantingly.

        Now Sarge called her away and spoke to her, his gloved hand on her bare shoulder.  He heard him say the word “muddy” but couldn’t make out the rest.  Probably giving her a pep talk to avoid the disaster of the pregame show.

        Sarge shouted, “Get ready!” As they assembled he said, “Change of plan.  There’s a dedication to Roddington McNeil, I told you about that.  He has a request.  We’re going to do ‘Catch That Tiger’ instead.  Then Mr. Simonetti goes on the field with him and he gives a” -- he spoke in a stage whisper now -- “hopefully short” -- back to loud -- “dedication speech.  Then it’s “Stars and Stripes”, the full version.”

        Groans from the flute players.  He said, “Now this is the last halftime show of the year, so let’s end in a big way.  Remember --” he looked up and saw that it was beginning a light rain now -- “it’s more important to look good and stay in formation than to get every note right.  The ponchos are going to muffle the sound a bit anyway.  But they’re clear plastic and the formation is going to be very visible.”

        Sarge looked at the general drift of people from the snack area to the stands.  Then, again holding his gloved hand on the majorette’s bare shoulder, he seemed to count off five seconds and said --

        “Now!”