They were lucky. All the practice rooms were empty. He led her into the one in the back. Each room was tiny, with room for maybe three chairs and stands. They all had windows, but at least the one in back seemed more secluded.
“Here,” he said, nervously placing a sheet of music on her stand as she assembled her clarinet. He had stayed up late writing it, in his overly neat music notation. It was a passage from “You Make Me Feel Brand New”, off one of his father’s CDs. He had a vague idea of the clarinet’s range, and knew it was written in treble clef and one note above its actual sound (both foreign ideas to a trombone player). He hoped he hadn’t messed it up too bad. He also hoped his choice of a sexy tune wasn’t too obvious. But Brigid really did make him feel “brand new”.
Trombones need no assembling except for inserting the mouthpiece. Meanwhile he watched her suck on her reed, moistening it, trying not to think of her sucking on his dick. He though of her bare butt on the cold metal folding chair, her bare feet on the cold and dusty tile floor. As she screwed the sections of her instrument together and lined them up, he thought of that sentence in the Tunemasters handbook -- “marching in a full coverage uniform with a horn”. It was odd to see the majorette with an instrument. Her uniform went with tossing a baton, not with playing a clarinet.
Now she sat straight up, feet flat on the floor, and played a couple of notes, the first a squeak. “Bleahh,” she said quickly, then she played a scale. “I’m not a real good clarinetist,” she said. “I’m flattered you picked me for this. You could have gotten Georgene.” Georgene was the band’s best clarinet player, a quiet and very pretty black girl. He’d had a crush on her back in fifth grade.
“Well I like you,” he said with a smile. Here she was, thinking this was a music theory assignment she was helping him out on, when it was actually just an impulsive idea to get them together alone.
A few preliminary toots on his trombone and he was ready. “Let’s go . . . One, two, three . . . ”
They struggled through the first few bars and it sounded awful. Trombone and clarinet is not a good combination, he realized. They stayed together and didn’t get lost, but it sounded clumsy. Brigid was laboring through the middle part. They ended up together, at least.
When they were finished Brigid leaned over to reach her little clarinet case on the floor, and got a pencil out. She then leaned forward to write some fingerings in. Her breasts, seeming the size of grapefruits in this tiny room, leaned forward too. They jiggled and swayed as she sat straight up again and played a few notes.
“I think I’m flat,” she said.
Rod snorted. The whole school can see that Brigid O’Dierna is decidedly not flat. Realizing how crude it sounded, he quickly turned his snort into a clearing of the throat to prepare for playing. He blew out a few idle notes.
“Play a B flat,” Brigid said. She was right -- she was flat, at least in the musical sense. Rod adjusted his tuning slide. They tried again and were in tune.
“This is a bad register on clarinet,” Brigid said, and began playing that middle part, working about three keys with each note. Rod thought: Brigid is not one to make excuses. She must be right. “I’m switchin’ keys too much . . . How about up an octave?” She played the section again and it sounded more fluid. “In fact the whole thing can be played up an octave. Watch.” She inhaled and started from the top.
Again, she was right. He didn’t realize a clarinet could go that high. Then she came to the middle section. There was a quick five-note figure that she stumbled on. “Sorry.” She played it again, then again, just that figure. She licked her lips with a furrowed brow and played it again. And again.
She went on with that figure ten times, twenty times . . . She was lost in her own world, just her and that figure, trying to master it. Rod watched as her face got a little red, and then the area over her breasts started getting red too. Her toes slowly wiggled and flexed on the floor with her level of concentration. This is typical Brigid, he told himself. Practicing over and over, just like with her baton, determined to get it just right.
“Got it!” she said, exhaling. She played the figure perfectly, then smiled at him with satisfaction. “Sorry, I get caught up in these things.” She leaned her bare back against the chair, relaxed the instrument between her legs, then stretched out her leg and propped her bare heel up on the chair to the side. They both watched her stretch her toes as she caught her breath.
“It’s what makes you great,” he said jokingly.
They smiled at each other and he looked over from her toes to her strong, bare thigh. “You killed us in gym, we were at your mercy.”
“Haaa!” Brigid said with a lusty grunt, pumping her fist, causing a chain reaction in her breasts. “I am a Tunemasters majorette, invincible! No gettin’ over me!”
“Must be that body conditioning.”
“Oh yes -- yes yes yes,” Brigid said, her green eyes brightening. She placed her clarinet upright on the floor and stood up. “You know bein’ a majorette, your body is like, part of your uniform. I’m gettin’ vain about it, I admit.” She stretched her arm up as high as she could and extended her foot to a point, just her big toe touching the floor. “Look at these muscles.”
She flexed from her hand all the way down to her spread-out little toe. As minimal as her old uniform was, it at least had that little string around her hips to hold that T-shaped bottom on, the one that had covered and partly cut into her pubic lips. Without the string crossing part of her, she was naked her entire length. And she was right about the muscles. From the little bulge along her foot, up to the hard calf, the rock-like thigh, the tight butt, the slim but powerful-looking shoulder and arm muscles . . . Brigid was more wiry and stronger-looking now. Also a bit thinner around the waist, if that was possible.
Rod nodded, showing he was impressed.
Brigid seemed to think for a moment, then said, “Feel my glutes.” She poked her finger into the thickest part of her butt cheek. “C’mon, feel ‘em.”
Rod put his trombone aside and hesitantly shifted in his chair. He reached over with a pointed index finger and, biting his lip, poked into the muscle. It was as firm as a fully-inflated football. Bravely, he poked with all his fingers together, though just the tips, much as he wanted to cup the cheek with his hand. “This glute is in fact dangerous,” he said.
As she sat down, Brigid said, “the exercise allows me to move around better too. You really should sign up.”
They sat there and looked at each other.
“Brigid, I think you are wonderful.”
“Me too.” She blushed and laughed. “I mean I think you’re wonderful too. Such a dear.” (“Dee-ah.”)
They looked at each other, not breaking their gaze. Their gaze deepened, with affection, but with growing amazement, nervousness, fear, but finally with a conviction that holding hands and jumping off a cliff was the right thing to do and they were going to do it. They were going to kiss.
Their heads moved a little closer. Then a little more. Brigid started to move her hand up off her bare thigh --