Don't ~
Call For Silence
"You are that
which you cannot overcome..."
As The Sun Begins To Rise--- Chapter One
Natalie J. Shepherd moved into the big southern style house on the end of Courtesy Avenue in the middle of July carrying one duffle bag and a fifteen inch laptop with her hair freshly died a bright strawberry red. Two days later the moving truck arrived, unloaded her things into the front hallway. Within a week she’d set up the room over the entryway as her bedroom, shoved all the furniture and knickknacks into their proper places, and placed her computer on a desk in the window of the bedroom overlooking Courtesy Avenue. After that, she spent the rest of the month keeping mostly to herself.
Now, she answered the door when Mrs. Donna Sullivan, wife of the late Mr. Joe Sullivan, brought over fresh “welcome cinnamon rolls,” and she stopped to say “Hello” to the Haustens across the street when she got her mail in the afternoons, but until August, other than grocery shopping, she rarely left the house. She’d sit all day in the upstairs window in front of her computer watching the sky lazily, and when the stars came out and the world went grey, she’d shut off the computer and go to sleep.
It was the second week of August when she decided to explore the town. It was the morning of the 12th when the marching band began practicing on the high school football field.
In marching band, they train much the same way as they train for football. Mornings are stretching and jogging together to get in shape and gain a sense of unity. Drills and commands come later in the day when everyone is somewhat worn down similar to throwing and punting practice. Afternoons are for focusing down on the real plays, the music which creates the whole of the show and draws in the crowds at the football games, because everyone knows that half the people are only there for the band.
Natalie woke up early that morning to the sound of repeating loud taps; a drumstick clicking the rim of the snare to create the tempo to which every member would jog in step. Groggily, she slid out of bed and pulled the curtain from the window to confirm by the sun what her digital clock had already told her- it was early. Groaning did nothing to stop the Chinese torture that was the repeated tapping, so she slogged to her closet, changed into pants and a tank top without even a thought of a shower, tied her hair up in a pony tail, and applied a sparing amount of deodorant, and walked down the steps and out onto the front porch.
The big southern house was the very last house on the street and there was a Dead End sign to mark the end of the flat road at the point that divided her house from Mrs. Sullivan’s. From that dead end there was a steeply sloping hill that ran straight down to the High School’s football field.
Faust High School was the only High School in the city for over half a century until the wealthier neighborhood had a new one built on the high side of the slope. Just a few blocks down the street from Natalie’s new home the rich High School stood proudly, completed only four years ago, and it leered down at the older school at the bottom of the hill that marked the edge of the downtown community. The two had instantly grown a stiff rivalry between sports teams, but the marching bands had arranged to never practice at the same times so as not to intimidate one another as the sound traveled so well over the hill.
Natalie had lived her life cursed with a blond’s sense of direction, so she chose not to walk the long way through the neighborhood to the down town, and instead slipped and skidded straight down the hill slope that was too steep for sledding when the snows would come in the winter.
When she made it to the bottom she found herself eye level with the marching band block that was slowly circling the race track. Every foot fell at the same time in conjunction with the rim clicks on the snare which the director held as he stood in the center of the field watching the students pant and quietly encourage one another to keep running and to not stumble. She approached slowly, tucking her hands into her back pockets defensively and wondering if her intentions for approaching were still as hostile as they’d felt when she’d thrown open the door just minutes earlier.
A soft chant of “left, left, left” ran along with the clicks and each heavy footfall echoed as they turned for yet another lap. The red faced musicians didn’t have time to look closely at the woman with the strawberry hair, but she could see their eyes burning with a sense of integrity and pride as they glanced at her in passing, and she could see also the loathing on the faces of the ones for whom marching band was not the first class they’d have chosen as an elective if they’d had complete freedom to choose.
The rim clicks stopped suddenly and after a few steps, the block fell apart in a gasp and a roar of exchanging words. Everyone, tired or refreshed, smiled underneath their moans and frantic grasping for water. In the air of “hey, we made it all the way” everyone gathered together for their morning pep-talk from the director who had set down his snare drum and moved to a platform so that he could be seen above the crowd.
Natalie fell back into the shade of a worn out cottonwood tree thirty paces from the bleachers and leaned against it.
