Sam had 10th period free. Though it was the last period of the day, he could not go home because he had jazz ensemble right after school.
Sometimes he'd get into the 1988 beige Corolla he'd inherited from his great uncle, and go to the Subway Restaurant at the small town's center. Parking around the high school could be extremely competitive, but he knew he'd have no problem finding a spot when he got back; school would be over, after all.
That afternoon, as he cruised by the auditorium, on the north side of the school, he found his friend Bryan waiting for him. Sam knew that he had class but he always skipped. Bryan only cared about music, and thought of everything else as a pathetic waste of time. Sam, who was a diligent student who was often stressed, rarely criticized his buddy's truancy, though. In a way he admired his friend's singular focus. They were both brass players: Sam played the trumpet while Bryan played the tuba. They had played in state contest winning brass quintets together, and bonded over the fact that as black boys they, were often under estimated in competition. It was assumed that they could not possibly have the aptitude for the nuances of classical music.
The two walked into the parking lot, toward the car as they had many afternoons. As usual, Sam monologued on this or that, hardly stopping to take a breath while Bryan listened quietly. As always, he said very little. Their breath was frigid in the January air, and the Midwestern sky suggested that snow was on the way.
The trip to Subway was typical. Sam ordered a foot long chicken bacon ranch, with chocolate chip cookies and orange pop, while Bryan bought a the half turkey sandwich with mustard. They always shared the cookies.
On the way back, Sam began talking about Lyla Stephens. She was a girl who was in most of his Advanced Placement classes, who was cute in a nerdy sort of way. Sam liked that she was extremely efficient in getting her work done and was enthralled by the fact that whenever he asked, she had a piece of gum for him. He loved her glasses and her braces and her bangs. He even loved the way she smiled whenever someone retold a Monty Python joke. Bryan only nodded his head now and again at his friend's assertions.
The boys arrived at the school 15 minutes before 10th period was over, and Sam easily found a spot in the south parking lot. Though he preferred parking on the other side of the building, leaving his car here would make for an easy egress after rehearsal.
Sam hummed a Coltrane standard, as he climbed the stairs to the band room. Bryan followed silently behind. They entered the rehearsal room and found it empty, as it often was at this time of day. The band director, who spent the last period of the day at the nearby middle school, always left the room open during 10th period so that a traffic jam wouldn't build outside the rehearsal room as students waited for him to get back to the building. He did not broadcast that fact though, as an unattended room was ripe for all sorts of shenanigans.
Sam grabbed his trumpet from his locker. He seemed oblivious to his friend's watchful expression, as he began assembling his instrument, now beginning to whistle. When he absently knocked his music stand down, causing fluttering sheets to go every which way, he seemed not to notice. As Bryan methodically gathered up the sheets for his friend, Sam furiously dug into his trumpet case, muttering to himself that he needed valve oil. Bryan stared with an inscrutable expression as Sam carefully jostled the keys of the instrument and methodically applied the grease. He patiently waited as his friend buzzed some notes into the mouthpiece, and did not adjust his gaze as Sam worked through several slow long tone exercises. Finally, Sam ventured Bryan a nervous glance.
“You want to?" Bryan asked, in his quiet tenor, before Sam could resume his scales. His eyes never left Sam's face. Sam looked down, and finally stopped moving. After what seemed like a long while he shrugged, for once speechless. Bryan approached Sam very slowly, as though the sitting boy might bolt if he made a sudden motion.
With gentle tenderness, he lifted the trumpeter's head and kissed him in on the lips, soft and sweet. Then, he turned, and in his measured stride, grabbed his tuba from his locker. Without looking back, he left the room.
Sam began practicing furiously as the bell sounded.
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