Biggest Flirts by Jennifer Echols Page B

burst of laughter that made the cymbals turn around, Will pressed his lips together while I entertained him with the Telemundo version of soporific crap.
    “That’s all wrong,” he said. “The Spanish I’ve learned has been super animated. I thought that was part of the language.” He took a stab at the next announcement, enunciating it like an overenthusiastic thespian.
    “You just mixed up ‘swimming pool’ with ‘fish,’ and ‘swimmer’ with ‘matador,’ ” I informed him. “I’m glad you’re not really announcing this, or people would be dressing very strangely for the swim meet tomorrow.”
    “That’s it.” He grabbed me and wrapped his arm around my shoulders, threatening the headlock.
    “No fair!” I squealed. “The terms of the headlock are very clear . I did not mention lutefisk.”
    “Mr. Matthews, get off Ms. Cruz,” Ms. Nakamoto called through the microphone. When Will stood me up straight, she was handing the microphone back to DeMarcus so he could finish the announcements.
    Turning around on the towel he was sharing with a trombone, Jimmy tapped his watch and told Will and me, “Fifty-six minutes. Not a personal record, but a damned good time.”
    In answer, Will held one drumstick out beside him, flipped it into the air so that it tumbled three or four times, and caught it without looking at it. This was his answer to pretty much everything drummers said to him that he didn’t like, and it was effective at awing them into silence.
    “How do you do that?” I asked. If he managed to escape back to Minnesota early and left me high and dry as drum captain, I could sure use a trick like that. I’d never awed anyone into silence in my life.
    “Like this,” he said, showing me his drumstick in his palm. I imitated him. “Now . . .” He raked his thumb under the stick and flipped it into the air. He caught it neatly. I tried it and accidentally launched the stick at his head. He caught that, too.
    “Not quite,” he laughed. “Look.” He took my hand in his, pressed my stick into my palm, and showed me how to scoop the stick out and upward with my thumb. I wanted to learn this trick, really. All the warmth spreading across my cheeks had everything to do with excitement at learning a stunt, and the oppressive heat of the afternoon, and nothing to do with Will standing inches from me, his hands on mine.
    “Oooooh,” the band moaned loudly enough that I glanced up to see what the commotion was. The entire band, all hundred and eighty of them extending in lines and curlicues across the grass, turned around in one motion to stare at us.
    At least, that was my first impression—that they were staring at both Will and me. Maybe DeMarcus had paused in his drone to hand the microphone to Ms. Nakamoto, who’d scolded Will and me for touching again, and we hadn’t heard her over our own laughter. But DeMarcus was still reciting the announcements.
    I hit on the answer. The band was staring at Will, not me. I still didn’t know why, but I wasn’t surprised anymore. People stared at Will a lot , even when he was wearing a shirt. I spent a good portion of my day trying not to do it myself.
    No, that didn’t seem right either. Girls might gaze longingly at Will as they passed him on the grass, but the whole band wouldn’t turn around to say “Oooooh!” unless he’d gotten in trouble.
    “What is it? I wasn’t listening,” I said to Will as a joke, because the fact that I hadn’t been listening was pretty obvious.
    “I don’t know,” he said, giving the band a suspicious once-over, “but they’re still pointing at us.”
    At me , I thought. I glanced around the drum line to pinpoint someone I could ask, but everybody else had abandoned their drums to sit down with trumpets or clarinets who had towels to spread out. Will and I were the only ones left standing. Nobody was offering an explanation.
    “Whatever it is,” Will said, “it must be very good, or very bad.” He mouthed