the circle of death

At the hungry end of August, the drumline sharpened our teeth on the rawhide of band camp. For those two weeks before classes would re-structure our days, we were uniformless and ungovernable, sunburnt from the glare reflecting off our kevlar drumheads, crushing gatorades and converting them to sweaty tanktops. We smashed sticks, broke cadence, hit rimshot after rimshot and screamed just to scream. It was freedom.

Concert band? Not so.

Concerts in the spring happened after two semesters of being whipped into good posture, good grades, good. They were delicate, precise; concerts were three minutes patiently spent awaiting your two triangle dings and your parents’ polite applause. 

Luckily, someone had the brilliant idea to pre-game by gathering round and punching the shit out of each other. It was awesome. We called it the Circle of Death.

Freshman year was my first instruction in the hierarchy of our percussive wolfpack. The most coveted—and feared—place in the circle was next to one of the juniors who hit like a baseball bat and would wallop the upper arm of whoever was next in the order. This place, thus, belonged to the drumline captain: he would take the hardest punch and prove his glory. My place was far from it; as a freshman, and, worse, a girl, I had to beg to be punched at all. 

But through sophomore and junior years, I demonstrated enough delinquency to be happily included in the Circle of Death. I rose through our rabid ranks from cymbals to snare, from girl to dude let’s go smash watermelons off the roof! and by senior year:

Senior year was a triumph. First, I became drumline captain. I was better than all of them. My Swiss Army Triplets were murderously fast. My flams—unforgiving. And it was delicious because they all recognized it. They welcomed it. They gave me as much shit as they gave each other, and they were mine, and we all liked it that way.

Second, in senior year, Nick joined band. Nick and I had been friends for years. He was a dweeb and not a very good drummer but that motherfucker was ripped.

So arrived the Circle of Death, 2010. We scuffled between the cinderblocks of the auditorium holding pen, a bunch of oily, giddy teenagers raging with testosterone our dress shirts couldn’t stifle. I took my place of honor next to Nick. I was going to protect my pack and earn my glory and fuck if anyone was going to stop me. 

Are you sure,Nick asked, a guilty tip to his eyes, as though hurting me was a bad thing and not the whole fucking point. Don’t be such a pussy, I said, and he caved so easily it was clear that he was happy to punch me, because I was his friend. 

And when my turn came up, to my delight, he fucking whaled. 

For a full ten seconds I couldn’t feel my arm. I barely got my own punch off, but it didn’t matter because everyone was still going batshit over Nick’s hit. We played a great concert, and over the next two weeks a purple lily pad blossomed over half my upper arm. Nick apologized about a billion times, but it was always to a giggle from both of us. I went to prom with one of the other drummers that year, and I wore a sleeveless dress that exhibited the bruise beautifully. My half-hearted attempt to cover it with makeup did not get past his mother, who gasped and asked what happened.

I hope I lied to her, but all I remember was laughing.