6 comments/ 20849 views/ 8 favorites Frigid Brigid the Majorette By: donnylaja I: Brigid and the Patriot's Day Parade "Thbbb! ... Th-thbb!" He licked his lips and tried again on next group of sixteenth notes, pressing against the mouthpiece that felt like a block of ice no matter how much he blew into it. Even through his full-length wool uniform, and the long underwear, he could feel the frigid wind knifing right through him. It wasn't just him, of course, as he tried to pt-pt the notes of "Little Giant" along with the seven other trombonists in the front row. The rest of the band wasn't sounding much better. It was nerve-racking being a trombonist, having to be in the front row of the 60-member band to make room for the trombones' slides. But this was a great day for the band, for their families, for their high school. They had won the national competition down in Atlanta and were privileged to lead the parade into Foxboro Stadium for the Patriots' last regular season game. They had expected cold this time of year, but not THIS cold. It had snowed two days before and the banks were piled up high on each side of Washington Street. Behind the snow, crowds five deep watched, bundled up, and cheered, or made ridiculous muted clapping with their heavily gloved hands. There was some talk about the parade being canceled, but that was only a dream. They couldn't pass up being seen on national TV. It was a poor, mostly black school, T----- High, but the marching band program was its pride and joy. They had quite a reputation in the Boston area and were often invited to march in other towns' parades, like St. Patrick's Day and Memorial Day. Their uniforms were resplendent, the tall plumed hats and the braided jackets with the shoulder tassles and striped pants, though with the district finances the way they were, upkeep required frequent fund-raising. He hated doing that. But like for any kid it was worth it, being a proud member of this famous band, marching strictly in step as they were trained to do in their daily morning practices, out on the football field and in the gym in bad weather. The big glass case in the school lobby, right after the metal detector, had a slew of trophies, and annual band photos going back to 1937 when it was a segregated school. Now "Little Giant" ended and they would switch to "Our Director". After the last cymbal crash from the half-frozen arms of his friend Jared ten rows back, he and the other trombonists counted three beats and then dropped their instruments down to waist level in "ready" position. The next tune after that was "Washington Post" and then "Manhattan Beach". This was part of their regular rotation, the traditional marches then "Hold That Tiger", during which the band could finally do a little swinging around to get their blood moving again. Anything was better than straight marching on a frigid day like this. His feet were getting numb, and the tips of his gloved fingers. The wind was now blowing into their faces as they began marching downhill with the road. He could feel his nose sniffle and hoped snot didn't run down where he couldn't wipe it. Unnecessary motions were much discouraged, they ruined the formation. He thought of their band director, Mr. Weaver -- they called him "Sarge" because he used to direct an Army band -- who was marching to the side twenty feet back. He glanced furtively down at his white fake-leather gloves. Would snot show on them? The drum guard, way behind him, did their vamping and he looked straight forward as he was supposed to. He could see the city ahead, and the stadium in front of it, looking like it was ten miles away. It wasn't that far, but this was a long parade -- first going down to the park, then a short break, then the final leg down Broadway, in front of the reviewing stand, then finally into the stadium. The sound off, and now into "Our Director". D-flat was not his favorite key but this was an easy tune, not too many notes. The band didn't make as many flubs on this one. Now he looked a little to the right, to their regular majorette, a white girl named Brigid, prancing and twirling her baton all alone at the head of the parade, and contemplated her very interesting skin. .................. He had noticed it in the photos in the glass case. As the uniforms for the rest of the band got more abundant and ornate over the years, with the addition of high boots, cummerbunds, epaulettes, the majorette's uniform got more and more skimpy. The 1940's majorettes wore mid-length skirts which showed some leg, but otherwise their uniforms were much like the rest of their band's. And then over the years the big "shako" hat got smaller, the jacket shrank to a vest, then disappeared, the blouse and skirt shrank to leotards, then in the 1980's the midriff appeared, the boots shrank to sneakers... He liked looking at Brigid's beautiful skin, very white with freckles over the shoulders, a product of her Irish heritage. It was certainly well on display. Her uniform began with a little pillbox-style cap, a shrunken version of the shakos the rest of her band wore, black and white, the school colors, with a "T" on the front. It was pinned to her red, braided-up hair. Her nipples were covered by circles of white fake-leather (called "circlets") maybe three inches across, little rounded cones, with again each with a black "T" on them. He wondered how the circlets were attached so they didn't fall off as she went through her vigorous paces. That was something the girls in the locker room would know, though for obvious reasons, Brigid had emerged from there this morning well before the others. Further down, her closely-shaved pubic area was covered with a little white V-shaped triangle, certainly the smallest bikini bottom he had ever seen, held on securely by sparkly silver strings that went low around her waist, meeting in the rear at the crack of her butt where they formed a delicate "T" with the band that went down and disappeared between the cheeks. Add a pair of low-heeled, dressy flip-flop style sandals, held on with just the thinnest silvery straps, and that was Brigid the majorette's uniform. He was fascinated by white girls' skin, how it changed color, getting a tan in the summer, blushing, turning whiter when they were afraid, red when they were mad, red and blotchy in the cold. White folks' skin was pretty funny in general. During the competition in Atlanta, watching the other bands, he and his buddies almost lost it during another band's audition, an all-white band from Kansas or someplace. Five trumpeters did consecutive solos and the face of each started out white and turned red, one after the other. Brigid was beautiful, though. Nothing ridiculous about her or her skin. He didn't really know her. Her regular instrument was clarinet, and the clarinets were across the band from the trombones. She always sat between her friends Debra and Virginia, black girls who were pretty O.K. And her skin, especially today, was interesting, fascinating really, like a canvas of a painting created by God called, "On a Freezing Cold Day". Her shoulders were reddish, her arms blotchy, her bare back a little lighter, her legs and feet a little purplish, her toes a little more so. Her sacral dimples, a few inches above the T-string, were lighter than the blushing butt cheeks below. It was kind of callous of him to think of her this way, of course. She must be suffering on a day like this but she didn't show it. She was a real trouper. They had never marched on a day this cold. Feeling his cold hands and chilly arms in their gloves and two layers of sleeves, he thought of how her bare hands and arms must feel tossing and twirling that baton. Feeling his whole body trying to get some blood moving under his full-length wool uniform and long underwear, he felt sorry for her bare torso, the breasts tightly bouncing in the freezing air behind the -- were they glued on? -- little circlets. His butt was freezing -- but how much more freezing Brigid's must be, entirely naked to the winter wind except for the ridiculous tiny string. And his feet were almost numb in their heavy socks and boots. Meanwhile the frigid wind whistled between poor Brigid's bare toes! But like always, she kept a smile frozen on her face, alternately twirling and the jabbing the baton in the air to keep the beat, then when the band was marching in place, tucking the baton under her arm, stepping in place. He wondered how she kept those backless sandals on her feet while whirling around. It must be hard to grip with toes going numb. Only once did she falter, one heel slipping a bit on black ice, but she recovered right away and hardly lost a step. His mind went back to September. It seemed so long ago now. The measuring for uniforms, one by one in the practice room, though how Brigid was measured, it would have been interesting to see. Then the meeting in the auditorium. One by one the members were called up by the band secretary, Ms. Jillian, to get their uniforms. A big travel bag held up by a coat hanger, with a smaller bag attached which held the boots. The bags were huge, massive, five feet high and heavy. Some of the girls had trouble hefting theirs back to their seats. Then Brigid was called. She was in the back and walked down the aisle in her usual outfit of black jeans, white-collared shirt, jean jacket and sneakers. Ms. Jillian handed her a tiny black thing like it was a little birthday present. It was the flip-flops tied together with a tiny black pouch the size of a CD case. Her uniform bag. During the rest of the year the uniforms had been hung up on those racks along the walls in the rehearsal room. Big heavy travel bags, except for a hanger that looked like it had nothing on it until you looked and saw the tiny black pouch with flip-flops. Now "Our Director" ended. Instruments down. The band halted, Brigid having been instructed to stay at least fifty feet behind the flashing fire truck. The whole band, the majorette and the instrumentalists and the drum guard, marched in place, little steps, two inches up, as they had practiced. During those early morning sessions at the school Brigid had taken off her shoes and socks, so she could practice in those backless sandals. Her bare feet were striking with everyone else so fully clothed. He wasn't a foot fetishist or anything but it was pretty sexy. Of course, now she was almost all bare. He watched her butt cheeks intently, as they jiggled ever so slightly with each in-place step. Nice and tight, a white girl's butt. He knew she was on the soccer team and she was in such good shape. Of course, a majorette at this school had to be. Real narrow waist, flat tummy, nice legs, nice boobs too, not especially big but sticking out firm without a bra. He threw furtive glances at the crowds behind the banks of snow, looking for the TV cameras. None yet; they had to be further down the route. And the newspapers. The crowd was all bundled up. Standing in place it was easier to get cold. Most of the faces were all but covered with scarves or ski masks. He tried to detect their expressions and supposed they were cringing at the sight of the nearly naked majorette in the cold. He could picture tomorrow morning's front page of the Globe, tabloidy as always. The headline: "CRUEL! School makes majorette march near-naked in freezing parade!" Pictures of horrified onlookers. And of course, a big picture of Brigid front and center, so all the outraged readers could jerk off to her under the breakfast table. He told himself: I'm obsessing. He had obsessed on Brigid all year, being in the front row of the instrumentalists, having such a constant view of her. And he told himself that exposure to the elements was just part of the life of a majorette. He and the other trombonists had gotten used to following her around during the whole football season, watching her body soak up the sun those hot September days (and being a little envious back then, stuck in their sweaty wool uniforms), mesmerized by the sleek wetness of her bare curves in October drizzles, then counting the goose bumps on her butt during those windy November weekends. So it was more than just watching her bod. He wanted to get to know her. He admired tough girls. What was she like? Now on to "Washington Post". This was a livelier tune. He got with the program and concentrated on his playing as they again advanced. Then Brigid spun 180 degrees, twirling, and his thoughts wandered again. That tiny triangle bottom, it's really narrow - maybe no more than like two inches across at the top. Does she have to shave all her pubic hair? Or just pare it down so it's like a pubic Mohawk? Is her pubic hair red like her head hair? Someone told him that all white girls, no matter what their head hair is like, their pubic hair is like a dull brown... ....................... It felt so good to wolf down this big burger. Being out in the cold makes you hungry. He sat up, munching on fries, his shako on the table, his trombone bell-down next to him on the bench. And then Brigid sat down across from him! Her breasts with their circlets wiggled a bit as she and Debra and Virginia, on each side of her, sat down with their trays. They sucked on the sodas and chatted about this and that as he tried not to look too directly. He could see down to about the middle of her tummy, and her almost total nudity, all that white skin, now turning white in blotches now that it was finally exposed to warmth again, contrasted with her fully-dressed black friends with their gold braids and buttons and epaulettes. Debra and Virginia had taken off their gloves to eat, carefully setting them to the side, but still had their tall shakos on. It was a big room, with the whole band around them sitting at tables, and over the hubbub the girls were talking about their driver education class, namely that old big Chevy the school had. "It's hahd to control that cahh," Brigid said, and Virginia agreed. "Girl you know it." Brigid's accent seemed a little different than the standard white-person Boston accent. Maybe more like a Providence accent. Then she shifted on her hips and he knew that she had dropped her sandals to the floor and was sitting cross-legged. Now she pivoted her body toward Debra, still engaged in conversation. Girls talked a lot faster than guys and by now they had gotten into going to the mall next weekend with Maria and Shonday. He realized Brigid was pretty popular. It was such a big school, though, that there was no point of contact between his circle of friends and hers. Now as he finished his burger, trying not to look, Debra scooted away from her and put ungloved hands down, and he realized she was massaging Brigid's half-frozen feet. His eyes leapt as he caught a glimpse, the warm black hands rubbing the circulation back into the white toes, stretching them, spreading them. He supposed it wasn't so skanky if the person was essentially barefoot all day like Brigid was. "Hey Brigid!" It was a guy he knew as Willy, something of a wise guy. He held up an ice cream on the way to his seat. "Want some COLD ice cream?" Brigid squinted sarcastically as he passed by. He straightened up a bit, automatically, as Old Lady McPherson came around, the Principal. She could be (A), an old witch, or (B), a nice old grandma. Right now it was (B). "How are you doing dear?" she said. "Pretty good," Brigid said. "You look fine out there. You all do," she said glancing over at the rest. "We're proud of you." Looking down at Brigid's feet, then at her hands, Ms. McPherson said, "You did a good job on the nails, girls. I didn't think you could get another year out of those old bottles." "Well they WERE about empty," Virginia said. "I did the feet," Debra said proudly, as she held them up for the Principal to see, Brigid trying to spread her still-reviving toes with some effort. This was no small matter. With the disappearance of boots and gloves, fingernail paint and toenail paint had become part of the majorette's uniform. And like everything else about the band members' appearance it was expected to be meticulously perfect. The paint was the school colors, black and white, alternating on each finger and toe. After the old lady had gone on, another guy came by with a giant-sized soda. "Brigid -- want some -- COLD -- soda?" The majorette stuck her tongue out with a sour face. Sarge came by. "Don't eat too fast," he said. "We've got a mile and a half to go. How's everyone doing?" Having finished his burger and used his napkin, he spoke up with a smile. "It's hot in here," he said. Indeed he was getting sweaty indoors, encased in his thermals and full uniform. "Pfft," Sarge said with a good-natured dismissive wave. "Talk to Brigid about that." It was the first time he referred to Brigid's plight. With the forecast being for cold, there was some talk about canceling the parade. But that was just impossible. It was to be their big day. At the last band meeting Sarge had talked about it. "Now it will be chilly out, so it will be all right for all band members to wear thermal underwear, except the majorette of course, providing it's not bulky and doesn't show." Half the guys must have looked over at Brigid sitting in the clarinet section. Brigid showed no reaction to this passing mention, but Debra and Virginia glanced sideways at their friend. Everyone could wear thermals except the band member who needed them the most. Of course everyone knew for the majorette it would be impossible. Even a body stocking or something like that would look ridiculous. It probably would make the sandals slip off. And mabye there would be no way to keep the circlets on. "Hey Brigid," another guy said as he passed, "are ya -- FRIGID?" He could detect Brigid giving him the finger from under the table. He was fascinated by her even more now. She could give as well as she got. "Woo! Look! The girl scouts!" Debra's announcement got the three of them up. Careful to put her sandals on first, Brigid joined the rest of them as they went up to the big window facing the street. They stepped up onto the low sill and pressed their hands against the glass, waving at their old troop leader, Miss Pikarski, who waved back as she passed by leading the pack of smiling little girls in overcoats. Debra and Virginia, standing against the window covered all up in their jackets and long-legged trousers and boots, and in between, Brigid in her backless sandals, her total nakedness from the rear interrupted only by the little T-string in her butt, and the little cap clipped to her hair. They got down and for a while they ate silently. Now another clown came by and said, "Were ya frigid, Brigid?" He could see it might become a nickname now whether she wanted it or not. Frigid Brigid. Her eyes were darting around the room, as if making sure no one was looking. Then she said, "This uniform is killing me." Debra and Virginia seemed to know what she meant and looked around too. "Make sure the coast is cleah, O.K.?" And then his mouth dropped as Brigid took the circlets off with a little sideways squeeze from each hand. He saw now they were kept on by springy metal clips like you use to keep papers together, or on a clipboard -- "bulldog clips", he thought they were called. God, they must hurt! Her nipples stood out, stiff and red, like they were angry at being tortured all morning. Brigid sighed and closed her eyes as she massaged them between her fingers. It was almost as if taking them off was as painful as having them on. And then she opened her eyes and looked up at him for the first time -- smiling and giggling a little bit, with a shyness and sense of slight embarrassment that was unusual for this tough girl, as she cupped her breasts in her hands. He smiled back and felt at that moment like he was in love. She returned to massaging her abused nipples then put her hands at her sides. Her breasts wiggled a bit more freely now with the motions of her arms as she ate. She looked up warily now and then. Any T---- High majorette was aware of public indecency laws and knew she shouldn't be out like this. Frigid Brigid the Majorette Her breasts looked even more protruding, more pointy, with her red nipples exposed and sticking out. Again, a fascinating aspect of white girls -- he had never seen a real live white girl's nipples before, so expressive, angry and red. Especially against the breasts which were returning to the normal white color, as they spent more time in this warm fast food place. Brigid's breasts needed more soothing, apparently. She finished her soda with a loud slurp and then she stuck her fingers in it. She fished out two chips of ice which she now held up against her nipples. "Mmmm..." It was a sensual sound that made his dick hard. Fortunately it wouldn't show under all his coverings. She checked around for grown-ups, rubbing the quickly melting chips againt her. Now a clap from across the room. Sarge's signal. "Quick, do me up heah," Brigid said, turning to Virginia and sticking out her breasts. Virginia hurriedly clipped the circlets on. "Ow ow ow," Brigid said, taking off the left one. Virginia had clipped it too near the end of the nipple. He imagined it must have hurt like hell. Virginia re-did it. "How do I look?" Brigid said, turning to Debra. "This one's crooked," her friend said, resetting one so that the "T" stood straight up. Then Frigid Brigid shook her breasts violently side to side, making them bounce like miniature soccer balls. This took his breath away. But it was the only way to make sure the circlets were secure. The band got up and made for outside. He put on his shako and picked up his trombone and followed. Having gotten hot in his uniform, he was almost grateful to feel the freezing air hitting his face as they emerged onto the sidewalk. They were bottlenecked as members filed through the narrow cutout in the three-foot-high snow bank to get back onto the street. Brigid was needed at the front and couldn't wait. So she took off her sandals and, using her baton as a walking stick, scaled the snow bank in her bare feet, her toes grabbing the refrozen slippery chunks of white with care. It caused people to look but it was simply the sensible thing to do. Now out on the street, they got into formation. Sarge and Brigid stood in front. When everyone was all set Sarge said, "How are your toes, Brigid?" Standing in front with the other trombones, he saw her look down, flexing her toes in the dressy flip-flops. "OK" "Folks," Sarge barked out, "I... know... we don't... sound too good... today." He was speaking slowly so as to be heard clearly, his breath forming little clouds. "This is probably the coldest parade we've ever been in. There's just no way to play well in this temperature. Don't... worry about it. Concern yourself with formation. We'll be in front of TV cameras soon... so how we look... will be what counts. "I've noticed the formation isn't too good." He pointed over to the majorette. "Watch... Brigid. She's freezing her... BUNS off... for us. The least we can do is follow her beat. Brigid," his voice lowering, "lead as much as possible. Twirl only when the band seems in step, and only one throw at a time." Brigid nodded. And with a sound off from the drum guard, they were off, marching forward, beginning "Son of a Preacher Man". They were still going downhill and now the wind was so stiff that it was an effort to push ahead. The cold sun disappeared and now it was overcast. He glanced up and it looked like snow clouds. Brigid led, her baton jabbing into the air, stepping high, the icy wind no doubt piercing like needles into her near-nakedness... In a few moments her skin was multicolored again, and he was grateful for his thermal underwear. They got to the reviewing stand and stopped. Aside from entering the stadium itself, this was their big moment. As planned, the majorette turned and faced the Governor and the other important, formally-dressed personages up there in their top hats, overcoats and white gloves, as the drum guard marched single file around the instrumentalists and formed behind her. Cameras were everywhere, on the reviewing stand, perched up on scaffolds here and there, all aimed at Brigid. The drum guard did the sound-off, then launched into a furious barrage of gunshot-like drum shots and cymbal crashes as Brigid twirled and spun and pranced. Her skin was a little purplish now, maybe from her exertions. He could tell she was breathing heavily, and realized what an athletic workout it was. Now she flung the baton high, high up into the air, spun around once, and deftly caught it over her head in time with the last cymbal crash. She stayed in that position, baton up, her breasts wobbling for a split-second before coming to rest, her pelvic bones framing her concave tummy, one foot in front of the other, the other arm straight out from her side, the majorette's permanent smile frozen on her face. The men and women up on the stand cheered, as did the rest of the crowd. He would have cheered too if he had been allowed. If she had dropped the baton it would be all they would hear about in the media, it would be how T---- High School would be known. But she had come through. Good old Frigid Brigid! Now they marched down the hill again, behind the fire truck, as they went the last leg down to the stadium. Another easy tune, "Under the Double Eagle". Brigid's body stayed purple as she led the beat. He wondered how long she could go like this. Her exertions would heat her up to some extent, but there had to be a limit. As he worked the slide his mind went into fantasy. He pictured the fire truck stopping and the firemen jumping off it with their hoses. And training them on Brigid, the great arcs crashing onto her and splashing her all over. Now there were more firemen, from all directions, coming out of the crowds, till there were ten or more big jets of water bombarding her. It was cold water of course, but to her it would feel warm and she would be grateful. Swinging her baton wildly over her head, she would dance in the massive downpour like it was a shower, kicking her sandals off, laughing as she flung up her bare feet. Her breasts were hit to and fro by competing jets and now the circlets came off, one after the other, and she gratefully accepted the water on one nipple then the other, soothing them. Another shot to her crotch and the little triangle flew off, shooting away from her with the tiny strings, and now Brigid the majorette danced joyfully nakedly in the fire hose shower, and now the whole band put down their instruments and cheered... .............................. II: Brigid on TV He waited anxiously, nervously fidgeting with the slide of his trombone. Mr. Watson, whom everyone called "Sarge" from his years as a bandleader in the Army, waited impatiently as Jamal fiddled with the A-V equipment. It was first period practice in the crowded rehearsal room. They had just gone through their usual warm-up tune, "Captains and Kings". Now they were snorting with anticipation. Except for him. And Brigid in the clarinet section, sitting between Debra and Virginia, in her usual jean jacket, white turtleneck, black jeans and Doc Martens. She was easy to pick out because she was one of only five white kids in the whole band. She bit her lip and was as nervous as he was. Finally -- the big screen lit up blue. The screen was ripped here and there. T--- High School might be known locally for its marching band but this was not a school district with a lot of money. Some out-of-synch blurry images and now the genial, grandmotherly face of Melba McCann, the anchor of the local news show. "And now, we have with us guests from the famous T--- High School marching band, who will be performing at this Saturday's regional title football game between their school and Brookline High School." Her first words sounded like she was talking underwater but then Jamal's hand slammed down on something in the control room and the sound cleared up. "Here we have -- " The camera panned over to the three guests, Sarge in his business suit with the black tie, Brigid in her majorette uniform, her baton laid primly across her bare thighs, and he himself in his braided wool uniform, holding his trombone in "rest" position in front of him. Watching the screen, he cringed as he saw the beads of sweat on his forehead. It wasn't just nervousness -- it had been hot in that studio. Sarge had insisted on getting there half an hour early. Already burdened with his trombone case, he had needed Brigid's help in hefting his big uniform bag out of the car and through the many hallways before finally getting to the dressing rooms. Brigid went in front of him, holding up the boots end of the bag, her baton slung over her shoulder. At the end of the baton dangled her own uniform bag, a tiny pouch like a beanbag. Then it had taken him forever to struggle into his uniform in that tiny cubicle, what with the cummerbund, the epaulettes, the big boots. Finally he emerged into what they called the green room, where guests were made up before walking onto the set. Brigid was there sitting up on a high stool, already dressed, while the gay-looking guy powdered her with makeup. He supposed that a white person would look like a ghost on TV without some cosmetic help. Especially Brigid, whose Irish skin was very white, with a smattering of freckles across her bare shoulders. She smiled at him as she said, "I'm getting the royal treatment." The makeup man had a lot of skin to cover, what with her entire uniform consisting of two little circlets covering her nipples, and that tiny triangle over her pubic area held on with silvery strings that went low around her hips and the other string that disappeared between her butt cheeks. Below, her bare feet rested on the bottom rung, the flip-flop style majorette sandals on the floor. He got the trombone out of his case and sat and watched, having nothing else to do. Brigid's circlets seemed to have gotten smaller. The uniforms had just come back from their twice-yearly cleaning. Maybe the majorette uniform was subtly altered before it came back. He thought about the photos in the glass case, and wondered about the shrinkage in the majorette uniform over the years, how it was done, how past majorettes dealt with it. Around about 1970, for example, how did the majorette for that year find out that her short skirt and blouse had morphed into a leotard? How did the 1990 majorette deal with a short short that had become a bikini-style bottom? Or the 1999 majorette who found that the strings on her top had disappeared and she now had to wear circlets? Those first circlets were huge compared to the ones Brigid had to wear. Her breasts were round and firm, maybe a bit bigger than average; and around her circlets all her breast slopes, top, bottom, and sides, were in full view. He wasn't about to do math calculations but the circlets covered maybe 15% of Brigid's total breast area. He thought of the big plastic eyeball model in the science room, the area formed by the iris and pupil. About that much. He saw the makeup man do his work, puffing the powder between Brigid's breasts. He had seen boobs bounce before, of course, but always in tank tops or bikini tops. Brigid's breasts, not strapped to her body or to each other, moved independently, one wobbling a bit while the other was still, sometimes bobbing the same way, sometimes toward each other, one moving in a tight little circle while the other lurched left to right... The makeup guy bent down and Brigid parted her knees as he got that area around her uniform where she had shaved her pubic hair. The triangle bottom seemed to have gotten smaller too, more like a narrow "V" now. She looked down with a neutral expression as the guy powdered industriously. "Spread a little more, please..." Sarge came in. "We're on in five minutes. How's it going?" The two band members smiled and nodded. Now Brigid spread her toes as the guy powdered them. Pretty toes. She had carefully painted the nails in the black-and-white school colors. Cummerbund and epaulettes and braided jacket and high boots were part of his uniform; toenail paint was part of hers. He put on his white gloves and looked at them. Even one of his gloves provided more coverage than Brigid's entire uniform. Then he remembered getting suddenly nervous as Melba McCann came in to get them, and Brigid picked up her baton and followed Sarge into the big room with all the cameras surrounding the set, and he followed Brigid... Sarge sat down in one of Melba's guest chairs and chatted with her quietly while a commercial was being shown. Rod and Brigid, waiting by the big camera setup, looked at each other. Rod was so enchanted with this shy Irish white girl that he choked up whenever he wanted to speak. Finally he croaked out, "How do I look?" He stood up straight as Brigid, holding her baton in her armpit, adjusted his jacket and tugged at his epaulettes. "Great. How about me?" She held up her arms and her breasts stuck out. "Are my 'T''s straight?" Rod was open-mouthed, unsure of what she meant, looking down finally at her ribs and the hollow tummy below. "Your -- " "My 'T's!" He swallowed and felt flushed as he realized she meant the "T" school logo on each of her circlets. He bent down a bit so that Brigid's breasts were at his eye level. "Fine. Both straight." "Good. Oh no!" Brigid opened her mouth and out came a retainer. "This'll show! I forgot entirely!" She frantically looked around for a place to put it. He heroically took it and held it in his gloved hand. "It's safe with me." "Oh thanks, you're a dear," she said. He felt his heart skip a beat. Then Sarge motioned for them to sit down next to him, and the camera guy counted down... Now, in the band room, watching with everyone else, he sat through Melba McCann's introduction and then smiled as Sarge fell over his words in describing the marching band, at first saying it was founded in 1527 instead of 1927. Sarge, sitting on his conductor's stool, covered his face in good-natured embarrassment. Melba then said, "We have here also Brigid O'Dierna, the band's majorette, and Rod Sykes, first trombonist. You're part of a proud tradition. How do you like marching with the band?" Looking at the big screen, the band saw Brigid and Rod smile at each other shyly. Brigid giggled nervously, her breasts bouncing with her laugh, then jiggling for a second after her body had stilled. He said something to the effect of, "It's a great band and it's great marching with your friends." Brigid said, "We all work together." Not memorable words, exactly, but what the heck, they were petrified. "The forecast for Saturday is cold and drizzly," Melba said. "In your majorette outfit," she said, looking up and down at Brigid, "how do you stay warm on days like Saturday?" "You keep moving," Brigid said. Her stock response. And now in the band room there was a general shifting of chairs with anticipation as Melba McIntyre announced Rod and Brigid were going to do a tune. His friends in the trombone section smiled at him but he was not nervous because he knew what was coming. The two band members on TV stood up, him with the trombone up to his lips, her with the baton tucked under her arm. Then she nodded and he launched into a verse of "American Patrol" which was flawless. Watching in the band room, he smiled. He had been so afraid he was going to botch it but he hadn't. Good tone throughout, not one note flubbed -- while successfully hiding Brigid's retainer carefully in his slide hand. Meanwhile Brigid twirled. She couldn't do any throws in Melba's little studio but she did everything else, spinning, fanning, switching arms, down through the legs, even that special trick she did where the baton seemed to crawl back over her shoulders on its way from one hand to the other. She spun around, leading with one breast and timing it so that the other breast followed. A performance as flawless as his. At the last note he and Brigid froze, as planned. He was sweating in his wool uniform. She was not immune to the studio heat, either. As she posed, her breasts coming to rest, a trickle of sweat was visible that had started below her neck, rivered between her breasts and down her flat tummy, and delta-ed at her navel. Melba and Sarge clapped, then it went to a commercial and the clip ended. Jamal turned off the screen light. Everyone in the band room applauded. "Stand up and take a bow, well done," Sarge said. He stood up in his sweatshirt and long jams. Brigid stood up in her jean jacket and turtleneck and black jeans. Local stars! "One fine performance deserves another," Sarge said. "Time for a big tune. Let's do 'March Grandioso'!" III: Brigid and the Big Game "The long walk", they called it, from the locker rooms to the football field, everyone trudging through the wet grass before game time, the team and the band and the cheerleaders in front. It was a chilly day, no doubt about it, and it was almost noon and hadn't warmed up a bit. It had rained yesterday and there were sloppy mud patches to be avoided. Of course, the football players were resigned to getting all muddy, but for a variety of reasons that did not bother them so much. The odd conversation between them mixed with the more subdued chatting of the band members and the much quicker talking of the cheerleaders. He finagled it so that he was walking near the front, next to Brigid, who was mindful of the cold. Parades were one thing, but games, where the band had to sit for long periods in the stands, were another. She wore her green wool poncho over her uniform, her sandals in her hand as she trod the wet grass with red Converse All-Stars on her sockless feet. The poncho barely came down past her butt and she looked like she was naked underneath. Some of the football players said hi to her as they passed. He looked up. The clouds were gray but it looked like the sun might break through. With luck... They got to the field and waited for Sarge, as the players, led by their captain, charged onto the field to go through their warmup plays while the visiting team from Brookline went through theirs. Brookline was a wealthy town and their football uniforms were a dazzling gold and green. The almost all-white team looked like a bunch of future executives. T--- should make short work of them today. He noted, with irritation, the ten or twelve cops hanging out around the stands. Just because we're a mostly black school they send riot control. Well, at least the cops they usually sent were nice. Brigid chatted with a couple of the cheerleaders, who wore coverall sweats over their short skirts. They had long sleeves too. Brigid's bare legs and arms really stood out. He listened to their conversation. They were going bowling later. Cheerleaders traditionally were pretty snobby, and didn't like the band majorette -- maybe they thought she upstaged them during the halftime shows -- but they had made an exception for Brigid. The cheerleaders went off to get their stuff at the storage shed as Sarge showed up, with his little briefcase, wearing thermal gloves, and an open overcoat over his business suit. "Band, this is a big day," he said, in his "announcement" voice. "Also a cold day. It's thirty-eight degrees and it might rain. But you know what I say, if our team has the courage to play out there, WE can play too. "We have one tune before the game, then we sit and then at halftime we'll do the roll-off with Brigid and the drummers and then 'Washington Post'. Local TV will be here. But before that happens they're presenting a dedication to Roddington McNeil. You know who he is? No? Well he was principal here for 25 years. He retired ten years ago. They're dedicating the new scoreboard to him. "Now this is the big game for our team. They go to the regionals if they win. While we're sitting up there waiting, I want you to cheer them on. Remember, we're their biggest fans." Frigid Brigid the Majorette He looked up at the sky. "Looks like we might get lucky. Maybe the sun will even come out. Well, let's go." He led them as they walked, not in formation, to the admissions area where the ticket takers were setting up their tables. Past it, the Dad's Club was setting up their refreshment stand. They had a big metal tub on a dolly with Jamal's uncle using tongs to put big ice chunks into the tub and then filling it with water to keep the cans of soda cold. Sarge had a brief call to make on his cell phone. The band stood around and watched the tub fill up until he was done. Now they walked behind the stands, under the announcer's booth where Mr. Simonelli was opening up, trying to pry open the top compartment which was submerged in three inches' worth of yesterday's rainfall. The band, with its majorette right behind Sarge, turned under it. It was then that the first of Brigid's many misfortunes that day occurred. Walking behind Brigid, watching her bare legs flushed with the cold under her poncho, he followed her as they turned into the narrow passage between the two grandstands. At first they thought it was a sudden downpour. But then they saw that the only person getting poured on was Brigid. She shrieked as a narrow but persistent torrent of water came from way above and doused her on her poncho-covered shoulder. Everyone stopped in alarm, trying to help but afraid of being doused themselves. Sarge looked back. Brigid tried to dodge the gush of water but it seemed to follow her as she zigzagged left and right in the narrow passage. Finally a few dribbles and it ended. Brigid stood there miserably, arms out, her poncho totally soaked and lying heavy and flat against her body, probably weighing about twenty pounds, dripping onto her equally soaked sneakers. Sarge looked up and yelled. Mr. Simonelli looked down and, mortified, apologized frantically. There was no time for recriminations, though. Brigid breathed heavily, on the verge of tears, and starting to shiver. "You've got to take that thing off, you'll get hypothermia," Sarge said. Wearing a sopping wet cold poncho on a day like this was not healthy. Rod was glad to help. He put his trombone down on the pavement and helped Sarge as they carefully lifted the poncho off her. Sarge folded it up and put it on one of the grandstand benches. As the band members came up from the rear and encircled Brigid, everyone looked at her, her arms still out to the sides, her white goose-pimpled skin interrupted only by her majorette uniform, the little circlets covering her nipples and the little "V" down below with the strings. Everyone looked around for a towel or something to dry her off or cover her with, but under a grandstand such things are not to be found. "Maybe we should get you inside," Sarge said. "No," Brigid said, realizing that she would be needed momentarily to lead the band's pre-game performance. "My uniform's not wet," she said, holding up her breasts to get a close look at the circlets. She seemed to be speaking to them as she said, "The rest of me will dry off in the air in a little bit." Which was true. The band members had noticed it during that first wet game, the first game of the year back in September. There was a downpour early in the game. At the halftime show everyone else was still soaked except for Brigid, whose bare skin and minimal uniform dried swiftly. "I'd best get rid of these, though," Brigid said, noting her sneakers. She got the poncho from Sarge and put it on the ground, then untied the sneakers, wiped her bare feet on the poncho, then slipped on the low heeled silvery flip-flops that were part of her uniform. The rest of the band, fully covered and in their big boots, looked on silently as she wiggled her toes in the sandals as she stood up. "OK then," Sarge said, as they resumed their journey through the grandstands. The stands were filling up quickly and they didn't have long to wait. The sky looked like it might be clearing up. The wind subsided. This might not be a bad day after all. Sarge ambled over to Coach Gunderson, who was corralling his players to the sidelines. They chatted a bit and when Sarge came back he said, "Five minutes". They stood around and waited. Rod worked the slide of his trombone. On a cold day he was sure to prep with a lot of valve oil, but it looked like it wouldn't be that cold. So now he was worried he might have used too much, and it might drop onto his gloves. Or worse, his jacket. He kept the trombone away from it, the expanse of white with black borders, with the big "T" on the right side next to the row of black buttons. Behind him, the rest of the band was playing with their instruments too. He looked over across the field where a van was parked, near the visitor's grandstand, which of course was a lot smaller, and half-filled with dedicated Brookline fans. They looked almost like a country club crowd, except maybe for some beefy guys with "B" sweatshirts standing up on the top bench. The van looked like a TV van, and sure enough a crew was getting out. They didn't look like they would be ready to catch the pre-game set. At least they'd catch the halftime show. He worked his slide again. Sarge examined the sky. Brigid checked her fingernails with the alternate black and white polish, looked down at her circlets, and then clutched the baton between her bare thighs as she examined her spreading toes on one foot and then the other. He looked down. It must be hard to get the polish on those pinky toes. He pictured her in the locker room, sitting on a bench, carefully painting them while the other girls were pulling on their long trousers, their braided jackets, attaching the epaulettes and cummerbunds, and pulling on the tall boots. He thought of the time he had seen her in the girls' gym class, as he was walking through it with the other boys on the way to the b-ball court outside. The girls were doing jumping jacks. In their white T-shirts, black shorts and sneakers with socks, even though Brigid was wearing the same exact outfit as the other girls, the rest of them looked as bare as he'd ever seen them -- except for Brigid, who looked unusually covered up. He looked at the smattering of freckles across Brigid's shoulders. She had a great body, possibly the best in the school -- it was impossible to say, of course, only hers was ever on display like this -- but just her skin was so interesting to look at. Did she really have 83 freckles? Jamal and he had joked about it in the locker room before coming out. "You mean you really counted the freckles on her shoulders?" he had asked incredulously. "Of course. During that long roll-off at practice yesterday. She has one on her butt too. On the right cheek, halfway down to her butthole, under that little 'Y' over her crack." He laughed as they put their shakos on and headed toward the door. "I can't believe you count the freckles on a white girl's butt!" "Hell, no sisters will go out with me, I'll take what I can get!" He thought: Jamal won't admit it but he's probably as in love with Brigid as I am. As they emerged, he had said, "Man, another cold day. Brigid will be freezing her circlets off." "So what? She's used to it!" Jamal said. As they trotted out he had laughed. "Lord, you're awful!" Now Mr. Simonelli, evidently having gotten over his guilt at spilling all that rainwater, cranked on the P.A. system and said, "Welcome to our last game of the season! To our guests from Brookline, welcome to T--- High School! Today -- " It was his usual long-winded introduction. He talked about the season record, the presence of the TV crew, rules as to trash and conduct, the snacks and soda and coffee available, the thanks to the Dads' Club, etc., etc. Sarge waited impatiently. He joked quietly to his band, at least the ones in front who could hear, "The whole game won't last this long!" Meanwhile Brigid shook out her body, arms and legs, trying to get circulation going. As she did her breasts jiggled tightly. Finally Mr. Simonelli introduced the band and the crowd woke up and cheered. The band was this school's pride and joy. Sarge marched out smartly and they followed in double file. They followed him as he detoured around a nasty-looking patch of mud at the sideline, then got into formation astride the 50-yard line. Sarge, as was his tradition, yelled out, "My name is Herbert Quincy Watson and this is our band -- the T--- High School Tunemasters!!" Loud cheering from the stands as Sarge walked off the field. It was his style not to hog the spotlight. The band was a product of his hard work, on both the music and the marching, but he didn't wear a uniform himself, and didn't lead. He just got out of the way and let the band shine. Which it certainly did. They stood there in "attention" position -- Brigid in front, feet together, arms down, her baton upright with one end in her left hand (she was left-handed) with the other end pressed against the front of her bare shoulder -- and behind her, he and the rest of the line of trombones, then the flutes, clarinets, trumpets, the tubas in back, and on the side, the drum guard. The uniforms were splendid, even Brigid's, scanty though it was. The black and white colors were the same, the T's on her circlets and on her little cap matched the T's on the chests and on the big shako hats of the rest of her band. Her uniform might be different than everyone else's but it fit in as one of the band. The cheerleaders, having reluctantly gotten out of their sweat pants, assembled to the side, shivering in their shortish skirts, and posed with their pom poms at their hips. Their uniforms were fine-looking too. All in black and white, the school colors, yarn bows in their hair, long-sleeved sweaters (which they wore in the cold weather -- in hot weather they wore tank tops) with an embroidered black "T" over a megaphone. Then pleated skirts that came to just above the knee, long white socks and black sneakers. They would stand there still during the band's performance and then, at the final flourish, jump and cheer and wave their pom-poms and begin their cheerleader thing that they would do throughout the game. With a swing of the baton, Brigid started marching in place. That was the drummers' cue and they started vamping. Now she did her first throw which was the cue for the roll-off. Rod blasted away as they launched into "Stars and Stripes Forever", the cut-down version. They didn't have to march in place or anything but he could feel his boots give a little. He glanced down and saw that the field was still pretty muddy. As they played, Brigid pranced and twirled and threw. That was how majorettes stayed warm, he mused. Only they were allowed to move around so much. He could see the wisdom of a majorette's scanty uniform, having free movement in the arms and legs. To go through those moves in a full uniform like his would be uncomfortable, and hot, even on a day like this. Now -- a really high throw. Brigid was serious about her twirling. She did it a lot during recess and after school in that little out of the way courtyard past the gym, pretty much out of view so that people wouldn't think she was showing off. But he watched her once and noted her diligence. (She was in her regular clothes of course; the majorette uniform would have violated the dress code.) She was totally concentrated on it, trying more and more difficult throws, doing the same throw maybe fifty times or more until she was satisfied she got it right. She would vary what she was wearing, sometimes even throwing while she was wearing a coat. She would use different size batons, and even tied little weights to them. The idea was to be able to throw accurately under any type of condition. Still, today one could tell that the mud was gumming up her style a bit, the heels of her sandals sinking in and taking an extra split-second to pull up. Being flip-flops, they separated from her feet at the heel and slapped back up against her sole on the upstep more smartly than usual, though with the band playing he couldn't hear it. And now a big spin and one real high throw, maybe thirty feet in the air. Brigid spun around and looked up. It came down a hundredth of a second sooner than she expected and hit her pinky. Brigid dropped the baton. It fell on the wet ground and she missed only an eighth of a beat, picking it up and starting the next twirl, but the sense of shock was palpable. The whole season and this was her first drop. Her face was deadpan as she continued her paces and the band finished up, and it was not the end of the world of course, but everyone who knew Brigid knew she had to be mortified. One of the baton knobs was smeared with mud, a reminder of her shame at letting down the band which would not go away. One final throw, perhaps not as high and risky as she would have done otherwise, and the band finished with a cymbal crash. The crowd cheered, but it was a muted cheer. Not because the crowd appreciated the performance less but because they were stunned. The cheerleaders did their woo-hoo pom-poming and the players got ready to take the field. The drums started the walk-off vamping and Brigid began to lead them off, baton tucked under her armpit, the mud-smeared knob hidden. She must have still been distracted by thinking about her drop, and eager to get out of view as quick as possible. At least that was the theory everyone had afterward. It explained why she marched straight for the grandstand gate and did not see the patch of mud. Brigid's foot slipped back out from under her and she fell forward, face first. As she tried to pry herself up from the cold mud her hands slipped and her face and upper body hit the mud again. Mud slopped to the sides. On her third try, quaking by now, just one hand slipped and she flipped over onto her back. Across the field, some of the big beefy guys in the visitor's grandstand hooted. The band was in disarray. The cheerleaders looked over from their places with concern. Sarge rushed out and shooed the rest of the band to leave the field. Everyone carefully stepped around the patch. Sarge helped his majorette up. She was crying. One flip-flop fell off and her bare foot squished into the mud. She slipped her muddy foot back into it and almost twisted her ankle before she finally righted herself. Her white face was all muddy. Mud was all over her front, covering her circlets, and actually appearing to be shoved in under them. Mud was over half her tummy. Down below it gummed up and covered the lower half of her uniform such that it looked like she didn't have a bottom at all and had simply stuffed mud into her crotch. As for her back, brown goo dripped from her butt down her thighs, making it look like she had had a bad "accident". In the stands, people stood up to see what was going on. As the band walked up to their reserved area halfway up, trying not to look back, Debra and Virginia stayed behind to help Sarge take the crying majorette under the stands. Rod felt miserable, about to cry himself. He hated the jeers coming from the visitors' stands. This was horrible. Aside from the humiliation he just could not imagine how Brigid must feel with gritty cold mud over her body. The game started and he couldn't get focused on it. He sat on the near side of the band section, looking down at his trombone and weakly moving the slide. A few moments later he looked over and saw Debra and Virginia with their muddied friend at the Dads' Club stand, evidently waiting for Sarge who was on his cell phone. They had tried to wipe off the mud with the little paper napkins available but it was pitifully inadequate. Poor Brigid was still smeared from her face down to her bare toes. The wind had kicked up and lifted the used napkins out of the trash. They scattered around the feet of the brown-smeared majorette, looking like used toilet paper. Someone offered Brigid a coat to put on but she declined, not wanting to get it dirty. She had stopped crying, the dried tracks of her tears visible where they had washed away the mud on her face. She sipped a hot tea as Debra and Virginia, in their full uniforms, their clarinets on the refreshment table, huddled around her. Rod watched with pity. He had always been too shy and tongue-tied to express his affection for her but he was more in love with her than ever now. He did not know that Brigid's misfortunes today were only beginning. .................... "Come on, Brigid, eat something. Have a hot dog. It'll warm you up." That's what he thought as he played with his trombone slide, looking over at the majorette with her two friends next to the Dads' Club area. Jamal's uncle was pushing food on her, free of charge. Of course the cold soda cans bobbing in the ice-filled metal tub wouldn't be a good idea. But there were hot dogs, chips, bags of popcorn. Brigid refused all this, preferring to stand between Debra and Virginia and sipping her tea, watching the game with them. They were behind the little table that held the napkins and the serving board with the partly covered tins of ketchup, mustard, relish and sauerkraut. She had composed herself by now. Ms. Farkas, the gym teacher who ran the cheerleading squad, walked over to her and talked. So did one of the policemen. Sarge got off his cell phone and said something to Brigid and Ms. Farkas. Standing still like that, Brigid looked like she was finally beginning to feel the cold, hugging herself with her bare, mud-streaked arms, her legs together, wiggling her gritty toes, tapping the heels of her muddy flip-flops against the gravel, as she sipped the tea and held the cup close, feeling the steam on her smeared face. How was she going to get cleaned up in time for halftime? Rod got distracted by action on the field. His friend Scotus had intercepted a pass and was running for a touchdown. He got into cheering like everyone else. Scotus went all the way to the 10-yard line before getting tackled, having run 40 yards. Yay team! The air on this raw, gray day filled with excitement now. This would be the first score of the year. The cheerleaders, spinning around in their shortish skirts, pumped up the crowd, which really didn't need much pumping up. This town had plenty of school spirit. Rod looked over. Debra, Virginia and Brigid were cheering too, each jabbing the air with one fist. Brigid's breasts jiggled in time, the mud-streaked circlets tracing independent epicycles in the air. To be honest, the bouncing of the fringes of Debra's and Virginia's epaulettes on their jackets was quite fetching too. There was something about a girl in a uniform, the regular band uniform as well as the majorette uniform, which was sexy. Now -- Jamal's cousin Jared, helping out at the stand, engrossed in the game, rested a foot on the dolly holding the ice tub. The dolly gave way, one wheel collapsing, and the tub lurched and nearly slid off it. The tub had been full almost to the brim and now a little tidal wave of ice-cold water washed over the legs and feet of the three girls. It was a surprise but not an ordeal for Debra and Virginia in their tall rain-proof boots. Quite a different experience, though, for the majorette. Brigid shrieked and hopped back, then yelped with pain as hot tea leapt from her jolted cup and splashed over the slope of one breast, down her bare tummy and onto a thigh. She felt unsteady on the gravel and leaned back on the table to catch herself, unfortunately causing the serving board to slide and flipping the tins, the lids of the tins flying off. She fell backward and sauerkraut flew onto her face. Before her bare buns hit the gravel, relish had sprayed over her tummy. As her feet went up, one flip-flop flying off, the mustard tin overturned onto her supine body, coating her left circlet.