Major Crush by Jennifer Echols Page B

table.
    His jaw was set. “I said back off.” Luther sat up straight and clapped his hands. “Drew says back off. I trust him to investigate and to do the right thing.”
    “You didn’t trust him a few minutes ago when you had Barry charting the twins’ wardrobes,” I said. “You’re going to let Drew get away with this just because you’re afraid he’s going to blow?”
    “Back. Off,” Drew told me.

    “Me! Why don’t you tell the twin to back off A llison? What do you see in that racist, anyway? Why don’t you break up with her?”
    “Virginia,” A llison said in warning.
    Drew shouted at me, “Don’t tell me what to do!”
    “Drew,” said Luther, looking over our shoulders.
    It occurred to me that Luther and A llison might see a twin behind us. But I didn’t care anymore. I screamed at Drew, “You’re not supposed to yell at girls!”
    I felt someone close at my shoulder. I whirled around to tell Tracey/Cacey exactly what I thought of her/them.
    It was Mr. Rush.
    I braced for him to let us have it. But he glanced over to Ms. Martineaux at the teacher table. Then he said quietly, “I thought we agreed you kids would play nice.”
    Drew shouted at Mr. Rush, “Take a number!”
    I slapped my hand over Drew’s mouth.
    The lunchroom had fallen so silent that I could hear air hissing in the ceiling ductwork and pots clanking way back in the kitchen. Drew’s chest rose and fell quickly under my arm, and I could feel his heart thumping.
    Mr. Rush spoke slowly through his teeth. “I am busy with my colleagues. Go wait for me outside my office. I’ll be down there when I wrap this up. A nd while you’re walking, enjoy your last five minutes as drum majors.”

    Drew and I tried to escape the hushed lunchroom as quickly as possible. But of course the lunchroom lady stood guard at the door. We had to go all the way back to our table, take our trays all the way to the dishwasher, and walk all the way back through the lunchroom with the entire band and a hundred other people watching our every move. Clayton Porridge seemed especially interested.
    We walked down to the band room without talking. Drew naturally walked faster than me, and I let him get ahead.
    When I pushed open the heavy door to the band room, Drew was pacing. I put my back against Mr. Rush’s office door, slid to the floor, kicked off my flip-flops, and took my drumsticks out of my backpack.
    Drew paced from the instrument storage room to Mr. Rush’s office and back. It was annoying, but I was sure I could be more annoying if I tried. The more he paced, the louder I tapped with my drumsticks on the floor.
    Finally he paused in front of me. “Can you stop that?”
    “Don’t tell me what to do,” I mimicked him over the tapping. “I’m hungry. A ren’t you? We should never argue at lunch.”
    He bent down toward me with his hand extended. “May I borrow those?”
    I handed over the drumsticks in surprise. If I’d had time to think about it, I wouldn’t have given them to him, because I could have predicted what he’d do.
    Sure enough, he reared back with his arm and threw the drumsticks hard. They sailed across the band room, clattered against the far wall, and rang some cymbals on their way down to the carpet.
    When Drew wheeled back around, Mr. Rush stood in the band room doorway with his arms folded.
    “Fire me, then!” Drew shouted at Mr. Rush. “Just go ahead and fire me!”
    “I don’t want to fire you, Morrow,” Mr. Rush said. “Or Sauter, either. Have you seen Clayton Porridge?” He unlocked the doorknob over my head.
    He sat down at his desk, and I sat down in a chair. He told Drew, “Better close the door, despite the repercussions.” Drew pulled the door closed, then stood behind the empty chair.
    “Please have a seat,” Mr. Rush said.
    “No thanks,” Drew said.
    “Sit!”
    Drew sat down.
    “Now then,” Mr. Rush began pleasantly—so pleasantly that I knew he was faking. “Why don’t you tell me what