©2025 SammyC

“I don’t want to be interviewed!” I shouted into the phone at this strange caller named Grant Moorefield, who claimed to know my Uncle Richie.

Mom looked up in alarm from loading dishes in the dishwasher. I lowered my voice.

“I don’t want to be interviewed. I just want to be left alone.”

“Okay. I hear you. I guess if I were in your position, I wouldn’t want everyone to know my true situation either. And, rest assured, I’m not thinking of putting you on my podcast. But I’m pretty sure I can be of great help to you, given your…your predicament.”

“What do you mean, predicament?”

“I know how you got here, Reggie.”

“My…my uncle doesn’t know you—”

“Not in this universe.”

“You’re scaring me. I’m hanging up.”

“There are some very important things you should know about your situation. We’ll talk. I’m coming to New York later this week to meet with some execs at GlobalNet. They want to turn my podcast into a series! Where and when can we meet?”

“No place and never.” I hung up.

The expectant look in mom’s eyes prompted an explanation.

“Some weird dude who wanted to interview me for some stupid podcast. He tried to claim he knew Uncle Richie. The media are scum. I’ve got homework to finish.” I rushed up the stairs to my bedroom.

Regina was sitting at the small desk in our bedroom, typing away on her notebook, Bluetooth headphones framing her blonde locks, bopping to the barely audible beat of her favorite tunes. I threw myself onto the bed and reached for my own notebook.

“Hey, sis, we need to put another desk in the room.” There was no reply. “I said there should be another desk in the room. I’m not used to doing my homework, lying on my stomach.” Exasperated, I lifted the left speaker away from her ear and repeated myself.

“I heard you, Gigi!” She took her headphones off and looked toward me on the bed, her lips quivering as if hesitating to speak. “I have something to confess, Gigi.”

“Spill.”

“Well, I guess I made a big deal of George taking me to Dairy Queen after practice today—”

“It is a big deal. With that bimbo Winnie out of commission for a few weeks, maybe Georgy Porgy will finally see beyond the tip of his nose. Even a jock like him should have the brains to see who he should be with—”

“That’s the thing. He wanted to speak to me alone to ask me if I could ask you to tutor him in Senior Math.”

“What?”

“He thought he could bribe me with a Chocolate Chip Cookie Blizzard like we were still 12 years old. He didn’t ask me out on a date. I know I made it seem like that—”

“Why me?”

“Duh. You’re Genevieve LeClerc, the genius from Summit High School who’s taking three AP classes this term, including college-level Calculus, remember?”

“Oh, shit. Don’t remind me. I’ll be challenged to get a “Lady’s B” in that. Why did Gigi have to get all the brains?”

“Looks like she got all the looks too.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Regina. We’re twins. We’re both beautiful!”

“Well, you’re a beautiful girl. I’m a strangely feminine looking girl-boy or whatever this in-between state is called.”

I put my arm around her shoulders and looked her straight in the eyes.

“You’re becoming, Regina. People who have eyes in their soul see you as you are…a beautiful girl. Don’t ever think otherwise. Anyway, the truth is you know as much math as I do. You’d do as good a job tutoring George as me. I’ll talk to him. Would you mind tutoring him?”

“Of course not. Do you think he’d be agreeable?”

“Leave it to me.” I opened my French textbook and tried to concentrate as the thought of being ambushed by Grant Moorefield worried the back of my mind.

I ran into Tom Verlaine after second period and told him that I wasn’t the least athletic (although Regina apparently had enough strength and flexibility to pass a cheerleading audition). He smiled and said, “Just look beautiful in your majorette outfit.”

So, on Tuesday, after picking up Artie from primary school, I took him along with me to meet up with Tom and the other five members of his ragtag marching band in the girls’ end of the gym. They were already warming up on their instruments. Tom tossed a baton to me as I approached. Deftly, I caught it with my free hand as my other was holding onto Artie. Then, less gracefully, it plopped out of my hand and bounced once on the floor.

“Hi, everyone!” I smiled and waved as Artie let go of my hand to retrieve the baton. “Don’t play with that, Artie. You’ll poke somebody’s eye out with that.”

“Gather round, people. Let me introduce Gigi. She’s agreed to be our one and only majorette—”

Everyone waved or said something like “Hi” and “Welcome aboard.” It was Greg, his head almost eclipsed by the mellophone he was holding, who exclaimed, in obvious confusion, “I thought you changed your name to Regina, not Gigi.”

Cynthia slammed a drumstick on her snare and remonstrated Greg. “That’s her twin sister. Where have you been? It’s the talk of the hallways. Nice to meet you, Gigi. Were you a majorette back at Summit?”

“I…I don’t think so. My memory’s kind of hazy. But I’ll give it try.” I took the baton from Artie. “I’m a bit of a klutz, I’ll warn you.”

“We can see that,” Greg sourly noted.

While the rest of the band continued to warm up, Tom put me through the paces. Since the first appearance of the band was that Saturday afternoon, he wanted me to concentrate on one simple thing: swinging a baton to the beat while high stepping in front of the band.

“We can graduate to twirling if you can handle it. It’s not mandatory but the spectators like a little showmanship from their majorettes. After Saturday’s game, you’ll have two weeks to work on it before our next home game.”

“Don’t we go to away games?”

“You’re kidding. We have barely enough budget for cleaning our uniforms. Oh, that reminds me. Your majorette outfit is going to need some alterations.”

“I have an outfit?”

“We…” He gestured toward the band. “…bought our own uniforms from the place in Belleville that supplies pretty much all of North Jersey, but a couple of last year’s majorettes graduated and donated their outfits to the school.”

“That’s nice and thoughtful of them.”

“Well, I guess they weren’t going to get much further use from them. The white and gold colors are specific to Rossington High.”

“No sentimental attachment, eh?”

“Maybe you can hand it down to your daughter when she gets to high school.”

“Or my son.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing. Just a private joke.”

The thing about a marching band is that you have to play…while marching. For an hour and a half, we circled our little area of the gym, playing the two numbers Tom had scored for the band: “Seven Nation Army” by The White Stripes and Frank Zappa’s “Peaches En Regalia.” Two songs are all you can squeeze into the twenty-minute halftime break. I kept time pretty well, considering it was my maiden voyage. Swinging a baton to a 4/4 beat isn’t that hard, although there were three times I swung the baton so hard it flew out of my hand and once or twice I high stepped my knee into the bottom knob of the baton, sending needle pricks of pain up and down my arm.

Greg ended practice when he raised his hand after the final fanfare of “Peaches En Regalia.”

“Hey, it’s almost 5. I told my mom to pick me up at a quarter to 5. She’s probably idling the car on the curb outside right now. If the engine overheats, dad’ll kill me. And then mom‘ll kill me again after he does.”

“Alright, people. Tomorrow, same place, same time. Have a good one.” Everyone went to store their instruments back in their lockers. Artie handed the baton back to Tom. Before he turned to join the others at their lockers, Tom said, “Wait for me. I’ll walk out with you. I think I live a few blocks away from your house.”

Artie and I stood by the exit doors as each member of the band walked past. Artie saluted each of them in turn.

“Artie, they’re not soldiers. They’re wearing marching band outfits. You don’t have to salute them.” I laughed as I took his backpack from him and slung it over my shoulder. A minute later, Tom came trotting out. He was carrying his trumpet in its case.

“About your majorette outfit, I spoke to Mrs. Wakamatsu. She teaches Family and Consumer Sciences—”

“Yeah, I know.”

“You do? How?”

“Oh…I’ve heard Regina speak about her.”

“Sure. Reggie took her class last year. He was one of two boys in the class. Of course, now she’s a girl. Anway, Mrs. Wakamatsu does a lot of the alterations for the band’s outfits and the costumes for our school plays. If you can take a few minutes from your lunch period tomorrow, we can have her take your measurements and alter your outfit overnight.”

“I don’t want to impose—”

“She loves doing stuff like this.” Tom walked us out onto the sidewalk outside the school. As we walked past the football field, I spotted Regina and the cheer squad still going through their routines as the football team were running sprints at the end of practice. I waved to Regina. She waved back and shouted out my name. That drew the attention of George, who immediately ran toward the fence behind which we were walking.

“Gigi! Hey, Gigi! Hold up!”

“George! I’ve been meaning to speak to you.”

“Look, I’m not mad anymore about the dirty trick you pulled on me Saturday. Did Regina ask you about…” He looked at Tom and lowered his voice. “…tutoring me in math?”

“Hey, I’ll see you tomorrow, Gigi. Remember. Lunch.” He saluted Artie as he turned to walk away.

“What’s with you and Tom?”

“I’m going to be the majorette for the marching band—”

“That’s…like…unexpected. Did you do that at Summit?”

“No, I don’t remember if I did. But Tom’s a very persuasive guy.”

“Don’t waste your time with him, Gigi. He’s a loser. I hear he’s not going to college. Not even JC.”

“That’s his choice. He might go back and get his degree after experiencing the real world for a while. Maybe more kids should do that.”

“Whatever. So, will you tutor me?”

“I can’t. With my workload. I’m taking three AP classes! And now I’ll be majoretting for the marching band…”

“Oh, man, I’m dying with Senior Math. If I fail it, I might not pass the GPA requirements for a Division I school like Rutgers or Syracuse, not to mention UConn. I don’t want to play varsity for James Madison or Mahwah. I’ll never get drafted from there.”

“Regina’s good in math and she’s taking the same course you’re taking, just different classes. And she’s more patient with slow learners…like you. I don’t think I could do it.”

“You mean you find me boring?”

“I’m sure you’re the life of the party but…” I leaned into the fence, my lips inches from his ear. “…my mind tends to work at a faster refresh rate than…”

“Someone like me? Yeah, I’m no Einstein, that’s for sure. I guess getting tutored by Regina wouldn’t be too bad. I like her dad. And her mom bakes great pies.”

“Go ask her. I’m sure she can arrange a schedule that’ll work for both of you.”

“Thanks, Gigi. Say, if you’re not doing anything with Tom on Sunday, maybe we can go hiking in Parsons State Park, by the lake—”

“Uh…no…I’m planning something with Tom.”

“What?”

“Well, I still haven’t seen Magnus, Robot Fighter. Tom hasn’t seen it either so we’re gonna go see it in…uh…Belleville. The multiplex there.”

“You could have seen it Saturday night if you and Regina hadn’t pulled that prank on me.”

“Hey, gotta go. Artie’s got some stuff he’s got to do at home. Right, sport?” Artie surprised me by nodding his head. “Remember to ask Regina! Bye.”

“You look so much like Reggie…I mean Regina,” Mrs. Wakamatsu marveled, as she used a wedge of chalk to outline the alterations needed to my majorette uniform. “Hold still, Gigi.”

“My stomach’s rumbling, Mrs. Wakamatsu. I didn’t have breakfast this morning because I overslept, and my sister didn’t bother to wake me. Rat!”

“I still can’t come to grips with Regina becoming a girl. Although, I must say, he was the best male student I’ve ever had in my Family and Consumer Sciences class. The other boys just wanted to avoid PE class because they kept getting harassed for being too effeminate. I guess Regina was always meant to be a girl. If she ends up looking like you, she’ll have to beat the boys off with a stick.”

“I’ve always wondered, Mrs. Wakamatsu, what kind of stick do girls use to beat boys off with? Just a regular broomstick or something with spikes like a club?”

“Gigi, you’re a riot. I think Tom really likes you. You’re not thinking of using a stick on the poor boy, are you?”

“If he behaves properly, no. But, seriously, I’m not interested in boys…right now.”

“I understand. Principal Stover was telling us about your astronomical GPA from Summit High School. You might be the smartest student we’ve ever had at Rossington. At least since I’ve been teaching here. And that goes back almost twenty years. Studies now, boys later. Plus, you’ll meet a much smarter brand of young men in Harvard or Yale or wherever you choose to go.”

She placed the majorette hat on my head and turned me to face the full-length mirror in her classroom. She had pinned the white and gold outfit to perfectly trace my contours and the image that stared back at me stunned me. I was the very model of a modern majorette. I turned so that I looked over my shoulder, my right hand holding the brim of my majorette hat, a sweet, sly smile creasing my lips.

“Beautiful. Just beautiful. You look like a Miss Universe contestant.”

“The question is: which universe?”

The rain that swept through Northern New Jersey on Saturday morning was a biblical downpour. Even an hour before kickoff was scheduled at Noon, there was the probability that the game would be cancelled. But, just minutes before the cheer squad and the marching band set foot on the field, the rain stopped. The field itself was muddy but, thanks to the foresight of the school’s builders, drained quickly so that no puddles the size of ponds remained.

The benches were filled with the usual friends, family, and townspeople. Perhaps a smaller crowd given the inclement weather. But, there was plenty of loud enthusiasm for the home team as our cheerleaders, including Regina, goose pimples on her bare legs in the cool, damp air, went through their practiced routines (minus the notorious pyramid which had put Winnie and Dolores out of commission).

As for myself, I proudly made my debut as our marching band’s majorette, swinging my baton 4 pumps to the bar, stepping lively, and leading my quintet of white and gold garbed music makers onto the 50-yard line. My wide smile was mirrored in the stands by my family: Nick, mom, Artie, and Uncle Richie. They swiveled their heads from side to side, watching Regina doing her splits and me trying to keep my majorette hat from falling off my head. Only a few unfamiliar faces dotted the benches, mostly from the opposing school’s town, Ridgewood.

I noticed one man sitting far up in the last row of benches, wearing an oddly incongruous felt fedora, the kind of hat Harrison Ford’s Indiana Jones made famous. He kept the brim low, placing most of his face in shadow. He was speaking to someone sitting next to him and pointing at something or someone down on the field. For a moment, it seemed to be me he was pointing at. But it could conceivably be any member of the band.

As the final notes of “Seven Nation Army” redounded in the playing field, I turned my head to face my family in the stands and basked in their love and pride.

Hoping the skies would remain clear while we completed the game, the band stationed ourselves behind the north end zone. We were champing at the bit to play our two songs during halftime. There was nary a thought amongst us that a 6-person marching band was a laugh-inducing sight.

Tom told me that Ridgewood High had close to 30 members in its marching band, including 5 majorettes. Budget cuts across school districts all over the state had pretty much abolished marching bands traveling with teams to away games.

Still, we got a warm ovation from the crowd of 400 or so spectators after kicking ass on “Peaches En Regalia.” We ran off the field just as the two teams came roaring on to start the second half.

I leaped to avoid a sizeable puddle just beyond the end zone and my left boot skidded on the muddy grass. Just before I was about to face-plant myself, Tom caught me with his free hand, his trumpet in the other. When he lifted me up to my feet, our noses mushed together. Greg later said we looked like two Innuits in an Arctic rom-com. Embarrassed; we sat a little further apart from each other for the rest of the game but kept stealing glances and smirking.

We beat Ridgewood High by a score of 42 to 10, still undefeated through the first 5 games of the season. If we could keep our winning streak going through the month, we’d be a cinch to make the State playoffs at the end of November.

The happy winners, including the team, our coaches, the cheerleaders, and the marching band, were going to celebrate at IHOP in Fair Lawn, our usual post-game destination. Family and friends were invited to come along but Nick and Mom had to take Artie to his afternoon roller hockey game and Uncle Richie had a date to get ready for. We embraced tearfully and Artie high-fived me, saying he wished I could come to roller hockey to cheer him on. “Next week, squirt,” I told him.

Regina and I skipped to the parking lot. George and Tom fought over who drove who to IHOP. As we stood by, both agreeing that boys are just crazy stupid, the dark man in the felt fedora seemed to linger by his car door, watching us. Several cars passed between us and when the lane cleared, neither the man nor his car was there.

“Get in, Gigi. Tom won the coin toss.”