The Sousaphone
by Raine Monday

Brandon Talbot stared at the cheerleaders down on the football field. They laughed and cavorted, their long blonde curls dancing around their shoulders gracefully.

He put a hand up to his dishwater brown hair, tugging it miserably. The enormous gold shining instrument sat in front of him, Kingston High School Kings printed on a net stretched over the bell. It was almost time to head down for halftime. The Kingston High Marching Band was performing music from Phantom of the Opera. Again.

And again, and again, and again, and again.

His band director on the field: "I loved that so much, let's do it again!"

The section leaders, after playing one of the sections from the music. "That was great. Let's do it again!"

The drum majors, with white-gloved hands, directed the music before the game. "Sounded so good. Let's do it again!"

And again, and again, and again.

If Brandon never heard ANY of the music from Phantom again, it would be far too soon.

Life was an endless series of events to endure.

He sighed as the rest of the section lifted their horns and settled them on shoulders. He hefted his also. The sousaphone seemed to gain weight every hour he spent in this damned stadium, on this damned seat. He placed his beret on his head, squeezing it tight so it wouldn't fall off when he did the spin turn in the finale. Again.

He glanced down at the cheerleaders. They all had canvas stools with their names emblazoned on the back. 'Misty!' 'Brittany!' 'Beverly!' 'Harmony!' and 'Trish!'

He wondered if Trish felt cheated because she didn't have a name that ended in 'y.' He looked at the girl who sat in that chair. She didn't seem as shiny and polished as the rest of their ilk. She had chin-length brown hair, dark eyes, and a smile that didn't look like it came from a dentist's chair. Trish wasn't quite as buxom, quite as bouncy, quite as vapid, as she looked up into the stands as they shouted vapid cheers to vapid people. She still laughed and seemed to be having a good time, but he caught her more than once watching the kicker on the football team intently, cheering for him specifically when he went out to kick the football.

Everyone knew that Trish and Kenneth, the goal kicker were an 'item.'

Brandon sighed and stumbled on the stairs, clanking into the sousaphone in front of him.

"Watch it, Talbot!" Jim Sheridon said.

"Sorry, man," Jeremy said.

"Fucking knock me off this stair, I'll knock your head off!"

"Again, sorry."

"What the fuck you looking at anyway. You ain't getting any cheerleader pussy!"

They made their way down, and Jim fell in beside Brandon. They had been best friends since third grade. Jim was the type of guy who'd punch you in the face for doing something stupid, then spend three hours helping you learn how to do it right. He was fiercely intelligent but an asshole to just about anyone around...except Brandon.

"Fucking cheerleaders can go to fucking hell," Jim said.

Loudly Jim yelled at the cheerleaders as they passed by: "Two-bits, Four-bits, Six-bits a buck!" He paused, making sure all the cheerleaders were listening.

They were, including Trish. "Come on, Cheerleaders, give us a Fu....Cheer!"

Mr. Madison, the band director, glared at Jim. He also couldn't help himself but give a quiet chortle.

The cheerleaders all rolled their eyes, then turned around to sit on their canvas stools. All except Trish who blinked at Brandon, like she just realized something, frowning a little.

Brandon couldn't help but chuckle at his friend and the cheerleaders' reaction.

They lined up at the end-zone, just in time for the Kingston High football team to make a last-minute drive to the end-zone. One of the receivers ran wide, chased by a defensive back, and caught the ball in the corner of the end-zone.

Brandon watched in horror as the defensive back and receiver ran straight for him and Jim. Paralyzed, things suddenly swam in slow motion. He could hear the yell of the crowd and see the receiver catching the ball. He realized there was no way he was getting out of the way in time.

To his credit, Jim Sheridan saw what was happening too and grabbed Brandon's shoulder hard, heaving him away from the receiver and the defensive back shoving him away.

Brandon fell, trying to turn, but the heavy sousaphone was hard to balance in the best of times. He tripped over his own legs, pitching bell first to the sidelines...

And into Patricia Cummings, the cheerleader on the end of the squad who was sitting on her canvas stool, horrified by the entire event.

The edge of the sousaphone bell hit her squarely in the face as Brandon's head slammed into the bell's curve. The receiver hammered into the back of Brandon, and the defensive back piled into the back of the receiver.

They tumbled in a mad tumult of cheerleader, sousaphone player, sousaphone, receiver, and defensive back to the accompaniment of gasps from the crowd.

Brandon tried to shout, yell, scream, anything, but his mouth was full of cotton, and the stadium's lights evaporated into millions of tiny light-motes dancing away to Patricia's screams.

Brandon awoke in agony. He tried to open his eyes, but something interfered. His jaw hurt, and when he tried to raise his arm to touch it, he couldn't.

"Ah, you're awake," came a voice beside him. "Don't try to move, honey. We'll be done soon. I need you to count back from one-hundred if you can."

Brandon could hear a female voice moaning from somewhere and wondered if the girl was okay.

"Count, honey. one-hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight, ninety-seven..."

Brandon tried to count, but his jaw wouldn't move, but he listened to the voice, and oblivion intruded.

Sometime later, he awoke again. This time nothing hurt. He was swathed in bandages. He tried to sit up and open his eyes; anything but whatever communications from his brain to his limbs and eyelids refused to work. Again, he could hear a girl's moans, and he hoped she was okay.

The next period of time was cloudy. He remembered waking, people, shadows in the room, some speaking intently, some speaking kindly. A female voice, male voices, but none registered, and Brandon could not respond.

Finally, an unknowable amount of time later, he awoke.

Two nurses rolled him to his side, pulling out a sheet, then replacing it and rolling him to his other side to repeat the process. He tried to say something to them, but he could only moan.

"Ahh, you're awake! Welcome back!" one of the nurses said as she fluffed his pillows. "Sorry, we needed to change your sheets because they were filthy."

He tried to say: "Where am I," but nothing came out but a strangely high-pitched moan.

"Don't try to speak, honey. Your jaw is wired shut. You had quite the accident!" She opened the curtains to let daylight stream into the room. Brandon tried to shield his eyes, but his right arm wouldn't move.

"Ahh, don't try to move that either. Your arm is in a cast, honey, as is the lower half of your body. I'll get the doctor to come talk to you, okay?"

Brandon tried to nod, but only the barest of motions came from his head.

"How's your pain?"

Brandon moaned a little, and the nurse chuckled.

"I'm going to say some numbers, and I want you to blink twice when I say the number that indicates your pain level from one, meaning no pain at all, to ten, meaning the worst pain you've ever felt in your life, okay?"

Brandon thought about it and decided he was at least a nine. His jaw hurt terribly, and he could feel a deep ache in his arm and down below. His hip?

"One, two, three..." the nurse counted, staring into his eyes. "Four, five, six..." she continued to stare, and she nodded. "Seven, eight, nine..."

Brandon blinked twice.

"Nine?" she wrote it down on her clipboard. "Okay, nine. That's not good."

She did something to his IV, and he felt warmth slide up his arm, numbing warmth that felt delightful.

"Ahh, that took the edge off it, didn't it? Okay. I'll be right back with the doctor, sweety."

Brandon tried to nod again, but his eyes slid shut instead. He tried to stay awake for the doctor, but a long time passed, and soon he was out again.

To be awoken again by someone shining a light into his eyes. "Ahh, there you are, Patricia. How are you feeling? I'm Dr. Basking."

Patricia? Why would he call him Patricia? Brandon tried to say something, then squirmed.

"Sorry, Patricia, but you won't be able to do much moving. Can you hear me?"

Brandon nodded.

"Okay, good." The doctor patted his arm. "You've been in an accident. The instrument bell smashed into your mouth and shattered most of your teeth, breaking your jaw in the process."

Brandon gasped at that and felt tears flooding his eyes in fear.

"No, none of that." The doctor smiled. "Due to the severity of the injury, we were forced to remove most of your teeth. You have a few molars on the bottom, but sadly your entire upper plate needed to be extracted. We've also wired your jaw shut for the healing of the bones. It was fractured in multiple places, so the damage was extensive. Luckily, we have one of the best cosmetic surgeons in the country on staff here, and he was able to wire things together with a minimum amount of actual incisions. You will have minimal scarring, and after you've healed, you'll be able to get a full set of implants so there will be minimal impact to your appearance."

Brandon nodded.

"You also incurred a compound fracture of your left ulna and radius bones. We inserted a plate into your arm and placed screws through your bones and into the plate."

Again, Brandon nodded.

"You've also had fractures in your pelvic cradle. We've wired those together also, but you will have to be in a cast around your lower extremities. I can happily say that your legs and left arm were unharmed in the accident."

Brandon nodded again.

"Due to the cast, we've inserted a catheter into your urethra. Don't worry, all your reproductive and bladder functions appear intact; your ovaries, fallopian tubes, and uterus are all intact, so you shouldn't have any reproductive issues later in life."

Brandon frowned. Could they have mixed them up somehow? Maybe in the fall? That couldn't be right, could it? He tried to shake his head and say something but moans were the only sounds that came out.

"I know what your asking," the doctor said, standing up and placing a hand on his shoulder. "Unfortunately, the young man who caused your accident is no longer with us. He sustained a neck fracture during the event that resulted in death. The two football players were unharmed during the cacophony."

Wait. That couldn't be right. He was the young man involved!

Brandon tried to say something, but all that came out was high-pitched moaning.

"I know, it's been a sad few days for everyone at Kingston High. But I know a few people who are excited to see you. I'll let them come in for a few minutes."

Brandon tried to interrupt the doctor, tell him there's been some terrible mistake. He found he could move his left arm, grabbed the doctor's hand, and finally glanced down at it.

It wasn't his hand.

Chipped but long painted nails adorned the tips of his fingers. He held out his left hand, staring at it. It was slim, feminine, with a thin wrist and hairless arms. He put the hand onto his chest and felt his breasts, sensitive nipples underneath the cotton Johnnie for the first time. He ran his hand down over them to the mass of bandages and stiff plaster cast around his pelvis.

"Let's get you propped a bit upright more..." the doctor pressed the button to let the head of the bed slide upward with the hum of gears.

Brandon looked down at his covered body, pulling the sheet from his breasts.

He was in the body of Patricia Cummings.

Panicking, Brandon started to hyperventilate. Thinking it was due to his injuries, the doctor quickly reversed the bed, and Brandon's head started back down.

Frowning, Dr. Basking adjusted Brandon's IV, and again oblivion intruded.

One Year Later

Brandon stood out on the football field, crutches under her armpits as she waved at the crowd.

"And today we honor Patricia Cummings, who one year ago today was involved in a horrific accident that claimed the life of Brandon Talbot, Tuba Player in the Kingston High School Kings Marching Band."

"Patricia suffered multiple injuries, including a shattered jaw, broken arm, and broken pelvis. But in true Kingston spirit, she fought back and is with us today for the first time, cheering with her squad."

Brandon smiled and waved Trish's arms at the crowd. She had new dental implants that looked better than her original teeth. She'd been in physical therapy for the last few months and could walk on her own without the crutches, but since the game would last a couple of hours, she decided to use the crutches tonight.

The MJROTC honor guard saluted her and handed a folded flag to Brandon's mother, who also stood with Brandon. Brandon glanced at his mom, and she winked.

"So, in the spirit of tonight's honorees, the Kingston High School Marching band and Kingston High School Choir will now perform: "You are the Wind Beneath my Wings."

Brandon tried not to roll her eyes at the music. She was cold, wearing the skimpy cheerleader uniform in the middle of the field. She felt ridiculous, like someone was going to point a finger at her and say: "You're not Patricia! You're Brandon!"

The doctors called in an accident-induced hysteria. Patricia only thought she was Brandon. A body swap like this was physically impossible and had prescribed counseling and anti-psychotic pills for Patricia. It even worked for a time. Brandon played the part of the wounded girl, confused and upset by the horrific event and injuries.

She later went to Brandon's mom and confessed. She remembered events and occasions that only Brandon could remember, like the fact that Brandon once fell off his tricycle onto an ant that bit his palm. His mother completely believed her after that.

Strangely, Jim Sheridon also believed Brandon when she told him. They decided to keep it a secret from everyone else; to the rest of the school and world in general, Brandon was Patricia Cummings.

The music finally ended. Brandon found Jim Sheridon in the Tuba line and smiled at him.

He flipped her off in return, causing Brandon to giggle.

Kenneth Greer, Patricia's ex-boyfriend, glared at Brandon from the sidelines. Shortly after leaving the hospital, she'd 'broken up' with him, and he hadn't taken it well. Now, Patricia and Jim were supposedly an 'item,' although they did little except watch old horror movies, play video games, and eat pizza whenever Jim spent time with her. Just like old times.

The music ended, and Brandon crutched her way over to her canvas stool, 'Trish!' displayed on the back. The audience applauded, and the players took their positions. Brittany Hargrove had helped Trish with her hair, which had grown long in the year since the accident. It curled nicely along her shoulders, dancing as Brandon yelled out the cheers from her seat.

Maybe life wouldn't be so terrible after all.

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