Jimmy Brand and Mason and Frank had all the instruments set and watched the wild parade from the band’s little platform. “The heroes have arrived,” Frank said.
“You ever want to play football, Mason?” Jimmy asked him.
“I played last year, remember? But not really,” Mason said. “I had other plans for my youth. Did you want to?”
Jimmy watched the antic parade. “It would have been fun. We were in high school—it’s part of it.”
“Right. This is high school, boys. Wake up.” Frank said. “And what were your plans for your youth, Mason?”
“Play guitar in the mountains a couple times. Not break my leg. Get out of Oakpine in one piece.”
“Lose your virginity to one of our fine groupies?”
“Any girl who loves music is a friend of mine.”
“Any girl who loves our music is disturbed,” Frank said.
“Better,” Mason said. “She’d go for me just fine.”
“Next year,” Frank said, “you going to Wyoming?”
“I’m going where I get in,” Mason said. “I wouldn’t mind Laramie.” Mason Kirby took in the dark meadow, expectancy rife in the place. He took Jimmy Brand’s arm; it was his habit to take Jimmy’s arm. “Are these our people, Jimmy?” It was the way they talked.
“They are, Mason.” He looked at his friend in this deepening year. “Whether they like it or not.” He pointed at his brother. Across the open space they could see Craig Ralston and Matt Brand wrestling with one of the kegs on the tailgate of Craig’s truck. A crowd was gathered around them, and suddenly a cheer went up, and Matt stood up and raised a glass of beer.
“They got her tapped,” Frank said.
Craig came through the crowd in his Oakpine sweatshirt. His hair had dried in a wild nest. “Gentlemen,” Craig said. He stopped and drank off his cup of beer and threw it into the air. He stepped up and rattled his drum kit, checking left to right each wing nut.
“For you,” Frank said, producing two sets of drumsticks from behind his back.
“Always a pleasure,” Craig said, taking them. He was consumed with happiness, the open air, the night to come.
“Mr. Ralston,” Mason said, “I hear we kicked their asses.”
Craig shook the snare assembly one last time and, finding it sound, stood and looked at the other three. “We won the game,” he said. “But everybody, including your drummer, got his ass kicked. I don’t want to play that game over even in my mind.” He climbed in, sat down, and played a riff on each of the drums. He smiled at them. “This is more like it. Music. Let’s play some soothing music.”
A group of football players grabbed Matt Brand from his perch on the truck and carried him around the space on their shoulders. He’d been on other boys’ shoulders a dozen times in the past two years. He held his beer cup aloft, slopping some over the sides as the gang lurched toward the precise and twisted obelisk of lumber. Jimmy could see Kathleen leaning against the back of one of the cars, arms folded in the dark. They were referred to as Matt-and-Kathleen, a compound noun now, coupled and permanent in that high school way.
Ross Hubbard came running and jumped onto the low band platform. “As fire marshal—”
“I thought you were Fire Wizard,” Frank said.
“Thank you, Frank Gunderson. I am, but I didn’t want to intimidate you. But as fire wizard, I must advise you that you are in what we in the profession call the circle of big fire. That is, you guys are going to get a little toasted here, do you think?” he said, measuring the distance to the pyramid of wood.