As the first sounds of synchronized snare drums tap-tap-tap from the earphones, you begin to smile in recognition. It’s been such a long time. Then, the blare of booming brass hits your eardrums, and the nostalgia parade is well under way. Having played this song many times in your own high-school’s marching band, you can almost feel the familiar weight of your bass drum resting against your chest.
Just when your cue comes up, you raise your hand high, brandishing your imaginary drumstick. A second later, you swing it down, following up with your other hand. BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
The trombones and tubas follow up with their own fanfare. Flutes chirp away, adding their lilting energy to the charge. Underneath it all, the percussion keeps up its rhythm, unifying the effect while making sure the others keep in time. Sousa would be proud.
No longer caring whether you make a scene or not, you march in place, chest out and head high. Again, you raise a hand. By now, the memories carry you with such clarity that you can actually sense the drumstick in your hand. Wait, not a drumstick but something slightly heavier. A baton? Shrugging off the discrepancy, you spin the stick in your fingers to entertain your invisible audience while you wait for your next cue.
Without thinking, you place your other hand on your hip, swinging your shoulders with every high step. For some reason, your legs feel an unexpected draft. Weren’t you wearing long pants a minute ago? Now, it seems like only a short pleated miniskirt covers your modesty. Momentarily, you blush at the thought of your junk hanging out of such a sparse garment. A quick check reveals to your relief that nothing is showing, not even a bulge. In fact, your crotch feels awfully free of any obstruction as your smooth legs bounce with the music.
For that matter, the ghost sensation of your drum no longer rests against your body like you recall. It’s lighter, and it hangs differently, soft, warm, and unexpectedly, in two parts. When you bring each foot down, it sets off an odd but pleasant jiggling. Briefly, your eyes move to your chest only to stare into some rather impressive cleavage peeking out from your stylized tank top color-blocked to resemble a fancy uniform.
Hold on. Breasts? Since when do you have br-
A crash of cymbals distracts you by reminding you of your part. Dutifully, you spin your baton with greater speed and bring it down. However, instead of striking an absent drum, you kick your leg up high above your head and pass the spinning stick beneath your thigh to the other hand. Around behind your back the it goes, returning to the first hand before being thrown up in the air. Concentrating on the maneuver, you miss the fact that your baton fails to strike any ceiling as you are suddenly outdoors.
Rapidly, you spin in place, the whip of your dark red ponytail striking your bare shoulder. Finishing two revolutions, you stop just in time to catch the stick on its way down, automatically holding it against your slender forearm like an extension of your hand. Planting your heeled boots, you strike a pose and smile.
The music stops. You blink and come out of your reverie. An odd sight makes you frown in confusion. Who is this lovely girl standing in front of you? Her green eyes inspect you carefully as you return the favor. Hourglass figure, great legs, neat uniform, all the details flash before you . Then, the girl’s pouty red lips turn up in a bright smile. How silly! She’s you, high-school beauty and the perkiest majorette in town! You had been gawking at your reflection in the store-front window. Come to think of it, how did you get out here? Weren’t you listening to music just now?
Beep-beep-beep! Your cell phone chimes in your purse sitting on the sidewalk beside you. Taking it out, you note the time and gasp. Your date! No longer concerned with your inner questions, you take off down the street towards the local high-school. Hopefully, your date won’t mind that you’re still in uniform.