As You Were

By Tasha Christensen

Seventeen-year-old Hannah is head drum major in her school's marching band, and she treats that role with the gravity it deserves. A task that's often difficult, seeing as the group is underfunded, the principal has it out for them, and the freshmen keep pour

• Language: English
• Publisher: Monson Press
• Release date: Aug 3, 2021
• ISBN: 9781736269213

Tasha Christensen

Tasha Christensen believes the best love stories are found in the geekiest places. When not composing tuba closet make-out scenes, she enjoys playing volleyball, getting way too competitive about board games, and exploring the gorgeous Rocky Mountains. Tasha lives with her husband, daughters, and an overly affectionate dog named after her favorite Stranger Things character.

Book preview

Chapter One

I’ve had a lot of bad ideas, but breaking up mid-makeout might be my worst.

Eli and I are in the sound booth at the back of the school auditorium. It’s one of the best spots for kissing because other than Eli, only two other people have the keys: Mr. Planter, who’s teaching Shakespeare right now, and Sadie Grantham, who only comes in for rehearsals after school.

We’re on a built-in bench in the back corner, Eli sitting up, me perpendicular with my legs over his lap. It’s a weird way to sit, but we fit perfectly that way. It’s kind of our thing. At least, it was. If I can stop kissing Eli for a second, maybe I’ll be able to focus enough to break up with him.

Finally, he pulls away for a breather. I pounce on the opportunity.

Eli, I think—

He leans forward and kisses my jawline. He knows I can’t resist a good jawline kiss. I try to remember why I want him to stop. Oh, right.

Ithinkweshouldbreakup, I blurt.

Eli freezes, lips still on my skin. Mwhat?

I scooch away, hugging my legs to my chest. I . . . think we should . . . break up?

Eli stares at me, looking cute in a T-shirt with the name of some bluegrass band fading into the black fabric. He’s not muscular—pretty skinny actually—but he can rock a worn-out tee and fitted jeans. His caramel-colored hair sticks up in two places, and I resist the urge to pat it down.

Why? he asks.

I sigh. This is the hard part. We don’t line up anymore, Eli.

He leans close enough that I can see his freckles. Stupid, distracting freckles. I drag my gaze to the puke-green carpet. Much better.

What does that even m-mean? he asks in a low voice.

I immediately feel guilty. His stutter only comes out when he’s really upset.

"It means that we used to line up, I say. We did the same activities after school, had the same friends. But now that you’ve quit band . . ."

"I told you, I just can’t do marching band at the same time as Bye Bye Birdie. I’ll still do pit orchestra in the winter."

It’s weird not making faces at you during practice. Now I only have Morgan there. I feel alone.

He leans away again. Eli is always leaning. Bye bye, freckles.

"You know why I quit. It’s almost time to apply for schools, and I want to p-prove I’m serious about theater. We’re seniors now. We have t-to think about our futures, and mine isn’t playing vibes in some college jazz band."

Yeah, yeah, I say. "You’re gonna go to Hollywood."

Eli hasn’t told anyone about his crazy, secret dream except me. He knows it probably won’t happen. Eli’s self-aware like that.

His full lips tighten into a thin line. Low blow, Hannah.

What are you gonna do about it, dump me? I mutter, not really intending him to hear.

But I can tell he does by the way his face tightens. He doesn’t respond, and it’s like my words echo in the air around us. My chest suddenly feels tight, but I breathe through it like Mom showed me, and the knot loosens. This is what I wanted. This was the plan.

We’re now sitting against opposite walls of the nook in an epic staredown. Though I’m tiny, I can look intimidating when needed. It’s all that practice trying to earn respect as Itaska High’s new head drum major. I straighten my posture and arch an eyebrow at Eli, who fires back with a rather impressive stink eye.

Dang. Can’t we just go back to kissing?

Listen, I say, softer now. Maybe we can still be—

Eli scoffs. Don’t say we can still be friends, Hannah. Friends don’t blindside each other. Friends don’t give up at the slightest sign of trouble.

Whatever, I say. The words tumble out, and I’m unable to stop them. Not like you’re known for your loyalty. Quitting band, leaving your job, giving up on Juilliard . . .

I know I’ve crossed the line the second he jumps to his feet. My stomach drops as he backs toward the door. Fine. You win, Hannah. Have a nice life.

His hand finds the doorknob. Wait, I want to protest. Let’s fight a little more first. I’m not ready! But he pulls the door open and looks back at me one more time, fire in his eyes. The second before he ducks out of the room, his face falls. He looks more vulnerable than I’ve ever seen him.

Then he’s gone.

The door slams shut. I slump back against the brick and blow out my breath. Mission accomplished.

So why don’t I feel better?

After staying in the sound booth long enough to calm my racing heartbeat, I rendezvous with Morgan in the Cave. It’s technically a room meant to store supplies for the percussionists in band. But the unventilated, windowless spot is perfect for escaping the watchful eyes of teachers and meddling members of the wind section (like me). Luckily, Morgan’s status as first-chair marimba overrides my status as first-rate killjoy, and the percussionists allow me to invade their home from time to time.

Percs are a strange breed. They’re in band, so they’re obviously not at the top of the high school hierarchy—but no one seems to have gotten that memo. A couple of Morgan’s fellow percs line the walls of the Cave, including Jaz, who’s my assistant drum major, a track star, and way cooler than I’ll ever be. Jaz jerks her chin up in greeting, then she goes back to drumming on the carpet, practicing paradiddles or whatever it is percussionists do.

Morgan’s got her sticks out, too, but she’s kind enough to stop whacking the floor when I slouch into the Cave. Though it’s still blazing hot outside, she wears her signature trapper hat—which she named Janet—over her black, chin-length hair.

She peers up from beneath the plaid brim. Took you long enough.

I run my tongue over the inside of my kiss-swollen lips. I, uh, got distracted.

Uh-huh. She pats the spot next to her, and I sit down. Did you even do the deed?

You mean break up? Because ‘do the deed’ has different connotations when I’ve been alone in a sound booth with my boyfriend.

Ex-boyfriend.

Oh. Right. My chin quivers.

Morgan’s eyes widen and she hops to her feet. Hey wait, don’t do that. Let’s eat lunch. That’ll cheer you up.

Lunch would be nice. I sigh as we step over a backpack on our way out of the Cave. I just don’t know if I made the right decision. I know I said Eli was making me lose focus on everything important, but what if I was wrong?

Morgan looks uncomfortable. She’s not big on sentimental heart-to-hearts. You seemed pretty sure about it yesterday.

And I had been. After an evening at Eli’s place watching Netflix, I’d stayed up texting Morgan till one in the morning. My main concern was this: Physically, Eli and I were a great match. I liked kissing him. He liked kissing me. But now that he wasn’t in band, we didn’t have much to talk about. He has sisters; I’m an only child. He’s into folk rock and bluegrass; I prefer pop and classical. He’s laid back; I’m so uptight that one time I managed to give myself a panic attack opening a cereal box. We had a great summer cuddling on his basement couch or going to the lake with his older sister and her friends, but that’s all it was. A nice summer. Now I have to focus on my last year of band, on auditions for summer drum corps, on college applications.

You’re right, I tell Morgan as we move into the band room. I’ve got to brush myself off and . . . and move on. I take a big breath through my nose, hold it for four counts, and let it out in a whoosh. I will not just survive—I will thrive!

Mom would be proud to hear me using one of her favorite meditation mantras. She’s always trying to get me to do that stuff. I’ve got to admit, it kind of helps. My chest still aches when I think about Eli’s expression in the sound booth, but at least I’m able to focus on other things.

Thatta girl. Morgan pats my elbow, then she pulls a lunch box from her backpack against the wall.

A few other kids are eating here, even though technically we’re not supposed to. As long as we avoid the vengeful orchestra teacher, we can always get away with it. The new guy, Zion, sits with some of his fellow trumpets by the piano at the front of the classroom. He catches my eye and smiles, so I wave. Good. I’m glad he’s feeling comfortable. I was nervous there’d be a mutiny after he joined the band and immediately beat everyone for first chair. He was previously on the football team and took private trumpet lessons, so people initially treated him as a bit of an outsider.

I pull a bag of Cheetos from my instrument locker and pop it open, then I join Morgan on the stairs by the exit. There’s a tear in the faded carpet here, one the music department apparently can’t afford to fix, since it’s been here for ages. Morgan’s mom has packed her a bento box for lunch. Everything’s decorated in cute decals, and the ball of rice is shaped like a panda’s face.

That is adorable, I say, mouth full of Cheetos. Your mom is the best.

Are you kidding? I’d take yours any day. That woman gives you space. She sighs wistfully, panda rice in hand. I’d give anything for some space.

On cue, her phone lights up with a text from ~*ugh mom*~. Out of habit I take my phone out too, but then I remember that Mom has a big settlement at work today. She’s a legal assistant at an environmental law firm, and they’re working on a case that would change the face of sustainability for the entire state of Minnesota. It’s pretty amazing work, though it always seems like Mom’s firm is on the side that’s expected to lose. Compared to the huge, expensive legal teams of the corporations they’re fighting against, Mom’s group looks positively miniscule. But it’s important to her, and she puts her entire heart into her work. It’s honestly intimidating being raised by that woman.

I do have an unread text message from Eli, though. The preview says, Hannah, maybe we should talk about . . .

I hurriedly mark the text as read, then go into our text thread and hover my finger over Delete History.

Swallowing over a lump in my throat, I press down.

Morgan’s still texting her mom, oblivious to my distress. I need a distraction.

I walk out to the music lobby, which connects the band, orchestra, and choir rooms. To the left is a windowed office that all the music teachers share. Miss Alvarez is hunched over her computer and kneading her temples when I go in. Her posture would kill my mother. But she’s young, so I guess she can get away with it. She just started as an assistant teacher at Itaska High last year, when our old band director was getting ready to retire. We got close fast, bonding over our passion for band and the fact that we’re both adopted—me from South Korea, and her from foster care in the U.S.

At least, I think we’re close. You can never tell with Miss Alvarez.

When she notices me standing in the doorway, Miss Alvarez leans back in her creaky office chair and folds her arms over her sensible boat neck sweater. She gives a big sigh and clicks out of the tab she was staring at, which looked like a spreadsheet with a bunch of dollar amounts on it. Lord give me strength. Hey, Hannah.

So I was thinking, I say. You know that part in the closer where the mellos have the rhythmic line underneath the trumpets’ melody? I’ve been playing with it, and I think it would sound better if we brought the saxes in to double their part. I don’t think it’s coming through the way we have it right now. Also, I have some ideas for how to tweak Alyssa’s solo in the ballad so it better fits in with the chord structure.

Miss Alvarez just looks at me.

What? I protest. I had extra time in homeroom.

Hannah, I know I’m a new teacher and I could probably get fired for being verbally abusive to the students, but someone needs to say it: You need friends.

What am I, chopped liver? Morgan calls from the band room.

You will be if you keep dribbling rice on the carpet, Miss Alvarez shoots back.

Morgan sheepishly glances down at the pile forming beneath her and starts picking up the rice, grain by grain.

Miss Alvarez turns back to me. "As for you, missy . . . I agree with you. Get the changes in while I grab lunch, and I’ll get them printed out for practice."

That’s the thing with Miss Alvarez. She acts all hardcore, but she’s actually the best. She closes up her email and relinquishes her chair to me. Morgan’s finished eating, so she pulls up a stool to watch me work while Miss Alvarez heads off to the teacher’s lounge.

Our marching band show is called Anthem. After going to a national composition and conducting camp last summer, I begged the band staff at IHS to let me work on this year’s concept and music. Miss Alvarez eventually relented, letting me choose the theme and assist with the arrangements.

It’s been a huge learning experience, but I’ve loved tinkering with the parts and creating a cohesive performance that features three wildly different anthems: Finlandia, by Jean Sibelius; Dream On, by the one and only Aerosmith; and Camille Saint-Saens’s Organ Symphony. There’s something about each piece that just gets stuck in your head, and they work together surprisingly well.

Morgan gives me feedback on the percussion parts while I work through the bit I was talking about with Miss Alvarez. I’m so absorbed in the process that I don’t notice Mr. Hubbard in the doorway until he clears his throat. Our principal scrunches up his bushy eyebrows at the two of us sitting there.

What are you kids doing? he asks. Does your teacher know you’re here?

Yep! Just fixing something for the b—

He cuts me off with a wave of his hand. I’m looking for Miss Alvarez, actually. Where is she?

Am I my teacher’s keeper? I mutter. I only realize Mr. Hubbard has heard me when he shoots a glare my way.

You just missed her, Mr. Hubbard, Morgan offers. She went to get her lunch.

He grunts his thanks and disappears.

The second he’s out of earshot, I grumble, What a douche. I don’t think I’ve ever gotten two sentences out without him interrupting me.

Maybe he’s just having a bad day, Morgan says. . . . All the time.

How could you have a bad day lording over a fine establishment like this? I gesture toward the music lobby’s seventies-inspired look. Spending all day in a school designed by a prison architect, trying to keep two thousand kids from overdosing on drugs and having unprotected sex?

"Ex-cuse me? What kind of sex are you discussing in my office?"

Miss Alvarez comes in with a prepackaged salad and boots me from her chair. She saves my progress before closing the program—thank goodness—and opens her email again.

Something big just came up, she says without glancing our way. I’ll tell you more at practice, but I’m gonna need the computer for now. Go discuss the birds and the bees somewhere else.

Yes, Miss Alvarez, I say sweetly. When we’re out the door, I turn to Morgan. Wonder what that was about.

No clue.

Well, if she’s telling us at practice, it must be related to— GARRETT!

I startle the scrawny freshman so bad he drops the bottle of Mountain Dew he’s been pouring down the bell of his trombone. Unfortunately, said bottle drops directly into the trombone, and the rest of the liquid gushes through the horn.

I stomp over to Garrett, who shrinks from my presence. What the heck are you doing? The sugar in that is going to coat the inside of your instrument for the rest of eternity.

Garrett tries to keep his face serious, but I can tell he’s desperately holding back a snort of laughter. He points at his buddy, Sam, who’s making the exact same expression. He dared me to.

I roll my eyes. Oh, okay. If Sam dared you to pee in your trombone, would you?

Garrett looks contemplative.

NO, I say. Wrong response, Garrett. See, this is why men shouldn’t be president. I jerk my thumb toward the lobby. "Go rinse the pop out. Come on, dude. Now your trombone might be messed up, and you know the band can’t afford backup instruments. Don’t you want us to do well at Irondale? Aside from State, this is the biggest show of the year."

I know, he grumbles.

I have a feeling you might forget, I say. How about this? You can push the five-octave out for practice tonight. That’ll remind you.

Score! Morgan calls from the other end of the room. She’s usually the one who has to push the massive marimba out to the field behind the school for rehearsal.

And Sam, you can do the timpani, I say.

Sam opens his mouth to protest.

I cut him off. I’m afraid you think I mean one of the timpani drums. No. I mean all five of them. Stop using peer pressure to make your friends do stupid crap. You can think about your mistakes while lugging instruments back and forth for half an hour.

I stalk away from the aghast freshmen and give Morgan a high five on my way out the door. Leadership: accomplished.

Chapter Two

Even though it’s late September, we’re all in shorts and tank tops at practice that afternoon. From my position on the drum major’s podium, I can make out a patch of sunscreen on the nose of a tuba player who’s way over