After a disastrous marching band performance, the Lincoln High Marching Golden Spikes—led by Drum Major Lane—find themselves stranded on a deserted road in a dark, foggy forest, with a trombone and a drummer lost in the woods, the adults dead, and something attacking when anyone makes a noise.
Lane needs a team if she wants to get her band out alive. She’s counting on bestie clarinet Bailey—star softball and volleyball player—of course. Plus, every team needs an enforcer, so senior drummer and bully Slater will keep everyone in line—or else. And Slater never goes anywhere without his girlfriend, quiet piccolo Charity, who turns out to be handy with a tourniquet. Because they definitely need a medic.
Just think, a few hours earlier, Lane’s biggest concern was whether she’d get a college scholarship or if she was going to the Fall Formal with Bailey as a friend or as…friends. But one thing’s clear now—no one’s coming to rescue them, and the four unlikely leaders need to come up with a plan to keep the band alive.
Line up, count off, and hit the marks—it’s time to get in formation if the Marching Golden Spikes want to escape whatever’s in the woods.
Excerpt
Chapter One
We’re With the Band
Lane
“And the winner for best overall 1-A Band is…” The announcer’s voice screeched across the football field at Washington High, home of the Octoberfest Band Competition, distorting comically as it echoed back. “Cooke County High!”
Blinking through the rain that dripped into her eyes—the construction-style helmet that was part of the Lincoln High Marching Band uniforms did nothing to protect her face from the elements—Lane Graham wondered if the announcer sounded this silly in the stands? Or did she only sound like a weasel huffing helium down here on the track that surrounded the field?
Didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that the rain hadn’t been forecast to start until after midnight but had showed up at four this afternoon. Didn’t matter how awful the sound system was, how cold her legs and feet were—the drum major outfit was different from the band outfit in one big way, she wore a skirt—and it didn’t matter how much the pointless strap dug into her chin that supposedly held the ridiculous helmet with an even more ridiculous plume which, when it wasn’t spitting precipitation, stood over a foot tall, but now was just a bunch of sopping wet feathers flopping over her shoulders and forehead. Through it all, Lane held her pose—chin way up, left arm held across her chest but away from it, right arm in a matching pose, except behind her back. She’d been standing like this for only ten minutes but already her shoulders were cramping.
Hell was a fifty-minute marching band awards ceremony in late October. In forty-something degree rain. When your band wasn’t going to win and your mother, the music director for the entire Priorsville school district, was going to blame you.
If Lane got lucky, maybe lightning would strike her down? No, she hadn’t been that lucky all day. Obviously.
Instead, she was in stuck the middle of the crowd of twenty-four drum majors lined up on the Washington High track. The Octoberfest competition was not only the biggest band competition Lincoln High attended but one of the biggest in the state, held in Louisville, Kentucky. It was also the last one of the season.
Her last show as drum major. The one that had everything riding on it.
Why couldn’t the band have held itself together for a win? Why, if it was going to collapse, did it have to fall apart at Octoberfest, of all the competitions?
The 2-A awards were up next—her category. Then the 3-A and 4-A categories, which were the biggest bands—some of those 4-A bands had almost three hundred members—and, as a result, they had the most awards.
She could hold on for the remaining twenty, thirty minutes. Maybe. Probably. Bailey, her best friend and clarinet soloist, had promised to have some hot coffee or cocoa or whatever the concession stand was selling—at this point, Lane didn’t care, as long as it was hot—waiting for her the moment she got off this wet track. A hot drink and a warm blanket and her bestie, that’s all she needed right now. That’d get her through the almost three-hour drive back to Priorsville.
That was, if her mother let her sit with Bailey. She might not. Because Lane had failed.
All because of that freshman trombone. Max.
“What’s a cat’s favorite position in band?” Wait, was the announcer cracking jokes now? “Purr-cussion!”
She was. She really was.
For the love of Pete, just announce the awards! Lane was cold, wet, upset, and she wanted to go home! Night was already falling! The day had been a total loss! Did the announcer have to rub salt in her many, many wounds?
Blinking rain out of her eyes, she scanned the crowd in the stands. Sitting somewhere in that crowd with Mom was the music director at the University of Kentucky. Because of course this hadn’t just been a regular competition. Oh, no—this had been a tryout. Her tryout, a favor her mother had called in with an old college friend for a full-ride music scholarship to UK. So that she could major in music education and become the exact same person her mother was.
As if any of that was what she wanted.
That didn’t matter, either. A full ride was her ticket out of Priorsville. Out of the Graham household. And besides, Bailey already had big scholarships to UK for both girls’ softball and volleyball. Lane needed that scholarship.
Instead, the first person Lane saw was Mark Farwell, down near the front, standing on the seats and…trying to lead the crowd in the wave? Was it too much to ask for him to not be the center of attention for more than five seconds? Then Mark glanced over his shoulder at her, made eye contact, and smiled.
Smiled! At her!
She rolled her eyes. If he thought this was helping, she was going to stuff him into his tuba.
If that freshman trombone cost her that scholarship and her next four years with Bailey, she didn’t know what she’d do. But it’d make stuffing Mark into his tuba look like child’s play.
At the exact moment she found her mother in the stands, the announcer’s weasel-high voice broke through her thoughts “…Winner of Best Drum Line for 2-A Bands is…Lincoln High School!”
Oh! That was…something! Any recognition before the UK director was good recognition, right? Lane snapped into action, bobbing her head severely in acknowledgement, which dumped water and wet feathers into her eyes. Then she went into her routine—arms rotating in a precise circle before coming back to her neutral, then arms snapping up at ninety-degree angles, crossing to form an X over her chest, back to the ninety-degrees, then her right arm returning to neutral behind her back and her left rising in a military-style salute to the judging box before she relaxed and moved forward to accept the trophy on behalf of her drummers.
In the stands, Mark led a cheer that was downright thunderous, considering the whole band was forty-one members, including flags and Lane herself, so maybe she wouldn’t stuff him in his tuba after all. The loudest person there was Bailey, her joyous brown face easy to find in the stands. When she caught Lane’s eye, she made a heart shape with her hands and then started hollering again. Despite everything, Lane was able to smile.
“Congratulations,” one of the four Washington High drum majors said as she handed Lane the small trophy and Lane was just going to pretend she didn’t see the look of pity in the girl’s eyes, even though it was there, plain as day.
Having a band member fall was the stuff of nightmares. Having a band member require immediate medical attention? A literal horror show.
“Thanks,” Lane choked out. The other drum major shook her hand and then squeezed the moist sleeve of her arm and Lane was thankful for the cold rain because her face was already wet.
She looked longingly at the bigger trophies. Third in their division would be okay. There were only four 2-A bands here and Red Ridge High had simply slaughtered a selection of songs from some band named Moody Blues. Even with Max’s huge mistake…their show featuring songs from The Greatest Showman were still fundamentally better than what had sounded from the outset like a herd of cows stampeding over woodwinds, right?
She marched back to her place in the line, carefully setting the small trophy at her feet before returning to her neutral posture, arms held out from her body, chin up, unable to fight the feeling that Best Drum Line was the pity award thrown to them, because the drum line hadn’t broke when everyone else had. As much as she didn’t like Slater—okay, as much as Slater scared her, the dude was legit terrifying—he kept his crew together.
“Third place for 2-A is…Red Ridge High!”
Lane’s stomach sank as the Red Ridge drum major pranced past her, smirking. Her gaze flew back up to the stands, to where Dad and Mom were sitting with the UK director and—
And the UK music director was standing. Was scooting past other people. Mom following behind, arms gesturing wildly, while Dad sat with his head dropped in defeat. Lane knew that look—Mom was pitching a tantrum, Dad trying to ride it out. Unlike Lane, the UK director didn’t have to listen to Mom’s rant. Instead, he headed for the exits.
The unexpected spark of jealousy hit her hard.
“Second place in 2-A is Parkerview High!”
The Parkerview band let out a mighty whoop and Lane couldn’t do anything but watch in horror as her mother chased after the UK director. It was too late. Without that scholarship, Bailey would go on to a fabulous college experience and—if she was lucky—Lane would get to go to community college for two years. Two more years of living at home.
“And first place in 2-A goes to…”
Unless…
“Meramac High!”
Meramac’s drum majors—they had two—did their salute while the band roared and Lane died inside.
There was no way Priorsville was going to win best overall anything. Octoberfest did a fundraiser where people could vote with dollar bills for Fan Favorite so there was a small chance they’d get another pity trophy but…
It wouldn’t be enough. Not for her mother. Not for Lane.
Her mother reappeared at the top of bleachers, hands on her hips, glaring down at Lane. Even though the distance between them was at least a hundred-and-fifty feet, Lane still felt the weight of her mom’s gaze and she knew. She knew.
It was over.
The competition, her hopes for a scholarship to college—heck, at this rate, she’d be lucky if Mom let her go to the Fall Formal in two weeks. She and Bailey were supposed to go together, as friends. Or…yeah, just friends.
It didn’t register who won the 3- and 4-A categories or grand champion. She barely heard the cheers of the bands in the stands.
Because it didn’t matter. None of it did.
At least it was raining.
*
“Where’s my mom?” Lane’s teeth chattered as Bailey pulled her toward the Priorsville bus, so the words came out more, “Wh-h-h-r-r-r m-m-my m-m-mom?”
“Probably yelling at Max,” Bailey said, trying to hold an umbrella pointlessly over Lane’s head. “Come on—I’ve got dry things for you at the bus.”
Lane tried to pull away but Bailey had a firm grip on Lane’s arm. “No. Can’t. Have to…”
To salvage this day. Somehow.
Maybe the UK band director was still here? She could find him and explain about Max. Even though she didn’t know what, exactly had happened with Max.
Yeah, that could work. If the UK director was still here. In this entire sea of cars—and she didn’t know what his looked like. In the rain.
“You have to get warm and dry. We’ll figure out the next step after that,” Bailey replied in a maddeningly calm voice as she pulled Lane across the parking lot crowded with the rest of the bands rushing to their buses to get out of the rain and go home.
“We didn’t win,” Lane got out without sobbing, so that counted for something. What, she didn’t know. But something.
“I know. I was there.” Bailey turned Lane down an aisle and past other groups crowding onto unfamiliar buses. “Hang on a little bit longer.”
“The UK band director, he left. Mom was so mad—I could tell.”
Bailey snorted a knowing snort. “I bet she was.”
“I’m not going to get a scholarship, Bails.” Lane lurched to a stop, forcing Bailey to face her. “I’m not going to be able to go with you. All our plans…”
Getting out of Priorsville. Leaving Mom—and Dad—and their constant watching and judging and pushing, always pushing—behind. Going somewhere new with Bailey and starting fresh.
Starting over with Bailey.
That’s what Lane wanted.
And now…
Bailey looked down at her, her big brown eyes sharp with worry. “Lane—you don’t know that. The win wasn’t what mattered. It was how you conducted yourself as a drum major.”
“But I failed!” And yeah, that? That was a sob.
“A band member fell and was injured in miserable conditions, causing a second band member to pass out,” Bailey corrected her. “Yes, it was awful but lots of bands were slipping and sliding out there. You? You didn’t fail. You didn’t stop. You didn’t scream or fall off the stand. You did your best to get the band back on beat. You didn’t give up. You never quit on your band.”
Lane’s eyes burned with tears. It was the only hot part of her. “That’s not how she’ll see it.”
It felt like a betrayal to say it out loud, even if it was just a whisper to Bailey in the rain. Bailey, who’d been having sleepovers at Lane’s house since they were in fourth grade. Who’d hung out after school with Lane for years around the band room when she didn’t have practice while Lane waited for her mom to get done.
Who’d seen and heard some of things Mom had said to Lane that no one else had.
Bailey, who knew exactly how much the UK scholarship meant to Lane. To both of them.
“Hey.” With the umbrella resting on the top of Bailey’s braids so that it partially blocked them from the parking lot, Bailey cupped Lane’s chin in her palm and it almost felt like…like salvation. And Lane desperately wanted to be saved. “It’s gonna be okay. I’ll let you know when it’s time to panic and right now? No panicking.”
That wasn’t an answer. That wasn’t even a plan! “But—”
Bailey shook her head, stepping in closer. Lane could practically feel the warmth of Bailey’s body through her sopping wet uniform. “No buts, Graham. If it’ll make you feel better, we’ll discuss alternatives on the ride home. That’s what three-hour bus rides are for, right?” She said that with a little hitch in her smile as her thumb rubbed the smallest of circles on Lane’s frigid cheek.
Lane forgot how to breathe for a second, forgot what she was so danged worried about. “Yeah…yeah. Right. No need to panic?”
She was rewarded with Bailey’s bright smile, literal sunshine on a rainy day. Or maybe that was the lightning racing across the sky? “That’s my girl. Let’s get you dry, okay?” she shouted over a clap of thunder that split the sky before she turned and led Lane forward again at a jog, Lane too thunderstruck to do anything but follow.
All Lane could do was put her feet where Bailey’s feet went, stare at where her gloved hand was tucked into Bailey’s until Bailey’s steps slowed. “Hey. Check it out.”
Lane looked.
The band huddled awkwardly next to the bus but when Mark Farwell saw them, he shouted, “Hup!” and like magic, two lines formed, making a corridor leading to the door of the bus. Even CJ Campion lined up in his wheelchair, Ryan Conway behind him, holding an umbrella that didn’t fully cover CJ. Max Welton, the freshman trombone who’d maybe cost her everything, his head a mass of bandages, was propped up between Mark and one of the freshman drums, Danny Lee.
Was that all of them? None of the adults were in line, although she heard the booong of the gong being shoved into the converted small bus that served as their trailer.
“Hup!” Mark repeated, louder, and the Priorsville Fighting Golden Spikes Marching Band stood at attention.
For her.
“Come on.” Bailey tried to pull Lane onto the bus, maybe because she knew that Lane was tired and frozen and crushed and about to cry and there were rules, first among them was that Lane Graham did not cry. Not around other people.
But this was a moment that Lane couldn’t let go. She knew Ms. Townsen would’ve said something to the band, about how everyone had tried hard and that’s what mattered. And she also knew Mom would’ve tried to say something encouraging and instead would’ve just insulted everyone, even the people who didn’t break form.
But these people—this group—Bailey was right. They didn’t blame her. They stood up for her.
She had to stand up for them, too. Not just on the track when it came to shiny statues, but now, when things felt the most hopeless. That?
That’s what leaders did.
And she was still their leader. Even if it was just for the rest of the day.
Swallowing hard, she let go of Bailey’s hand at the top of the bus stairs and took a step back down.
“I know that today was a…a rough end to our marching season,” Lane began, trying to talk around the lump in her throat. “I know we all wanted to go out with another victory. But—” and here she looked at Max, who…yeah, he was crying quietly. Mark had his big arm around the little trombone. “But none of that means we failed.”
Was she recycling Bailey’s pep talk? She sure was. Desperate times and all that.
“I’m proud of you. I’m proud of us as a group, as a band. And, apart from this damned rain—” Someone gasped at her curse word because Lane Graham was the daughter of two teachers and she did not cuss, that was definitely a rule, “I know that we did the best we could today. We had a terrific season. Remember that, guys, because that’s what really counts.”
Her voice broke on the last bit, but that’s when Mark called out, “Hup, hup!” and danged if they didn’t all do a really terrible version of her drum-major salute, even Max—everyone except Ryan, whose hands never left the handles on CJ’s wheelchair or his umbrella because, well, that was Ryan.
