The Taming of the Drew Read Online Free Page B

though we were so close our shoulders bumped, “When the game ends and the guys are running down this ramp, we’re going to play the da-dut, da-DUH lead-in.”
    Tio’s eyes bulged so much I thought his tongue might actually pop out and catch a fly. He shouted back, “You mean the one where the stands shout ‘CHARGE!’ afterward?”
    “Yep.”
    Viola said, “But I don’t know all the words.”
    Tio shouted, “You’re telling me…that you think we’re going to be able to… inspire …this whole stadium to yell ' charge ' with only a trombone, a flute and a triangle ?!?”
    Luckily for me, I was saved from answering. Everyone in the stands came to their feet, stomping and throwing things. I thought the aluminum bleachers might crack and disintegrate. The three of us retreated to the bottom of the ramp-wall, dodging thrown popcorn and crumpled paper hotdog wrappers. There was a long, bone-rattling “Boooooooo.”
    I told myself all these people were probably unhappy about a referee’s call, and not my lame idea to impersonate a band.  
    I could feel a hard concrete chill seeping into me. Viola hummed over her flute and when the deafening sound lessened for a second, I heard her making weird harmonics with her voice and instrument. She couldn’t have been more relaxed if she’d been sitting in a bubble bath.  
    Tio and I twitched and watched the game clock inch its way down. Who knew one “minute” of game time could last fifteen? It was weird actually seeing the end of a game. There seemed to be a lot of grunting, ker-powing, and even some earth shaking involved.
    “That’s pretty loud, when they hit, isn’t it?” I hated the fact that my voice shook. I had no idea anyone could slam another person that hard. I cleared my throat. “Like a slap of thunder.”
    Tio muttered under his breath, like he was chanting a rosary, “Heaven’s artillery thunders in the sky…”
    Sheesh. More ‘Spears. I needed to change the subject, fast, or we were both going to freak out here.
    “So what do you think the Dog is — a depp or a pitt?” I asked to cut the tension. It’s a game our group plays, ever since I explained my theory of guy attractiveness based on the timeless 1990's dichotomy. See, underneath it all, there are only two kinds of hot guys: young Johnny Depp (witty repartee, rebellious, omnisexual) and Brad Pitt in his Thelma and Louise phase (square-jawed, clean-cut, push-your-cowboy-hat-up-with-a-thumb uncomplicated). You can go through history and peg every attractive guy as one or the other from a combination of looks and personality. Try it for yourself. Take Errol Flynn. A depp. Kirk Douglas? A pitt. Oscar Wilde? A depp. Zac Efron? A pitt. Robert Pattinson? Current group consensus: trying too hard to be a depp.
    Tio answered me between gritted teeth. “I don’t know.”  
    This was a shocker. Could the Dog be both? Or neither? That would be a first. “How do you reckon that?”
    “I’ve never seen him.”
    As the buzzer sounded and the stadium roared, we stared at each other in horror. “I thought YOU knew what he looked like.”
    “I don’t!”
    “I don’t either!”
    “Wasn’t there a picture in the newspaper?”  
    “He’s always wearing a helmet!”
    “A number for his jersey? A last name? Something ?”  
    “I don’t do sports. Besides,” Tio shouted at me like I was hard of thinking, “I was just supposed to grab the camera, remember?”
    Oh Jesus.  
    The announcer came on overhead, the volume deafening, so loud that the words smeared and buzzed over the crowd's screaming. We won — a high school team defeated a college team. Apparently people cared.
    Tio bounced up and down, hands flapping and I could see his mouth moving as he shouted something at me. Oh crap. My trombone. That’s what he was saying. I was supposed to already have it out.
    Four seconds later, my trombone was out, the case tossed aside. I perched one hip on the side concrete wall of the exit ramp