Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 �>�Don -(TM)t Call Her  -�Frigid Brigid -�! by donnylaja

   Note: This was a compilation of Brigid sequences taken from  -�Tami
Beethoven -� and other places.   -" donnylaja
I: Brigid and the Patriot -(TM)s Day Parade

    -�Thbbb!   -- Th-thbb! -�

   He licked his lips and tried again on next group of sixteenth notes,
pressing against the mouthpiece that felt like a block of ice no matter how
much he blew into it.

   Even through his full-length wool uniform, and the long underwear, he
could feel the frigid wind knifing right through him.  It wasn -(TM)t just
him, of course, as he tried to pt-pt the notes of  -�Little Giant -� along
with the seven other trombonists in the front row.  The rest of the band
wasn -(TM)t sounding much better.  It was nerve-racking being a trombonist,
having to be in the front row of the 60-member band to make room for the
trombones -(TM) slides.

   But this was a great day for the band, for their families, for their
high school.  They had won the national competition down in Atlanta and
were privileged to lead the parade into Foxboro Stadium for the Patriots
-(TM) last regular season game.

   They had expected cold this time of year, but not THIS cold.  It had
snowed two days before and the banks were piled up high on each side of
Washington Street.  Behind the snow, crowds five deep watched, bundled up,
and cheered, or made ridiculous muted clapping with their heavily gloved
hands.  There was some talk about the parade being canceled, but that was
only a dream.  They couldn -(TM)t pass up being seen on national TV.

   It was a poor, mostly black school, T -" -" High, but the marching band
program was its pride and joy.  They had quite a reputation in the Boston
area and were often invited to march in other towns -(TM) parades, like St.
Patrick -(TM)s Day and Memorial Day.  Their uniforms were resplendent, the
tall plumed hats and the braided jackets with the shoulder tassles and
striped pants, though with the district finances the way they were, upkeep
required frequent fund-raising.  He hated doing that.

   But like for any kid it was worth it, being a proud member of this
famous band, marching strictly in step as they were trained to do in their
daily morning practices, out on the football field and in the gym in bad
weather.  The big glass case in the school lobby, right after the metal
detector, had a slew of trophies, and annual band photos going back to 1937
when it was a segregated school.

   Now  -�Little Giant -� ended and they would switch to  -�Our Director
-�. After the last cymbal crash from the half-frozen arms of his friend
Jared ten rows back, he and the other trombonists counted three beats and
then dropped their instruments down to waist level in  -�ready -� position.
The next tune after that was  -�Washington Post -� and then  -�Manhattan
Beach -�.  This was part of their regular rotation, the traditional marches
then  -�Hold That Tiger -�, during which the band could finally do a little
swinging around to get their blood moving again.

   Anything was better than straight marching on a frigid day like this. 
His feet were getting numb, and the tips of his gloved fingers.  The wind
was now blowing into their faces as they began marching downhill with the
road.  He could feel his nose sniffle and hoped snot didn -(TM)t run down
where he couldn -(TM)t wipe it.  Unnecessary motions were much discouraged,
they ruined the formation.  He thought of their band director, Mr.  Weaver
-" they called him  -�Sarge -� because he used to direct an Army band  -"
who was marching to the side twenty feet back.  He glanced furtively down
at his white fake-leather gloves.  Would snot show on them?

   The drum guard, way behind him, did their vamping and he looked straight
forward as he was supposed to.  He could see the city ahead, and the
stadium in front of it, looking like it was ten miles away.  It wasn -(TM)t
that far, but this was a long parade  -" first going down to the park, then
a short break, then the final leg down Broadway, in front of the reviewing
stand, then finally into the stadium.

   The sound off, and now into  -�Our Director -�.  D-flat was not his
favorite key but this was an easy tune, not too many notes.  The band didn
-(TM)t make as many flubs on this one.  Now he looked a little to the
right, to their regular majorette, a white girl named Brigid, prancing and
twirling her baton all alone at the head of the parade, and contemplated
her very interesting skin.

   *****

   He had noticed it in the photos in the glass case.  As the uniforms for
the rest of the band got more abundant and ornate over the years, with the
addition of high boots, cummerbunds, epaulettes, the majorette -(TM)s
uniform got more and more skimpy.  The 1940 -(TM)s majorettes wore
mid-length skirts which showed some leg, but otherwise their uniforms were
much like the rest of their band -(TM)s.  And then over the years the big 
-�shako -� hat got smaller, the jacket shrank to a vest, then disappeared,
the blouse and skirt shrank to leotards, then in the 1980 -(TM)s the
midriff appeared, the boots shrank to sneakers --

   He liked looking at Brigid -(TM)s beautiful skin, very white with
freckles over the shoulders, a product of her Irish heritage.  It was
certainly well on display.  Her uniform began with a little pillbox-style
cap, a shrunken version of the shakos the rest of her band wore, black and
white, the school colors, with a  -�T -� on the front.  It was pinned to
her red, braided-up hair.  Her nipples were covered by circles of white
fake-leather (called  -�circlets -�) maybe three inches across, little
rounded cones, with again each with a black  -�T -� on them.  He wondered
how the circlets were attached so they didn -(TM)t fall off as she went
through her vigorous paces.  That was something the girls in the locker
room would know, though for obvious reasons, Brigid had emerged from there
this morning well before the others.

   Further down, her closely-shaved pubic area was covered with a little
white V-shaped triangle, certainly the smallest bikini bottom he had ever
seen, held on securely by sparkly silver strings that went low around her
waist, meeting in the rear at the crack of her butt where they formed a
delicate  -�T -� with the band that went down and disappeared between the
cheeks.  Add a pair of low-heeled, dressy flip-flop style sandals, held on
with just the thinnest silvery straps, and that was Brigid the majorette
-(TM)s uniform.

   He was fascinated by white girls -(TM) skin, how it changed color,
getting a tan in the summer, blushing, turning whiter when they were
afraid, red when they were mad, red and blotchy in the cold.  White folks
-(TM) skin was pretty funny in general.  During the competition in Atlanta,
watching the other bands, he and his buddies almost lost it during another
band -(TM)s audition, an all-white band from Kansas or someplace.  Five
trumpeters did consecutive solos and the face of each started out white and
turned red, one after the other.

   Brigid was beautiful, though.  Nothing ridiculous about her or her skin.
He didn -(TM)t really know her.  Her regular instrument was clarinet, and
the clarinets were across the band from the trombones.  She always sat
between her friends Debra and Virginia, black girls who were pretty O.K. 
And her skin, especially today, was interesting, fascinating really, like a
canvas of a painting created by God called,  -�On a Freezing Cold Day -�.
Her shoulders were reddish, her arms blotchy, her bare back a little
lighter, her legs and feet a little purplish, her toes a little more so. 
Her sacral dimples, a few inches above the T-string, were lighter than the
blushing butt cheeks below.

   It was kind of callous of him to think of her this way, of course.  She
must be suffering on a day like this but she didn -(TM)t show it.  She was
a real trouper.  They had never marched on a day this cold.  Feeling his
cold hands and chilly arms in their gloves and two layers of sleeves, he
thought of how her bare hands and arms must feel tossing and twirling that
baton.  Feeling his whole body trying to get some blood moving under his
full-length wool uniform and long underwear, he felt sorry for her bare
torso, the breasts tightly bouncing in the freezing air behind the  -" were
they glued on?   -" little circlets.  His butt was freezing  -" but how
much more freezing Brigid -(TM)s must be, entirely naked to the winter wind
except for the ridiculous tiny string.  And his feet were almost numb in
their heavy socks and boots.  Meanwhile the frigid wind whistled between
poor Brigid -(TM)s bare toes!

   But like always, she kept a smile frozen on her face, alternately
twirling and the jabbing the baton in the air to keep the beat, then when
the band was marching in place, tucking the baton under her arm, stepping
in place.  He wondered how she kept those backless sandals on her feet
while whirling around.  It must be hard to grip with toes going numb.  Only
once did she falter, one heel slipping a bit on black ice, but she
recovered right away and hardly lost a step.

   His mind went back to September.  It seemed so long ago now.  The
measuring for uniforms, one by one in the practice room, though how Brigid
was measured, it would have been interesting to see.  Then the meeting in
the auditorium.  One by one the members were called up by the band
secretary, Ms.  Jillian, to get their uniforms.  A big travel bag held up
by a coat hanger, with a smaller bag attached which held the boots.  The
bags were huge, massive, five feet high and heavy.  Some of the girls had
trouble hefting theirs back to their seats.  Then Brigid was called.  She
was in the back and walked down the aisle in her usual outfit of black
jeans, white-collared shirt, jean jacket and sneakers.  Ms.  Jillian handed
her a tiny black thing like it was a little birthday present.  It was the
flip-flops tied together with a tiny black pouch the size of a CD case. 
Her uniform bag.

   During the rest of the year the uniforms had been hung up on those racks
along the walls in the rehearsal room.  Big heavy travel bags, except for a
hanger that looked like it had nothing on it until you looked and saw the
tiny black pouch with flip-flops.

   Now  -�Our Director -� ended.  Instruments down.  The band halted,
Brigid having been instructed to stay at least fifty feet behind the
flashing fire truck.  The whole band, the majorette and the
instrumentalists and the drum guard, marched in place, little steps, two
inches up, as they had practiced.  During those early morning sessions at
the school Brigid had taken off her shoes and socks, so she could practice
in those backless sandals.  Her bare feet were striking with everyone else
so fully clothed.  He wasn -(TM)t a foot fetishist or anything but it was
pretty sexy.

   Of course, now she was almost all bare.  He watched her butt cheeks
intently, as they jiggled ever so slightly with each in-place step.  Nice
and tight, a white girl -(TM)s butt.  He knew she was on the soccer team
and she was in such good shape.  Of course, a majorette at this school had
to be.  Real narrow waist, flat tummy, nice legs, nice boobs too, not
especially big but sticking out firm without a bra.  He threw furtive
glances at the crowds behind the banks of snow, looking for the TV cameras.
None yet; they had to be further down the route.

   And the newspapers.  The crowd was all bundled up.  Standing in place it
was easier to get cold.  Most of the faces were all but covered with
scarves or ski masks.  He tried to detect their expressions and supposed
they were cringing at the sight of the nearly naked majorette in the cold.
He could picture tomorrow morning -(TM)s front page of the Globe, tabloidy
as always.  The headline:  -�CRUEL!  School makes majorette march
near-naked in freezing parade! -� Pictures of horrified onlookers.  And of
course, a big picture of Brigid front and center, so all the outraged
readers could jerk off to her under the breakfast table.

   He told himself: I -(TM)m obsessing.  He had obsessed on Brigid all
year, being in the front row of the instrumentalists, having such a
constant view of her.  And he told himself that exposure to the elements
was just part of the life of a majorette.  He and the other trombonists had
gotten used to following her around during the whole football season,
watching her body soak up the sun those hot September days (and being a
little envious back then, stuck in their sweaty wool uniforms), mesmerized
by the sleek wetness of her bare curves in October drizzles, then counting
the goose bumps on her butt during those windy November weekends.

   So it was more than just watching her bod.  He wanted to get to know
her. He admired tough girls.  What was she like?

   Now on to  -�Washington Post -�.  This was a livelier tune.  He got with
the program and concentrated on his playing as they again advanced.  Then
Brigid spun 180 degrees, twirling, and his thoughts wandered again.  That
tiny triangle bottom, it -(TM)s really narrow  -" maybe no more than like
two inches across at the top.  Does she have to shave all her pubic hair?
Or just pare it down so it -(TM)s like a pubic Mohawk?  Is her pubic hair
red like her head hair?  Someone told him that all white girls, no matter
what their head hair is like, their pubic hair is like a dull brown --

   *****

   It felt so good to wolf down this big burger.  Being out in the cold
makes you hungry.  He sat up, munching on fries, his shako on the table,
his trombone bell-down next to him on the bench.

   And then Brigid sat down across from him!

   Her breasts with their circlets wiggled a bit as she and Debra and
Virginia, on each side of her, sat down with their trays.  They sucked on
the sodas and chatted about this and that as he tried not to look too
directly.  He could see down to about the middle of her tummy, and her
almost total nudity, all that white skin, now turning white in blotches now
that it was finally exposed to warmth again, contrasted with her
fully-dressed black friends with their gold braids and buttons and
epaulettes.  Debra and Virginia had taken off their gloves to eat,
carefully setting them to the side, but still had their tall shakos on.

   It was a big room, with the whole band around them sitting at tables,
and over the hubbub the girls were talking about their driver education
class, namely that old big Chevy the school had.   -�It -(TM)s hahd to
control that cahh, -� Brigid said, and Virginia agreed.   -�Girl you know
it. -� Brigid -(TM)s accent seemed a little different than the standard
white-person Boston accent.  Maybe more like a Providence accent.  Then she
shifted on her hips and he knew that she had dropped her sandals to the
floor and was sitting cross-legged.

   Now she pivoted her body toward Debra, still engaged in conversation. 
Girls talked a lot faster than guys and by now they had gotten into going
to the mall next weekend with Maria and Shonday.  He realized Brigid was
pretty popular.  It was such a big school, though, that there was no point
of contact between his circle of friends and hers.  Now as he finished his
burger, trying not to look, Debra scooted away from her and put ungloved
hands down, and he realized she was massaging Brigid -(TM)s half-frozen
feet.  His eyes leapt as he caught a glimpse, the warm black hands rubbing
the circulation back into the white toes, stretching them, spreading them.
He supposed it wasn -(TM)t so skanky if the person was essentially barefoot
all day like Brigid was.

    -�Hey Brigid! -� It was a guy he knew as Willy, something of a wise
guy. He held up an ice cream on the way to his seat.   -�Want some COLD ice
cream? -�

   Brigid squinted sarcastically as he passed by.

   He straightened up a bit, automatically, as Old Lady McPherson came
around, the Principal.  She could be (A), an old witch, or (B), a nice old
grandma.  Right now it was (B).   -�How are you doing dear? -� she said.  
-�Pretty good, -� Brigid said.   -�You look fine out there.  You all do, -�
she said glancing over at the rest.   -�We -(TM)re proud of you. -�

   Looking down at Brigid -(TM)s feet, then at her hands, Ms.  McPherson
said,  -�You did a good job on the nails, girls.  I didn -(TM)t think you
could get another year out of those old bottles. -�

    -�Well they WERE about empty, -� Virginia said.   -�I did the feet, -�
Debra said proudly, as she held them up for the Principal to see, Brigid
trying to spread her still-reviving toes with some effort.  This was no
small matter.  With the disappearance of boots and gloves, fingernail paint
and toenail paint had become part of the majorette -(TM)s uniform.  And
like everything else about the band members -(TM) appearance it was
expected to be meticulously perfect.  The paint was the school colors,
black and white, alternating on each finger and toe.

   After the old lady had gone on, another guy came by with a giant-sized
soda.   -�Brigid  -" want some  -" COLD  -" soda? -� The majorette stuck
her tongue out with a sour face.

   Sarge came by.   -�Don -(TM)t eat too fast, -� he said.   -�We -(TM)ve
got a mile and a half to go.  How -(TM)s everyone doing? -�

   Having finished his burger and used his napkin, he spoke up with a
smile.  -�It -(TM)s hot in here, -� he said.  Indeed he was getting sweaty
indoors, encased in his thermals and full uniform.

    -�Pfft, -� Sarge said with a good-natured dismissive wave.   -�Talk to
Brigid about that. -�

   It was the first time he referred to Brigid -(TM)s plight.  With the
forecast being for cold, there was some talk about canceling the parade. 
But that was just impossible.  It was to be their big day.  At the last
band meeting Sarge had talked about it.   -�Now it will be chilly out, so
it will be all right for all band members to wear thermal underwear, except
the majorette of course, providing it -(TM)s not bulky and doesn -(TM)t
show. -� Half the guys must have looked over at Brigid sitting in the
clarinet section.  Brigid showed no reaction to this passing mention, but
Debra and Virginia glanced sideways at their friend.  Everyone could wear
thermals except the band member who needed them the most.  Of course
everyone knew for the majorette it would be impossible.  Even a body
stocking or something like that would look ridiculous.  It probably would
make the sandals slip off.  And mabye there would be no way to keep the
circlets on.

    -�Hey Brigid, -� another guy said as he passed,  -�are ya  -" FRIGID?
-�

   He could detect Brigid giving him the finger from under the table.  He
was fascinated by her even more now.  She could give as well as she got.

    -�Woo!  Look!  The girl scouts! -� Debra -(TM)s announcement got the
three of them up.  Careful to put her sandals on first, Brigid joined the
rest of them as they went up to the big window facing the street.  They
stepped up onto the low sill and pressed their hands against the glass,
waving at their old troop leader, Miss Pikarski, who waved back as she
passed by leading the pack of smiling little girls in overcoats.  Debra and
Virginia, standing against the window covered all up in their jackets and
long-legged trousers and boots, and in between, Brigid in her backless
sandals, her total nakedness from the rear interrupted only by the little
T-string in her butt, and the little cap clipped to her hair.

   They got down and for a while they ate silently.  Now another clown came
by and said,  -�Were ya frigid, Brigid? -� He could see it might become a
nickname now whether she wanted it or not.  Frigid Brigid.

   Her eyes were darting around the room, as if making sure no one was
looking.  Then she said,  -�This uniform is killing me. -�

   Debra and Virginia seemed to know what she meant and looked around too.

    -�Make sure the coast is cleah, O.K.? -� And then his mouth dropped as
Brigid took the circlets off with a little sideways squeeze from each hand.
He saw now they were kept on by springy metal clips like you use to keep
papers together, or on a clipboard  -"  -�bulldog clips -�, he thought they
were called.  God, they must hurt!

   Her nipples stood out, stiff and red, like they were angry at being
tortured all morning.  Brigid sighed and closed her eyes as she massaged
them between her fingers.  It was almost as if taking them off was as
painful as having them on.

   And then she opened her eyes and looked up at him for the first time  -"
smiling and giggling a little bit, with a shyness and sense of slight
embarrassment that was unusual for this tough girl, as she cupped her
breasts in her hands.  He smiled back and felt at that moment like he was
in love.

   She returned to massaging her abused nipples then put her hands at her
sides.  Her breasts wiggled a bit more freely now with the motions of her
arms as she ate.  She looked up warily now and then.  Any T -"- High
majorette was aware of public indecency laws and knew she shouldn -(TM)t be
out like this.

   Her breasts looked even more protruding, more pointy, with her red
nipples exposed and sticking out.  Again, a fascinating aspect of white
girls  -" he had never seen a real live white girl -(TM)s nipples before,
so expressive, angry and red.  Especially against the breasts which were
returning to the normal white color, as they spent more time in this warm
fast food place.

   Brigid -(TM)s breasts needed more soothing, apparently.  She finished
her soda with a loud slurp and then she stuck her fingers in it.  She
fished out two chips of ice which she now held up against her nipples.  
-�Mmmm -- -� It was a sensual sound that made his dick hard.  Fortunately
it wouldn -(TM)t show under all his coverings.  She checked around for
grown-ups, rubbing the quickly melting chips againt her.

   Now a clap from across the room.  Sarge -(TM)s signal.   -�Quick, do me
up heah, -� Brigid said, turning to Virginia and sticking out her breasts.
Virginia hurriedly clipped the circlets on.   -�Ow ow ow, -� Brigid said,
taking off the left one.  Virginia had clipped it too near the end of the
nipple.  He imagined it must have hurt like hell.  Virginia re-did it.

    -�How do I look? -� Brigid said, turning to Debra.   -�This one -(TM)s
crooked, -� her friend said, resetting one so that the  -�T -� stood
straight up.

   Then Frigid Brigid shook her breasts violently side to side, making them
bounce like miniature soccer balls.  This took his breath away.  But it was
the only way to make sure the circlets were secure.

   The band got up and made for outside.  He put on his shako and picked up
his trombone and followed.  Having gotten hot in his uniform, he was almost
grateful to feel the freezing air hitting his face as they emerged onto the
sidewalk.  They were bottlenecked as members filed through the narrow
cutout in the three-foot-high snow bank to get back onto the street. 
Brigid was needed at the front and couldn -(TM)t wait.  So she took off her
sandals and, using her baton as a walking stick, scaled the snow bank in
her bare feet, her toes grabbing the refrozen slippery chunks of white with
care.  It caused people to look but it was simply the sensible thing to do.

   Now out on the street, they got into formation.  Sarge and Brigid stood
in front.  When everyone was all set Sarge said,  -�How are your toes,
Brigid? -�

   Standing in front with the other trombones, he saw her look down,
flexing her toes in the dressy flip-flops.   -�OK -�

    -�Folks, -� Sarge barked out,  -�I -- know -- we don -(TM)t -- sound
too good -- today. -� He was speaking slowly so as to be heard clearly, his
breath forming little clouds.   -�This is probably the coldest parade we
-(TM)ve ever been in.  There -(TM)s just no way to play well in this
temperature.  Don -(TM)t -- worry about it.  Concern yourself with
formation.  We -(TM)ll be in front of TV cameras soon -- so how we look --
will be what counts.

    -�I -(TM)ve noticed the formation isn -(TM)t too good. -� He pointed
over to the majorette.   -�Watch -- Brigid.  She -(TM)s freezing her --
BUNS off -- for us.  The least we can do is follow her beat.  Brigid, -�
his voice lowering,  -�lead as much as possible.  Twirl only when the band
seems in step, and only one throw at a time. -� Brigid nodded.

   And with a sound off from the drum guard, they were off, marching
forward, beginning  -�Son of a Preacher Man -�.  They were still going
downhill and now the wind was so stiff that it was an effort to push ahead.
The cold sun disappeared and now it was overcast.  He glanced up and it
looked like snow clouds.  Brigid led, her baton jabbing into the air,
stepping high, the icy wind no doubt piercing like needles into her
near-nakedness --

   In a few moments her skin was multicolored again, and he was grateful
for his thermal underwear.

   They got to the reviewing stand and stopped.  Aside from entering the
stadium itself, this was their big moment.  As planned, the majorette
turned and faced the Governor and the other important, formally-dressed
personages up there in their top hats, overcoats and white gloves, as the
drum guard marched single file around the instrumentalists and formed
behind her.  Cameras were everywhere, on the reviewing stand, perched up on
scaffolds here and there, all aimed at Brigid.

   The drum guard did the sound-off, then launched into a furious barrage
of gunshot-like drum shots and cymbal crashes as Brigid twirled and spun
and pranced.  Her skin was a little purplish now, maybe from her exertions.
He could tell she was breathing heavily, and realized what an athletic
workout it was.

   Now she flung the baton high, high up into the air, spun around once,
and deftly caught it over her head in time with the last cymbal crash.  She
stayed in that position, baton up, her breasts wobbling for a split-second
before coming to rest, her pelvic bones framing her concave tummy, one foot
in front of the other, the other arm straight out from her side, the
majorette -(TM)s permanent smile frozen on her face.

   The men and women up on the stand cheered, as did the rest of the crowd.
He would have cheered too if he had been allowed.  If she had dropped the
baton it would be all they would hear about in the media, it would be how T
-"- High School would be known.  But she had come through.  Good old Frigid
Brigid!

   Now they marched down the hill again, behind the fire truck, as they
went the last leg down to the stadium.  Another easy tune,  -�Under the
Double Eagle -�.  Brigid -(TM)s body stayed purple as she led the beat.  He
wondered how long she could go like this.  Her exertions would heat her up
to some extent, but there had to be a limit.

   As he worked the slide his mind went into fantasy.  He pictured the fire
truck stopping and the firemen jumping off it with their hoses.  And
training them on Brigid, the great arcs crashing onto her and splashing her
all over.  Now there were more firemen, from all directions, coming out of
the crowds, till there were ten or more big jets of water bombarding her.
It was cold water of course, but to her it would feel warm and she would be
grateful.  Swinging her baton wildly over her head, she would dance in the
massive downpour like it was a shower, kicking her sandals off, laughing as
she flung up her bare feet.  Her breasts were hit to and fro by competing
jets and now the circlets came off, one after the other, and she gratefully
accepted the water on one nipple then the other, soothing them.  Another
shot to her crotch and the little triangle flew off, shooting away from her
with the tiny strings, and now Brigid the majorette danced joyfully nakedly
in the fire hose shower, and now the whole band put down their instruments
and cheered --

   *****
II: Brigid on TV

   He waited anxiously, nervously fidgeting with the slide of his trombone.
Mr.  Watson, whom everyone called  -�Sarge -� from his years as a
bandleader in the Army, waited impatiently as Jamal fiddled with the A-V
equipment.  It was first period practice in the crowded rehearsal room. 
They had just gone through their usual warm-up tune,  -�Captains and Kings
-�.  Now they were snorting with anticipation.  Except for him.  And Brigid
in the clarinet section, sitting between Debra and Virginia, in her usual
jean jacket, white turtleneck, black jeans and Doc Martens.  She was easy
to pick out because she was one of only five white kids in the whole band.
She bit her lip and was as nervous as he was.

   Finally  -" the big screen lit up blue.  The screen was ripped here and
there.  T -" High School might be known locally for its marching band but
this was not a school district with a lot of money.

   Some out-of-synch blurry images and now the genial, grandmotherly face
of Melba McCann, the anchor of the local news show.   -�And now, we have
with us guests from the famous T -" High School marching band, who will be
performing at this Saturday -(TM)s regional title football game between
their school and Brookline High School. -� Her first words sounded like she
was talking underwater but then Jamal -(TM)s hand slammed down on something
in the control room and the sound cleared up.   -�Here we have  -"  -�

   The camera panned over to the three guests, Sarge in his business suit
with the black tie, Brigid in her majorette uniform, her baton laid primly
across her bare thighs, and he himself in his braided wool uniform, holding
his trombone in  -�rest -� position in front of him.

   Watching the screen, he cringed as he saw the beads of sweat on his
forehead.  It wasn -(TM)t just nervousness  -" it had been hot in that
studio.  Sarge had insisted on getting there half an hour early.  Already
burdened with his trombone case, he had needed Brigid -(TM)s help in
hefting his big uniform bag out of the car and through the many hallways
before finally getting to the dressing rooms.  Brigid went in front of him,
holding up the boots end of the bag, her baton slung over her shoulder.  At
the end of the baton dangled her own uniform bag, a tiny pouch like a
beanbag.

   Then it had taken him forever to struggle into his uniform in that tiny
cubicle, what with the cummerbund, the epaulettes, the big boots.  Finally
he emerged into what they called the green room, where guests were made up
before walking onto the set.

   Brigid was there sitting up on a high stool, already dressed, while the
gay-looking guy powdered her with makeup.  He supposed that a white person
would look like a ghost on TV without some cosmetic help.  Especially
Brigid, whose Irish skin was very white, with a smattering of freckles
across her bare shoulders.

   She smiled at him as she said,  -�I -(TM)m getting the royal treatment.
-� The makeup man had a lot of skin to cover, what with her entire uniform
consisting of two little circlets covering her nipples, and that tiny
triangle over her pubic area held on with silvery strings that went low
around her hips and the other string that disappeared between her butt
cheeks.  Below, her bare feet rested on the bottom rung, the flip-flop
style majorette sandals on the floor.

   He got the trombone out of his case and sat and watched, having nothing
else to do.  Brigid -(TM)s circlets seemed to have gotten smaller.  The
uniforms had just come back from their twice-yearly cleaning.  Maybe the
majorette uniform was subtly altered before it came back.  He thought about
the photos in the glass case, and wondered about the shrinkage in the
majorette uniform over the years, how it was done, how past majorettes
dealt with it.  Around about 1970, for example, how did the majorette for
that year find out that her short skirt and blouse had morphed into a
leotard?  How did the 1990 majorette deal with a short short that had
become a bikini-style bottom?  Or the 1999 majorette who found that the
strings on her top had disappeared and she now had to wear circlets?

   Those first circlets were huge compared to the ones Brigid had to wear.
Her breasts were round and firm, maybe a bit bigger than average; and
around her circlets all her breast slopes, top, bottom, and sides, were in
full view.  He wasn -(TM)t about to do math calculations but the circlets
covered maybe 15% of Brigid -(TM)s total breast area.  He thought of the
big plastic eyeball model in the science room, the area formed by the iris
and pupil.  About that much.

   He saw the makeup man do his work, puffing the powder between Brigid
-(TM)s breasts.  He had seen boobs bounce before, of course, but always in
tank tops or bikini tops.  Brigid -(TM)s breasts, not strapped to her body
or to each other, moved independently, one wobbling a bit while the other
was still, sometimes bobbing the same way, sometimes toward each other, one
moving in a tight little circle while the other lurched left to right --

   The makeup guy bent down and Brigid parted her knees as he got that area
around her uniform where she had shaved her pubic hair.  The triangle
bottom seemed to have gotten smaller too, more like a narrow  -�V -� now.
She looked down with a neutral expression as the guy powdered
industriously.  -�Spread a little more, please -- -�

   Sarge came in.   -�We -(TM)re on in five minutes.  How -(TM)s it going?
-�

   The two band members smiled and nodded.  Now Brigid spread her toes as
the guy powdered them.  Pretty toes.  She had carefully painted the nails
in the black-and-white school colors.  Cummerbund and epaulettes and
braided jacket and high boots were part of his uniform; toenail paint was
part of hers.

   He put on his white gloves and looked at them.  Even one of his gloves
provided more coverage than Brigid -(TM)s entire uniform.

   Then he remembered getting suddenly nervous as Melba McCann came in to
get them, and Brigid picked up her baton and followed Sarge into the big
room with all the cameras surrounding the set, and he followed Brigid --

   Sarge sat down in one of Melba -(TM)s guest chairs and chatted with her
quietly while a commercial was being shown.  Rod and Brigid, waiting by the
big camera setup, looked at each other.  Rod was so enchanted with this shy
Irish white girl that he choked up whenever he wanted to speak.  Finally he
croaked out,  -�How do I look? -�

   He stood up straight as Brigid, holding her baton in her armpit,
adjusted his jacket and tugged at his epaulettes.   -�Great.  How about me?
-� She held up her arms and her breasts stuck out.   -�Are my  -~T -�s
straight? -�

   Rod was open-mouthed, unsure of what she meant, looking down finally at
her ribs and the hollow tummy below.   -�Your  -"  -�

    -�My  -~T -(TM)s! -�

   He swallowed and felt flushed as he realized she meant the  -�T -�
school logo on each of her circlets.  He bent down a bit so that Brigid
-(TM)s breasts were at his eye level.   -�Fine.  Both straight. -�

    -�Good.  Oh no! -� Brigid opened her mouth and out came a retainer.  
-�This -(TM)ll show!  I forgot entirely! -�

   She frantically looked around for a place to put it.  He heroically took
it and held it in his gloved hand.   -�It -(TM)s safe with me. -�

    -�Oh thanks, you -(TM)re a dear, -� she said.  He felt his heart skip a
beat.

   Then Sarge motioned for them to sit down next to him, and the camera guy
counted down --

   Now, in the band room, watching with everyone else, he sat through Melba
McCann -(TM)s introduction and then smiled as Sarge fell over his words in
describing the marching band, at first saying it was founded in 1527
instead of 1927.  Sarge, sitting on his conductor -(TM)s stool, covered his
face in good-natured embarrassment.

   Melba then said,  -�We have here also Brigid O -(TM)Dierna, the band
-(TM)s majorette, and Rod Sykes, first trombonist.  You -(TM)re part of a
proud tradition.  How do you like marching with the band? -�

   Looking at the big screen, the band saw Brigid and Rod smile at each
other shyly.  Brigid giggled nervously, her breasts bouncing with her
laugh, then jiggling for a second after her body had stilled.  He said
something to the effect of,  -�It -(TM)s a great band and it -(TM)s great
marching with your friends. -� Brigid said,  -�We all work together. -� Not
memorable words, exactly, but what the heck, they were petrified.

    -�The forecast for Saturday is cold and drizzly, -� Melba said.   -�In
your majorette outfit, -� she said, looking up and down at Brigid,  -�how
do you stay warm on days like Saturday? -�

    -�You keep moving, -� Brigid said.  Her stock response.

   And now in the band room there was a general shifting of chairs with
anticipation as Melba McIntyre announced Rod and Brigid were going to do a
tune.  His friends in the trombone section smiled at him but he was not
nervous because he knew what was coming.

   The two band members on TV stood up, him with the trombone up to his
lips, her with the baton tucked under her arm.  Then she nodded and he
launched into a verse of  -�American Patrol -� which was flawless. 
Watching in the band room, he smiled.  He had been so afraid he was going
to botch it but he hadn -(TM)t.  Good tone throughout, not one note flubbed
 -" while successfully hiding Brigid -(TM)s retainer carefully in his slide
hand.  Meanwhile Brigid twirled.  She couldn -(TM)t do any throws in Melba
-(TM)s little studio but she did everything else, spinning, fanning,
switching arms, down through the legs, even that special trick she did
where the baton seemed to crawl back over her shoulders on its way from one
hand to the other.  She spun around, leading with one breast and timing it
so that the other breast followed.  A performance as flawless as his.

   At the last note he and Brigid froze, as planned.  He was sweating in
his wool uniform.  She was not immune to the studio heat, either.  As she
posed, her breasts coming to rest, a trickle of sweat was visible that had
started below her neck, rivered between her breasts and down her flat
tummy, and delta-ed at her navel.

   Melba and Sarge clapped, then it went to a commercial and the clip
ended. Jamal turned off the screen light.  Everyone in the band room
applauded.

    -�Stand up and take a bow, well done, -� Sarge said.  He stood up in
his sweatshirt and long jams.  Brigid stood up in her jean jacket and
turtleneck and black jeans.  Local stars!

    -�One fine performance deserves another, -� Sarge said.   -�Time for a
big tune.  Let -(TM)s do  -~March Grandioso -(TM)! -�


III: Brigid and the Big Game

    -�The long walk -�, they called it, from the locker rooms to the
football field, everyone trudging through the wet grass before game time,
the team and the band and the cheerleaders in front.  It was a chilly day,
no doubt about it, and it was almost noon and hadn -(TM)t warmed up a bit.
It had rained yesterday and there were sloppy mud patches to be avoided. 
Of course, the football players were resigned to getting all muddy, but for
a variety of reasons that did not bother them so much.  The odd
conversation between them mixed with the more subdued chatting of the band
members and the much quicker talking of the cheerleaders.

   He finagled it so that he was walking near the front, next to Brigid,
who was mindful of the cold.  Parades were one thing, but games, where the
band had to sit for long periods in the stands, were another.  She wore her
green wool poncho over her uniform, her sandals in her hand as she trod the
wet grass with red Converse All-Stars on her sockless feet.  The poncho
barely came down past her butt and she looked like she was naked
underneath. Some of the football players said hi to her as they passed.

   He looked up.  The clouds were gray but it looked like the sun might
break through.  With luck --

   They got to the field and waited for Sarge, as the players, led by their
captain, charged onto the field to go through their warmup plays while the
visiting team from Brookline went through theirs.  Brookline was a wealthy
town and their football uniforms were a dazzling gold and green.  The
almost all-white team looked like a bunch of future executives.  T -"
should make short work of them today.

   He noted, with irritation, the ten or twelve cops hanging out around the
stands.  Just because we -(TM)re a mostly black school they send riot
control.  Well, at least the cops they usually sent were nice.

   Brigid chatted with a couple of the cheerleaders, who wore coverall
sweats over their short skirts.  They had long sleeves too.  Brigid -(TM)s
bare legs and arms really stood out.  He listened to their conversation. 
They were going bowling later.  Cheerleaders traditionally were pretty
snobby, and didn -(TM)t like the band majorette  -" maybe they thought she
upstaged them during the halftime shows  -" but they had made an exception
for Brigid.

   The cheerleaders went off to get their stuff at the storage shed as
Sarge showed up, with his little briefcase, wearing thermal gloves, and an
open overcoat over his business suit.   -�Band, this is a big day, -� he
said, in his  -�announcement -� voice.   -�Also a cold day.  It -(TM)s
thirty-eight degrees and it might rain.  But you know what I say, if our
team has the courage to play out there, WE can play too.

    -�We have one tune before the game, then we sit and then at halftime we
-(TM)ll do the roll-off with Brigid and the drummers and then  -~Washington
Post -(TM).  Local TV will be here.  But before that happens they -(TM)re
presenting a dedication to Roddington McNeil.  You know who he is?  No? 
Well he was principal here for 25 years.  He retired ten years ago.  They
-(TM)re dedicating the new scoreboard to him.

    -�Now this is the big game for our team.  They go to the regionals if
they win.  While we -(TM)re sitting up there waiting, I want you to cheer
them on.  Remember, we -(TM)re their biggest fans. -�

   He looked up at the sky.   -�Looks like we might get lucky.  Maybe the
sun will even come out.  Well, let -(TM)s go. -�

   He led them as they walked, not in formation, to the admissions area
where the ticket takers were setting up their tables.  Past it, the Dad
-(TM)s Club was setting up their refreshment stand.  They had a big metal
tub on a dolly with Jamal -(TM)s uncle using tongs to put big ice chunks
into the tub and then filling it with water to keep the cans of soda cold.
Sarge had a brief call to make on his cell phone.  The band stood around
and watched the tub fill up until he was done.

   Now they walked behind the stands, under the announcer -(TM)s booth
where Mr.  Simonelli was opening up, trying to pry open the top compartment
which was submerged in three inches -(TM) worth of yesterday -(TM)s
rainfall.  The band, with its majorette right behind Sarge, turned under
it.

   It was then that the first of Brigid -(TM)s many misfortunes that day
occurred.

   Walking behind Brigid, watching her bare legs flushed with the cold
under her poncho, he followed her as they turned into the narrow passage
between the two grandstands.

   At first they thought it was a sudden downpour.  But then they saw that
the only person getting poured on was Brigid.  She shrieked as a narrow but
persistent torrent of water came from way above and doused her on her
poncho-covered shoulder.  Everyone stopped in alarm, trying to help but
afraid of being doused themselves.  Sarge looked back.  Brigid tried to
dodge the gush of water but it seemed to follow her as she zigzagged left
and right in the narrow passage.  Finally a few dribbles and it ended.

   Brigid stood there miserably, arms out, her poncho totally soaked and
lying heavy and flat against her body, probably weighing about twenty
pounds, dripping onto her equally soaked sneakers.

   Sarge looked up and yelled.  Mr.  Simonelli looked down and, mortified,
apologized frantically.  There was no time for recriminations, though. 
Brigid breathed heavily, on the verge of tears, and starting to shiver.

    -�You -(TM)ve got to take that thing off, you -(TM)ll get hypothermia,
-� Sarge said.  Wearing a sopping wet cold poncho on a day like this was
not healthy.

   Rod was glad to help.  He put his trombone down on the pavement and
helped Sarge as they carefully lifted the poncho off her.  Sarge folded it
up and put it on one of the grandstand benches.

   As the band members came up from the rear and encircled Brigid, everyone
looked at her, her arms still out to the sides, her white goose-pimpled
skin interrupted only by her majorette uniform, the little circlets
covering her nipples and the little  -�V -� down below with the strings. 
Everyone looked around for a towel or something to dry her off or cover her
with, but under a grandstand such things are not to be found.

    -�Maybe we should get you inside, -� Sarge said.

    -�No, -� Brigid said, realizing that she would be needed momentarily to
lead the band -(TM)s pre-game performance.   -�My uniform -(TM)s not wet,
-� she said, holding up her breasts to get a close look at the circlets. 
She seemed to be speaking to them as she said,  -�The rest of me will dry
off in the air in a little bit. -�

   Which was true.  The band members had noticed it during that first wet
game, the first game of the year back in September.  There was a downpour
early in the game.  At the halftime show everyone else was still soaked
except for Brigid, whose bare skin and minimal uniform dried swiftly.

    -�I -(TM)d best get rid of these, though, -� Brigid said, noting her
sneakers.  She got the poncho from Sarge and put it on the ground, then
untied the sneakers, wiped her bare feet on the poncho, then slipped on the
low heeled silvery flip-flops that were part of her uniform.  The rest of
the band, fully covered and in their big boots, looked on silently as she
wiggled her toes in the sandals as she stood up.

    -�OK then, -� Sarge said, as they resumed their journey through the
grandstands.

   The stands were filling up quickly and they didn -(TM)t have long to
wait.  The sky looked like it might be clearing up.  The wind subsided. 
This might not be a bad day after all.

   Sarge ambled over to Coach Gunderson, who was corralling his players to
the sidelines.  They chatted a bit and when Sarge came back he said, 
-�Five minutes -�.

   They stood around and waited.  Rod worked the slide of his trombone.  On
a cold day he was sure to prep with a lot of valve oil, but it looked like
it wouldn -(TM)t be that cold.  So now he was worried he might have used
too much, and it might drop onto his gloves.  Or worse, his jacket.  He
kept the trombone away from it, the expanse of white with black borders,
with the big  -�T -� on the right side next to the row of black buttons. 
Behind him, the rest of the band was playing with their instruments too.

   He looked over across the field where a van was parked, near the visitor
-(TM)s grandstand, which of course was a lot smaller, and half-filled with
dedicated Brookline fans.  They looked almost like a country club crowd,
except maybe for some beefy guys with  -�B -� sweatshirts standing up on
the top bench.

   The van looked like a TV van, and sure enough a crew was getting out. 
They didn -(TM)t look like they would be ready to catch the pre-game set.
At least they -(TM)d catch the halftime show.

   He worked his slide again.  Sarge examined the sky.  Brigid checked her
fingernails with the alternate black and white polish, looked down at her
circlets, and then clutched the baton between her bare thighs as she
examined her spreading toes on one foot and then the other.  He looked
down. It must be hard to get the polish on those pinky toes.  He pictured
her in the locker room, sitting on a bench, carefully painting them while
the other girls were pulling on their long trousers, their braided jackets,
attaching the epaulettes and cummerbunds, and pulling on the tall boots.

   He thought of the time he had seen her in the girls -(TM) gym class, as
he was walking through it with the other boys on the way to the b-ball
court outside.  The girls were doing jumping jacks.  In their white
T-shirts, black shorts and sneakers with socks, even though Brigid was
wearing the same exact outfit as the other girls, the rest of them looked
as bare as he -(TM)d ever seen them  -" except for Brigid, who looked
unusually covered up.

   He looked at the smattering of freckles across Brigid -(TM)s shoulders.
She had a great body, possibly the best in the school  -" it was impossible
to say, of course, only hers was ever on display like this  -" but just her
skin was so interesting to look at.

   Did she really have 83 freckles?  Jamal and he had joked about it in the
locker room before coming out.

    -�You mean you really counted the freckles on her shoulders? -� he had
asked incredulously.

    -�Of course.  During that long roll-off at practice yesterday.  She has
one on her butt too.  On the right cheek, halfway down to her butthole,
under that little  -~Y -(TM) over her crack. -�

   He laughed as they put their shakos on and headed toward the door.   -�I
can -(TM)t believe you count the freckles on a white girl -(TM)s butt! -�

    -�Hell, no sisters will go out with me, I -(TM)ll take what I can get!
-�

   He thought: Jamal won -(TM)t admit it but he -(TM)s probably as in love
with Brigid as I am.

   As they emerged, he had said,  -�Man, another cold day.  Brigid will be
freezing her circlets off. -�

    -�So what?  She -(TM)s used to it! -� Jamal said.

   As they trotted out he had laughed.   -�Lord, you -(TM)re awful! -�

   Now Mr.  Simonelli, evidently having gotten over his guilt at spilling
all that rainwater, cranked on the P.A.  system and said,  -�Welcome to our
last game of the season!  To our guests from Brookline, welcome to T -"
High School!  Today  -"  -�

   It was his usual long-winded introduction.  He talked about the season
record, the presence of the TV crew, rules as to trash and conduct, the
snacks and soda and coffee available, the thanks to the Dads -(TM) Club,
etc., etc.  Sarge waited impatiently.  He joked quietly to his band, at
least the ones in front who could hear,  -�The whole game won -(TM)t last
this long! -� Meanwhile Brigid shook out her body, arms and legs, trying to
get circulation going.  As she did her breasts jiggled tightly.

   Finally Mr.  Simonelli introduced the band and the crowd woke up and
cheered.  The band was this school -(TM)s pride and joy.  Sarge marched out
smartly and they followed in double file.  They followed him as he detoured
around a nasty-looking patch of mud at the sideline, then got into
formation astride the 50-yard line.

   Sarge, as was his tradition, yelled out,  -�My name is Herbert Quincy
Watson and this is our band  -" the T -" High School Tunemasters!! -�

   Loud cheering from the stands as Sarge walked off the field.  It was his
style not to hog the spotlight.  The band was a product of his hard work,
on both the music and the marching, but he didn -(TM)t wear a uniform
himself, and didn -(TM)t lead.  He just got out of the way and let the band
shine.

   Which it certainly did.  They stood there in  -�attention -� position 
-" Brigid in front, feet together, arms down, her baton upright with one
end in her left hand (she was left-handed) with the other end pressed
against the front of her bare shoulder  -" and behind her, he and the rest
of the line of trombones, then the flutes, clarinets, trumpets, the tubas
in back, and on the side, the drum guard.  The uniforms were splendid, even
Brigid -(TM)s, scanty though it was.  The black and white colors were the
same, the T -(TM)s on her circlets and on her little cap matched the T
-(TM)s on the chests and on the big shako hats of the rest of her band. 
Her uniform might be different than everyone else -(TM)s but it fit in as
one of the band.

   The cheerleaders, having reluctantly gotten out of their sweat pants,
assembled to the side, shivering in their shortish skirts, and posed with
their pom poms at their hips.  Their uniforms were fine-looking too.  All
in black and white, the school colors, yarn bows in their hair,
long-sleeved sweaters (which they wore in the cold weather  -" in hot
weather they wore tank tops) with an embroidered black  -�T -� over a
megaphone.  Then pleated skirts that came to just above the knee, long
white socks and black sneakers.  They would stand there still during the
band -(TM)s performance and then, at the final flourish, jump and cheer and
wave their pom-poms and begin their cheerleader thing that they would do
throughout the game.

   With a swing of the baton, Brigid started marching in place.  That was
the drummers -(TM) cue and they started vamping.  Now she did her first
throw which was the cue for the roll-off.

   Rod blasted away as they launched into  -�Stars and Stripes Forever -�,
the cut-down version.  They didn -(TM)t have to march in place or anything
but he could feel his boots give a little.  He glanced down and saw that
the field was still pretty muddy.

   As they played, Brigid pranced and twirled and threw.  That was how
majorettes stayed warm, he mused.  Only they were allowed to move around so
much.  He could see the wisdom of a majorette -(TM)s scanty uniform, having
free movement in the arms and legs.  To go through those moves in a full
uniform like his would be uncomfortable, and hot, even on a day like this.
Now  -" a really high throw.

   Brigid was serious about her twirling.  She did it a lot during recess
and after school in that little out of the way courtyard past the gym,
pretty much out of view so that people wouldn -(TM)t think she was showing
off.  But he watched her once and noted her diligence.  (She was in her
regular clothes of course; the majorette uniform would have violated the
dress code.) She was totally concentrated on it, trying more and more
difficult throws, doing the same throw maybe fifty times or more until she
was satisfied she got it right.  She would vary what she was wearing,
sometimes even throwing while she was wearing a coat.  She would use
different size batons, and even tied little weights to them.  The idea was
to be able to throw accurately under any type of condition.

   Still, today one could tell that the mud was gumming up her style a bit,
the heels of her sandals sinking in and taking an extra split-second to
pull up.  Being flip-flops, they separated from her feet at the heel and
slapped back up against her sole on the upstep more smartly than usual,
though with the band playing he couldn -(TM)t hear it.

   And now a big spin and one real high throw, maybe thirty feet in the
air. Brigid spun around and looked up.

   It came down a hundredth of a second sooner than she expected and hit
her pinky.

   Brigid dropped the baton.

   It fell on the wet ground and she missed only an eighth of a beat,
picking it up and starting the next twirl, but the sense of shock was
palpable.  The whole season and this was her first drop.  Her face was
deadpan as she continued her paces and the band finished up, and it was not
the end of the world of course, but everyone who knew Brigid knew she had
to be mortified.  One of the baton knobs was smeared with mud, a reminder
of her shame at letting down the band which would not go away.

   One final throw, perhaps not as high and risky as she would have done
otherwise, and the band finished with a cymbal crash.  The crowd cheered,
but it was a muted cheer.  Not because the crowd appreciated the
performance less but because they were stunned.

   The cheerleaders did their woo-hoo pom-poming and the players got ready
to take the field.  The drums started the walk-off vamping and Brigid began
to lead them off, baton tucked under her armpit, the mud-smeared knob
hidden.  She must have still been distracted by thinking about her drop,
and eager to get out of view as quick as possible.  At least that was the
theory everyone had afterward.  It explained why she marched straight for
the grandstand gate and did not see the patch of mud.

   Brigid -(TM)s foot slipped back out from under her and she fell forward,
face first.  As she tried to pry herself up from the cold mud her hands
slipped and her face and upper body hit the mud again.  Mud slopped to the
sides.  On her third try, quaking by now, just one hand slipped and she
flipped over onto her back.

   Across the field, some of the big beefy guys in the visitor -(TM)s
grandstand hooted.

   The band was in disarray.  The cheerleaders looked over from their
places with concern.  Sarge rushed out and shooed the rest of the band to
leave the field.  Everyone carefully stepped around the patch.  Sarge
helped his majorette up.

   She was crying.  One flip-flop fell off and her bare foot squished into
the mud.  She slipped her muddy foot back into it and almost twisted her
ankle before she finally righted herself.  Her white face was all muddy. 
Mud was all over her front, covering her circlets, and actually appearing
to be shoved in under them.  Mud was over half her tummy.  Down below it
gummed up and covered the lower half of her uniform such that it looked
like she didn -(TM)t have a bottom at all and had simply stuffed mud into
her crotch.  As for her back, brown goo dripped from her butt down her
thighs, making it look like she had had a bad  -�accident -�.

   In the stands, people stood up to see what was going on.  As the band
walked up to their reserved area halfway up, trying not to look back, Debra
and Virginia stayed behind to help Sarge take the crying majorette under
the stands.

   Rod felt miserable, about to cry himself.  He hated the jeers coming
from the visitors -(TM) stands.  This was horrible.  Aside from the
humiliation he just could not imagine how Brigid must feel with gritty cold
mud over her body.

   The game started and he couldn -(TM)t get focused on it.  He sat on the
near side of the band section, looking down at his trombone and weakly
moving the slide.  A few moments later he looked over and saw Debra and
Virginia with their muddied friend at the Dads -(TM) Club stand, evidently
waiting for Sarge who was on his cell phone.  They had tried to wipe off
the mud with the little paper napkins available but it was pitifully
inadequate.  Poor Brigid was still smeared from her face down to her bare
toes.  The wind had kicked up and lifted the used napkins out of the trash.
They scattered around the feet of the brown-smeared majorette, looking like
used toilet paper.

   Someone offered Brigid a coat to put on but she declined, not wanting to
get it dirty.  She had stopped crying, the dried tracks of her tears
visible where they had washed away the mud on her face.  She sipped a hot
tea as Debra and Virginia, in their full uniforms, their clarinets on the
refreshment table, huddled around her.

   Rod watched with pity.  He had always been too shy and tongue-tied to
express his affection for her but he was more in love with her than ever
now.  He did not know that Brigid -(TM)s misfortunes today were only
beginning.

   *****

    -�Come on, Brigid, eat something.  Have a hot dog.  It -(TM)ll warm you
up. -� That -(TM)s what he thought as he played with his trombone slide,
looking over at the majorette with her two friends next to the Dads -(TM)
Club area.  Jamal -(TM)s uncle was pushing food on her, free of charge.  Of
course the cold soda cans bobbing in the ice-filled metal tub wouldn -(TM)t
be a good idea.  But there were hot dogs, chips, bags of popcorn.  Brigid
refused all this, preferring to stand between Debra and Virginia and
sipping her tea, watching the game with them.  They were behind the little
table that held the napkins and the serving board with the partly covered
tins of ketchup, mustard, relish and sauerkraut.

   She had composed herself by now.  Ms.  Farkas, the gym teacher who ran
the cheerleading squad, walked over to her and talked.  So did one of the
policemen.  Sarge got off his cell phone and said something to Brigid and
Ms.  Farkas.  Standing still like that, Brigid looked like she was finally
beginning to feel the cold, hugging herself with her bare, mud-streaked
arms, her legs together, wiggling her gritty toes, tapping the heels of her
muddy flip-flops against the gravel, as she sipped the tea and held the cup
close, feeling the steam on her smeared face.  How was she going to get
cleaned up in time for halftime?

   Rod got distracted by action on the field.  His friend Scotus had
intercepted a pass and was running for a touchdown.  He got into cheering
like everyone else.  Scotus went all the way to the 10-yard line before
getting tackled, having run 40 yards.  Yay team!

   The air on this raw, gray day filled with excitement now.  This would be
the first score of the year.  The cheerleaders, spinning around in their
shortish skirts, pumped up the crowd, which really didn -(TM)t need much
pumping up.  This town had plenty of school spirit.

   Rod looked over.  Debra, Virginia and Brigid were cheering too, each
jabbing the air with one fist.  Brigid -(TM)s breasts jiggled in time, the
mud-streaked circlets tracing independent epicycles in the air.  To be
honest, the bouncing of the fringes of Debra -(TM)s and Virginia -(TM)s
epaulettes on their jackets was quite fetching too.  There was something
about a girl in a uniform, the regular band uniform as well as the
majorette uniform, which was sexy.



   Now  -"

   Jamal -(TM)s cousin Jared, helping out at the stand, engrossed in the
game, rested a foot on the dolly holding the ice tub.  The dolly gave way,
one wheel collapsing, and the tub lurched and nearly slid off it.  The tub
had been full almost to the brim and now a little tidal wave of ice-cold
water washed over the legs and feet of the three girls.

   It was a surprise but not an ordeal for Debra and Virginia in their tall
rain-proof boots.  Quite a different experience, though, for the majorette.
Brigid shrieked and hopped back, then yelped with pain as hot tea leapt
from her jolted cup and splashed over the slope of one breast, down her
bare tummy and onto a thigh.  She felt unsteady on the gravel and leaned
back on the table to catch herself, unfortunately causing the serving board
to slide and flipping the tins, the lids of the tins flying off.

   She fell backward and sauerkraut flew onto her face.  Before her bare
buns hit the gravel, relish had sprayed over her tummy.  As her feet went
up, one flip-flop flying off, the mustard tin overturned onto her supine
body, coating her left circlet.

   No one in the stands saw this except Rod, but everyone in the
refreshment area was in shock.  Debra and Virginia quickly took off their
white gloves and helped their friend up.  Once again Brigid broke down
crying.   -~What a day she -(TM)s having, -(TM) Rod thought.  As she tried
to stand, her bare foot, hunting around for its sandal, lurched forward and
stepped into the ketchup tin, the red tomatoey goo oozing up between her
toes.

   Her face, with sauerkraut around her nose and over her forehead, was
pretty disgusting.  It looked like she had sneezed with a nose full of
boogers.  She turned and he could see the bits of gravel stuck to her
mud-smeared back, the nakedness interrupted only by the encrusted string
across the tops of her butt cheeks.  Gravel also coated the backs of her
thighs and calves.  As she cried, holding the mustard-smeared flip-flop,
she staggered forward, collecting gravel between her ketchupy toes.  She
was led by Ms.  Farkas under the stands and out of Rod -(TM)s sight. 
Meanwhile Jamal -(TM)s uncle and Jared were scurrying around to prop up the
dolly to prevent further spillage.  The uncle got a toolbox from his van
and set it up on the dolly as he frantically began screwing the wheel back
on.

   Now Sarge was bounding up onto the stands and stood on the lower aisle,
looking up at his band.  He spoke loudly.   -�Brigid is getting cleaned up.
She -(TM)ll be ready for halftime.  If not, I -(TM)ll get out there and
conduct.  Let -(TM)s go! -� He held up his arms.   -�Fanfare! -�

   This was the short tune they played as a cheer.  Instruments rose to
lips.  Nobody in the band liked sitting in the stands on cold days like
this, everyone -(TM)s butts getting numb on the metal benches.  But at
least playing warmed you up a bit.

   The tune evidently had talismanic powers.  Right on the last note,
Scotus pushed over the goal line.  Six nothing, T -"-!

   As his team launched into the next kickoff Rod wondered how Brigid was
going to get cleaned up.  Probably they had some towels in Ms.  Farkas
-(TM) car or something like that.  Taking her to the locker room showers
was probably not possible.  Between the time it took to walk all the way
there, and showering, and the time back, they would already be into
halftime.  And after that, it didn -(TM)t matter.  The halftime show was
the last thing the band did; for the rest of the game, properly he
supposed, all eyes belonged to the team.

   He saw the camera guys coming around the field from the visitors -(TM)
stand.  Too bad they missed Scotus -(TM) interception.  Well at least they
missed Brigid -(TM)s misfortunes too.  Though he really didn -(TM)t think
they would put that on the local news.  Local news wasn -(TM)t as
mean-spirited and tasteless as the networks.

   It was a long kick.  Brookline was forced to make a fair catch.  On the
next three plays they gained only three yards.  The early signs were that T
-"- was going to win this game.

   He flexed his butt muscles to get some circulation back.  Man, even
through his wool uniform trousers and his thermal underwear his butt was
cold.  On a day like today the metal benches were like sitting on blocks of
ice.  He looked around and could tell that everyone else in the band felt
the same way.

   He thought back to his first-ever conversation with Brigid, last week
before their appearance on Melba McCann -(TM)s show.  His eye was attracted
to her whenever he saw her in the hall.  It was between periods and she had
been walking with Shonday and Luisa.  Then she stopped at her locker.

   Brigid had a distinct if understated fashion sense.  One could call it 
-�the Brigid look -�: jean jacket over a white or black turtleneck, black
jeans, Doc Martens with the thick soles, pink socks.  It was cute, the way
her red hair, shoulder length, draped over her jacket.  He supposed white
girls had plenty of hair options, but Brigid always wore her hair the same,
straight and unstyled.  She was on the quiet side, though if teased she
could give as well as she got.  And modest.  Even in hot weather she didn
-(TM)t show much of that white, freckled skin.  He had seen her come to
school in shorts only once.

   That day at the locker, he had come up and, careful to clear his throat
and speak slowly, said,  -�We -(TM)re going to be TV stars. -�

   She smiled; a shy but gorgeous smile.  Then she waved her hair back from
her face in a way that was adorable.  She could be a model if she wanted
to.  -�Yeah.  I just know I -(TM)ll make a fool of myself. -� A little wave
to one of her friends passing by.

   Another throat clearing.   -�Probably say the wrong thing.  I will, I
mean. -� Not you, Brigid.  I meant ME!

    -�Yeah, well.  I -(TM)m sure Sarge will do all the talking.  Just so we
look nice and our uniforms are straight. -�

    -�Mine will be. -�

    -�Mine too. -� She glanced briefly down at herself.  He knew they were
both picturing themselves wearing their band uniforms, the majorette and
the first trombonist, here in the hall.

    -�Well, gotta go.  Later. -� He wished he could stay with her but he
couldn -(TM)t think of what else to say.

    -�Later. -�

   As a first-ever conversation, it wasn -(TM)t too bad.

   Now Rod sat on his cold butt and rubbed his white gloves over the crook
of the trombone and idly watched the game.

   Then he glanced down and noticed something strange.  Between the floor
board and his bench, he had a constricted but clear view of what was under
the stands and saw what looked like a blanket tied to one of the
understruts.  Leaning to one side revealed a makeshift triangle of privacy
enclosed by tarps and a blanket.  In the center was the long metal tub on
the dolley, having been quickly repaired and rolled there, Jamal -(TM)s
uncle -(TM)s tool box still lying on the end.  To one side was a little tin
like the ones that held the condiments.  Inside the enclosure were Debra,
Virginia, and Ms.  Farkas.  And Brigid.

   A totally naked Brigid.

   Rod -(TM)s mouth opened and his eyes widened.  Brigid was spread out in
an  -�X -�, her legs wide apart, her toes gripping along the wide brim of
one side of the tub, while her hands grasped struts overhead three feet
apart.  Scanty as her uniform was, she looked totally different in the
altogether.  What a magnificent, beautiful, perfect body.  The first live
naked girl he had ever seen.  Thank you, thank you, thank you God, thank
you  -"

   Rod -(TM)s head bobbed up and he looked at the band members around him.
No, nobody was looking down, nobody suspected anything was going on down
there, nobody was blessed with the view that he had.  Again: Thank you,
thank you, thank you God  -"

   He glanced down again, as casually as possible, and made it look like he
was adjusting his spit valve.  The next thing he noticed was that Brigid
had not shaved all her pubic hair like he had theorized: she had cut it
down to a  -�pubic Mohawk -�.  And it was reddish, kind of like the hair on
her head, though partly caked with mud.  Miraculously, her head hair and
her little  -�T -� cap had not been affected by her misfortunes, the cap
still immaculate white and black.  It was pinned to her hair which was
braided up, no doubt to stay out of her way during her twirling but perhaps
not coincidentally giving a clear view of her neck and shoulders.

   The next thing he noticed was that the soda cans had been taken out of
the tub, leaving only the cold water and that huge long chunk of ice, and
that Debra and Ms.  Farkas were busily wetting washcloths and applying
them, fore and aft, to the many streaks and smears on Brigid -(TM)s body.
Brigid seemed to be wanting to help, at one point bringing a hand down to
grab a cloth, but this made her posture too precarious.  She needed to grip
with both hands on those understruts.

   Now, he noticed Virginia bent over the little tin, her bare hands
freezing as they scrubbed in the cold soapy water.  It took a moment to
figure out what she was doing  -" cleaning Brigid -(TM)s uniform.  The
little tin was all that was needed.

   Brigid was trying not to flinch from the application of the freezing
cold cloths, and Ms.  Farkas and Debra were trying not to press too hard,
but they were not making much progress in de-mudding, de-mustarding,
de-sauerkrauting, de-relishing and de-ketchuping their majorette.  Brigid
closed her eyes, taking measured breaths, shivering but trying to control
it.  Good thing the blanket and the tarps shielded her from the wind.  Ms.
Farkas and Debra, their gloves off, frequently shook the fingers of their
bare hands, probably going numb from the freezing water.

   Now the toes of Brigid -(TM)s left foot slipped and the leg gave way and
 -" she flipped sideways into the tub!  It was a deep tub, maybe two feet
deep, and poor Brigid -(TM)s nude body totally went under, her backside
making almost a body-long contact with the ice, bubbles exhaling from her
nose.  She splashed helplessly for a moment, then spun around on her knees
and stood up, one foot and then the other pushing down against the bottom
of the tub.  As she emerged the icy water dripped off her chin, her
fingers, and coursed off the stiff red pebbles of her nipples.

    -�OHH  -" OHH!! -� He could hear her shudder.  Then after a few breaths
she shook her head free of water and seemed to realize something.  Maybe it
was the shock of the cold immersion, but she was no longer shivering. 
Also, due to her little dip her skin was now mostly clean.

   She grabbed the cloth from Debra and went to work completing the
process, sitting on the edge of the tub, vigorously and of course quickly
passing the cloth over her tummy, astringently rubbing it over her nipples,
scrubbing her toes.

    -�Fanfare! -� Sarge -(TM)s call brought Rod -(TM)s gaze back up to what
seemed like the outside, daytime world, as opposed to the secret ablutions
going on out of sight below.  He quickly checked around and saw again that
he was the only one privy to Brigid -(TM)s trials.

   The first quarter ended with T -"- ahead, 13  -" 6.  The teams changed
sides.

   When the band rested again, Rod looked down.  And he was in for another
surprise, one that made him almost ashamed to look, as if he as a male
should be not invading such a private, female scene.  But of course he
looked.

   *****

   He turned back up to the game, watching Scotus do another short run.  He
knew that what was going on below was not meant for his eyes.  But he
couldn -(TM)t help it.  He looked down again.

   Brigid, face up, was doing a kind of suspended animation crab-walk on
the tub, arms and legs spread, her hands grasping each side, her toes
grasping each side at the other end, careful to keep her bare butt well
clear of the ice floe below.  Straining in her awkward posture, she looked
down at her upthrust crotch with concern, as Ms.  Farkas carefully swabbed
it with the dripping wet cloth that she had dunked into the icy water.

   Rod -(TM)s gaze was as furtive as possible given his degree of
amazement. He made it look like he was glancing down at his spit value.  He
played with it a little to keep the pretense convincing.  A quick look
around  -" no, nobody else was privy to what he was seeing.

   He was fascinated by the white girl -(TM)s pussy.  He had never seen an
actual pussy before.  The closely-cropped tuft of reddish hair, now almost
free of mud, framing two lips, with a little pink thing  -" was it called a
clitoris?   -" at the top.  The lips were spread wide by Ms.  Farkas as she
burrowed the freezing cloth in between two inner, redder lips as part of a
sweeping motion.  Those inner lips opened and closed with Brigid -(TM)s
gasps, revealing a narrow open slit where it was too dark to see.  Man, I
feel like a gynecologist looking at that --

   It was hard to believe Ms.  Farkas was making Brigid go through this,
but as he thought about it it made perfect sense.  If it rained or even
drizzled during the halftime show, the smallest bit of mud would cause a
streak of brown to go down her thigh, painfully visible on this white girl
and sure to be detected by the TV cameras.  A streak of brown coming from
her uniform bottom sure wouldn -(TM)t look too good.  Possibly the band
could do the show without Brigid, with Sarge conducting as he said he
would, but they had never done that before and it wasn -(TM)t reassuring.
They needed Brigid and, though modest and unassuming as she was, she
probably knew it.

   Brigid winced and jerked as she felt the icy rag deep within her private
area.  To her side, Debra and Virginia were furiously scrubbing the tiny
bits of the majorette -(TM)s uniform in the little tin.  Without their band
gloves, which they had laid carefully on top of Jamal -(TM)s uncle -(TM)s
tool box, their hands were red and probably numb.  So were Ms.  Farkas
-(TM).  He felt sorry for them, their hands all exposed and dunked over and
over again into freezing water.  Yet it was all school spirit.  This school
was as dedicated to its marching band as it was to its football team.

   He looked up, distracted by cheering.  Brookline had intercepted a pass
but his friend Jaysee had forced a fumble and recovered it.  Go, go go!

    -�Fanfare! -�

   He brought the trombone up to his lips and as he moved he realized once
again how cold his butt was.  Man, he hated playing in the cold, especially
sitting on these freezing metal benches.  Everyone in the band felt the
same way.  They were counting down the minutes until halftime.  Then the
halftime show, where at least they got to move around a bit, and that was
it for them.  The rest of the game belonged to the cheerleaders, who were
rushing in and out of their coverall cloaks as they did quick cheers and
then covered up again.  And of course, to the team.

   And halftime would be it.  This was the last game of the season.  After
that, there would be just concerts up until the St.  Patrick -(TM)s Day
parade.  Though there were rumors of an invitation to go up to Vermont, the
big ski resort at Killington, to play in some kind of winter festival they
had up there in January.  Please let it be an indoor event --

   They finished the fanfare, with a few less flubs than before.  As he put
his trombone down he looked down and  -" oh Jesus  -"

   He shut his eyes but of course opened them again.  Brigid had turned
over, her butt high in the air, fingers and toes grasping the edges of the
tub.  And now Ms.  Farkas was swabbing her butthole!  Ewww!  He had never
looked at a butthole before and averted his gaze.  Brigid must be intensely
ashamed and he didn -(TM)t want to see her in her shame.  But he couldn
-(TM)t resist looking again.  How disgusting.

   Well, maybe not disgusting.  Brigid -(TM)s butthole was neat and clean,
the cold water coursing over it, spasming now and then as Ms.  Farkas poked
and probed.  The ring of brown skin there winked at him like a little brown
eye as the majorette was shocked by the cold water on her most sensitive
spot.  It was strange to think such a thought but Brigid -(TM)s butthole
seemed beautiful, just like the rest of her.  He thought: Brigid has three
eyes, two green ones and one brown one, and they are all pretty!

   Not that Brigid was enjoying this.  Her face turned upward, eyes
squeezed shut, and she clenched her teeth and grimaced, maybe from shame or
just discomfort, as Ms.  Farkas poked, making sure to get every speck of
mud out.  Poke, wince, poke, wince, now a deep poke, and Brigid -(TM)s eyes
squeezed even more, as her toes squirmed against the cold metal rim of the
tub.  He couldn -(TM)t see the muscles of her hollow tummy from up where he
was but he was sure they were quaking --

   Suddenly he realized that if she opened her eyes she would be looking
right at him.  He turned up to look at the game.  Not much exciting
happening, a slow march down the field by T -"- as they gradually gained
first down after first down.

   Whoa  -" now Scotus had the ball again and was rushing for a touchdown.
Twelve-zip T -"-.  Now a two-point coversion.  Sonny, their quarterback,
threw a perfect shot to Scotus deep in the end zone.

   He thought of Brigid -(TM)s anus.  Wow, I -(TM)ve seen every part of
her, even her most secret part.  He felt like he possessed some secret
knowledge of the majorette, that maybe just Ms.  Farkas and Debra and
Virginia shared.  He looked down and was relieved to see the grueling
ablutions were ended.  Brigid was once again standing on the rim of the
tub, hands stretched up to hold the understruts.  And she was smiling,
because Debra and Virginia were presenting her with the prize of their
frantic labors  -" Brigid -(TM)s uniform, sparkly clean!  Debra balanced
the circlets on the tips of her index fingers.  Virginia had stretched out
the tiny V-shaped bottom over her thumb, the strings dangling down.  On her
other hand dangled the stringy silvery uppers of the majorette sandals.

   He smiled, happy for Brigid.  She was a modest girl and no doubt wanted
to be back in her uniform.  Not that it gave her much protection from the
cold.  Then again, the pinned-up blankets shielded her from the wind.  And
that involuntary ice bath a few minutes ago had stopped her shivering,
probably by shocking her metabolism into higher gear.  Like in swim class
when you dive into cold water but it doesn -(TM)t feel cold after you get
used to it.

   Also, her body was now dry.   -�Brigid -(TM)s rule -�: bare skin dries
quickly.  Unfortunately there was another problem.  As Ms.  Farkas handled
the circlets he saw that the way of keeping them on had changed.  No more
bulldog clips.  That was good  -" those must have hurt.  Maybe they were
too big for the smaller circlet design.  He had been right, when he had
seen her sitting for that makeup guy in Melba McCann -(TM)s studio.  The
circlets were indeed smaller, maybe two and a half inches across now.  And
now they had a detachable short threaded cylinders, perhaps half an inch
long, which  -"

   He almost laughed but suppressed it because it would have attracted
attention.  But the little grommets (he thought that -(TM)s what they
-(TM)re called) were designed to slip over the nipples, then the  -�T -�
-~s were screwed onto them with a racheting motion.  More comfortable than
the clips, for sure.  The grommets were a little narrower than Brigid
-(TM)s nipples  -" he wondered if they had had to be specially fitted?  Of
course, if they weren -(TM)t narrower, they wouldn -(TM)t stay on her
nipples and the circlets would fall off.

   But the cold presented a problem not present in a nice warm locker room.
The cold made Brigid -(TM)s nipples pucker, made them tight and hard, and
Ms.  Farkas -(TM)s fumbling frozen fingers could not draw them out far
enough to slip the grommets on.  She pinched the pink nubs and pulled them
out, causing Brigid to wince, but just as she was about to slip the grommet
on, the little pink pebble slipped from her grasp, making the breast jiggle
tightly.  He sighed.  For poor Brigid this day has been once trial after
another, staring with getting her green wool poncho soaked --

   A howl from the crowd brought his head back up.  Jaysee had gotten
tackled and didn -(TM)t get up.  Mr.  Bailey, the trainer, ran over with
his first aid bag.  Before he got there Jaysee showed signs of life.  He
struggled to his feet and put his arms up for the crowd.  What a relief  -"
football was a dangerous game.  One of many reasons he had never tried out
for it (another reason being that he was terrible at it).

   Jaysee, helped by Mr.  Bailey, hobbled from the field.  He was replaced
by Rodrigo.  Four minutes left in the half . . .

   He looked down and  -" good grief  -" will this ever end!

   It was the most shocking sight yet.  Brigid was still standing up in an
-�X -�.  As Ms.  Farkas held the grommets in each hand, waiting for the
right moment, Debra and Virginia had taken two pairs of pliers from the
tool box and had applied them to Brigid -(TM)s nipples!

   At first it seemed like torture, like those things that middle-aged
people do to each other when they can -(TM)t get turned on any other way,
like those kinky sites he had seen on the internet.  But it wasn -(TM)t
torture.  It was simply the sensible thing to do, with Brigid -(TM)s
nipples being so tight because of the cold.  And her friends were going
about it as gently as possible.  They were squeezing the pliers, and
pulling with them, very carefully.

   Still it looked grotesque.  Brigid shared her friends -(TM)
determination but her face betrayed what she was feeling, once again a
grimace, eyes shut, teeth clenched.  Her pink nipples, pinched in the
jagged jaws of cold metal, stretched out obscenely from the rest of her
breasts.

   Again he realized that if she opened her eyes she would be looking right
at him.  So again he turned back up.

    -�Fanfare! -�

   After that was done he looked down again.  The grommets were on.  Brigid
looked down at them, and at the ends of her nipples emerging from them just
the slightest bit.  Ms.  Farkas carefully screwed the circlets on.  One of
them ended up a little crooked, at 11 o -(TM)clock instead of 12, and she
had to twist the whole circlet together with the now-hidden grommet. 
Bridget bit her lip and endured --

   He decided he would not look down there again.  Then during a long
time-out he felt the urge.  No, no, must -- not -- look -- Brigid -- naked
--

   He exhaled and cheered with everyone else as Brigid, all suited up,
bounded up onto the lower aisle.  She held her hands up, one with the
baton, as if in triumph, the circlets bouncing with the rest of her.  Quite
a change from the crying, mud-streaked wretch as the band had last seen
her.

   She hopped up the steps, her low heels clanging echoes against the
metal, Debra and Virginia close behind her.  In a moment they were seated
right in front of him.

   He felt like he should avoid eye contact, ashamed at having been a
Peeping Tom, though of course they didn -(TM)t know it.  But they were busy
in their own world, chatting about ordinary things as the quarter wound
down.  Not much was happening on the field.  T -"- was on the Brookline 30
yard line and was running plays into the line to run out the clock.

    -�Zhhhh! -� Brigid shivered, then got up a bit and massaged her bare
butt cheeks.  That cold metal bench must be super-cold to her!  On top of
that the sky was getting gray and the wind was picking up.  He felt a tiny
raindrop on his nose, then another.

   Debra and Virginia offered half a lap each, and Brigid was now spared
the cold bench by sitting up on their uniformed thighs.  She dropped her
sandals off and wrapped her feet around the jacket of Luisa sitting down in
front of them.  Brigid put her arms around Debra and Virginia as Luisa,
putting down her flute, rubbed the majorette -(TM)s toes with her gloved
hands.

   From what he could tell they were talking about bowling again.  Mostly
about the goofiness of the shoes they gave you.  Jeremy, one of the trumpet
players, sitting a few rows up, said,  -�Hey Frigid! -� Brigid gave him a
killer look and aimed her baton like she was about to throw a spear at him.
Then got back to talking.

   Sarge passed up a black blanket, donated by a parent probably.  Brigid
put it underneath her, then curled up cross-legged in what had to be
welcome warmth.  She looked like an ancient Druid, wrapped up in a black
robe, except for the jaunty little Tunemasters cap.  And the lovely white
neck, with a few strands of her braided-up red hair hanging down, tossed
with the cold damp breeze.

   One minute left.  And now a fine mist filled the air.

   Sarge walked over on the lower aisle with a big box and set it down.  
-�Attention folks.  It -(TM)s almost halftime, then we wait on the track
for ten minutes while the crowd gets their snacks, then our big show.  The
cameras are set up.  I don -(TM)t have to tell you what a big deal this is.
I know you -(TM)ll come through like you always do.  Brigid, come down and
help me OK? -�

   Brigid unwrapped herself and, toting her baton, bounded down to Sarge.
She gave him the folded-up black blanket.  He opened the box and showed her
the contents, saying something.

   Now back to his announcement voice.   -�Now, it looks like rain.  We
haven -(TM)t had to do this so far, but it -(TM)s time to put on the
plastic ponchos.  You heard me talk about this in September.  Walking
around in a wet uniform on a cold day is a sure route to hypothermia.  Not
in my band!  These -- -� Helped by Brigid, he slipped one on.   -�Fit over
the head and will cover your shoulders and down to about your knees.  I
know they look strange but the point is the crowd can still see your
uniforms and believe it or not, you can still play your instruments, even
the trombones and drums.  They -(TM)re that loose.  Remember  -" the
formation is just as strict with these things on as otherwise. -� He put
his gloved hand on the majorette -(TM)s bare shoulder.   -�Brigid, help me
hand these out O.K.? -�

   *****

   The band milled around in the track area, between the Dad -(TM)s Club
stand and the end zone, waiting for the signal from Sarge to get into
formation for the halftime show.  They had gotten used to the clear plastic
ponchos that covered them.  It was a struggle at first, but once they were
fully on down to your knees, and you got your instrument organized under
it, they were not so bad.

   The band was trying to relax.  But the mobile camera truck loomed over
them like it was a tank.  They knew they -(TM)d be on the local TV news
tonight, watched at home by their families, their parents, and most
embarrassingly, by their younger siblings.  Embarrassing, that is, if
something went wrong.

   So the air of casualness and joking around was forced.  He played with
his trombone slide and shot the breeze with Jamal and Jaysee, who was on a
crutch, his calf bandaged up, out of the game and a lot more relaxed than
his friends.  Others paced, chatted, blew through their instruments.  The
color guard, which would lead the formation, hovered near the edge of the
field, straightening their jackets, making sure the flag holders were
secure.  To have the flag drop would be a disaster.  As for the
cheerleaders, not involved in the halftime show, they were sipping diet
sodas at the Dad -(TM)s Club.

   One of the more relaxed band members was Brigid, near the fence, talking
idly with one of the police, Office McElroy, who he remembered was her
uncle.  He was a big beefy Irish cop kind of guy, with a jolly face, in his
heavy coat, gloves, with ear muffs and a ski mask under his cap.  On a cold
day a guy like him, whose job was just to stand around, had to bundle up.
He had pulled the ski mask down to his chin so he could talk.  Usually he
was three times Brigid -(TM)s size, but with him all bundled up next to her
in her tiny uniform, it was more like ten times.

   The two were laughing at something, Brigid -(TM)s circlets jiggling,
flexing her purple toes, idly scratching her butt with her baton.  In the
chilly, damp wind, her body was a raw red from head to toes, though a
little whitish blotch could be seen where the hot tea had splashed her, on
the inner slope of her left breast.  If Officer McElroy was thinking about
what his niece must be feeling like, he gave no sign.

   They were joking around about the Star Wars present her brother had
gotten at his recent birthday party, from what he could hear.  As she
scratched her left butt cheek he smiled.  I know what Brigid -(TM)s
butthole looks like --

   Could anyone else see it?  When she was sitting in front of him a few
minutes ago, raising her butt to put that black blanket under her, her butt
briefly was almost in his face.  The string of her bottom, no wider than a
shoelace, bisected her butthole; he could see the sides of her secret brown
eye on each side.  Well, it would never show in performance.  Sticking her
butt out at the crowd was not part of the majorette -(TM)s routine.

   Now Brigid, talking to her uncle, lazily tapped the baton against her
shoulder, then dropped it and tapped it against her bare heel.  Now she
casually twirled it, joking with her uncle all the while.

   The rest of the band, of course, had the benefit of the clear plastic
ponchos, which it turned out also afforded some warmth and shielded them
from the wind.  After the last of the ponchos had been handed out in the
stands, Brigid had looked down at the empty box.  Whether this was a
surprise to her or not, he couldn -(TM)t tell.  But it kind of went without
saying that the majorette couldn -(TM)t perform in a poncho.  It turned
out, like Sarge said, that he could slide his trombone under it, and the
drummers could wield their drumsticks under theirs.  But there was no way
to twirl in one.

   Actually quite warm now in his full-coverage uniform and plastic poncho,
he looked at his band -(TM)s majorette chatting nearly naked in the cold
and felt in love again.

   He sat across from her in one class, English.  He was hoping she hadn
-(TM)t noticed how much he looked over at her.  In her turtleneck shirt,
jeans jacket, black jeans, Doc Marten boots  -" he could picture her naked
body under it, knowing how she really looked underneath, the breasts that
were hidden in the turtleneck, the butt cheeks in her jeans, the feet and
toes in her Doc Martens.  With no other girl could one do that.  He felt
like he had x-ray vision and was looking through her clothes.  Then turned
away before she caught him staring.

   He imagined taking her to the prom, him in his tuxedo, and her going in
her majorette uniform.  It was certainly dressy enough for a nice party
like that, though not allowed by the dress code.  Where would she put the
corsage he gave her?  Maybe it could hang from a circlet.  Or pin it one of
the strings of her bottom, below the graceful ridge of her pelvic bone. 
Well, no, the string looked too thin and fragile for that.  Better yet,
clip it to her red hair, hair that would be braided up like it now was
under her cap, so that he could see her lovely neck and bare freckled
shoulders.

   Sigh -- He would never have the courage to ask her to the prom, of
course.  It was all he could do not to choke up in her presence even
without planning on saying anything.  As to what she would actually wear to
a prom, he could guess.  An elegant but modest dress, floor length, maybe
sleeveless at the most.  No bare shoulders, definitely no bare midriff or
bare legs.  Sandals, maybe.  But covered up.

   He shook his head, trying to stop fantasizing, but he couldn -(TM)t. 
What if she went through the school day every day in her uniform?  With
everyone else normally dressed?  He pictured her sauntering down the hall,
talking with her friends, the clip-clop of her heeled flip-flops along with
the thumps of their boots, her breasts jiggling and agitated as she
laughed, the circlets dancing their crazy little ellipses in the air, her
concave tummy moving with her breathing and laughing.  Or playing in a
concern in her uniform, with everyone else in their nice clothes, the boys
in their ties, the girls in their black floor-length dresses.  And in the
clarinet section, among the black formal fabric, the bare beautiful white
body gleaming in the stage lights as she played along with the other
clarinetists --

   He cleared his throat and blew through his trombone, watching Brigid and
her uncle through the corner of his eye.  I -(TM)m getting all sappy.  I
hardly even know her.  Yet it was hard not to be in love.  Probably a lot
of other guys were too.  Now Brigid turned with her back to him, flexing
her arms, changing the baton from hand to hand over her head, as she spoke.
From her cap to her backless sandals she presented a rear view of total
nudity interrupted only by the tiny T-string of her bottom that disappeared
between her butt cheeks.  Then she turned slightly.  He loved her from that
angle.  The side of her breast came into view, but not so much that he
could see the circlet perched at its tip.  From this angle, she looked like
she was topless.

   Uh-oh  -" her uncle was looking at him, seeing that he had been looking
at Brigid.   -�How -(TM)re ya doin -(TM), young fella? -� he said.

   He smiled and nodded weakly, thinking he was going to get some sharp
warning from this big cop about ogling his niece.  But the cop -(TM)s smile
didn -(TM)t seem to hide anything stern.

   Then Brigid turned and said,  -�Oh hi, that -(TM)s the guy who was on TV
with me.  Come heah, -� she said in her Providence accent, waving him over.

   Still not at ease with the cop, and nervous as he always was about
approaching Brigid, he walked over, making a show of conscientiously
blowing through his trombone under the poncho and checking the slide.

    -�Yes, I remembah, -� the cop said, with the same accent.   -�You and
Brigid put on a good show. -�

    -�Th  -" thanks. -�

    -�Even though Sahge had us mahching for almost five hundred yeahs, -�
Brigid said.  A reference to Sarge -(TM)s slipup saying that the band was
founded in 1527 instead of 1927.  She laughed and he did too.  He tried not
to look at her circlets wobbling.  The fine mist had given a sheen to her
reddened skin.  The scald mark was barely visible, a slightly less reddened
area shaped like a flame, along the side of her breast, almost touching the
circlet.

   He smiled and looked down at his trombone, watching his high boots next
to the red bare toes in the sandals.  The mist had formed little beads of
condensation on the toenail paint.

   Now a gust of wind.   -�Geez, it -(TM)s cold, -� her uncle said, shaking
his arms under his coat.

    -�Yeah, -� Brigid said, shaking her bare shoulders.  A rare
acknowledgement from her.  As she shook the circlets danced.  And she
smiled, enchantingly.

   Now Sarge called her away and spoke to her, his gloved hand on her bare
shoulder.  He heard him say the word  -�muddy -� but couldn -(TM)t make out
the rest.  Probably giving her a pep talk to avoid the disaster of the
pregame show.

   Sarge shouted,  -�Get ready! -� As they assembled he said,  -�Change of
plan.  There -(TM)s a dedication to Roddington McNeil, I told you about
that.  He has a request.  We -(TM)re going to do  -~Catch That Tiger -(TM)
instead.  Then Mr.  Simonetti goes on the field with him and he gives a -�
-" he spoke in a stage whisper now  -"  -�hopefully short -�  -" back to
loud  -"  -�dedication speech.  Then it -(TM)s  -�Stars and Stripes -�, the
full version. -�

   Groans from the flute players.  He said,  -�Now this is the last
halftime show of the year, so let -(TM)s end in a big way.  Remember  -" -�
he looked up and saw that it was beginning a light rain now  -"  -�it
-(TM)s more important to look good and stay in formation than to get every
note right.  The ponchos are going to muffle the sound a bit anyway.  But
they -(TM)re clear plastic and the formation is going to be very visible.
-�

   Sarge looked at the general drift of people from the snack area to the
stands.  Then, again holding his gloved hand on the majorette -(TM)s bare
shoulder, he seemed to count off five seconds and said  -"

    -�Now! -�

   The six snare drummers lined up behind Brigid and on her signal they
began the rat-tat-tat of the opening salvo.  This got the crowd -(TM)s
attention and there was an accelerated movement from the Dad -(TM)s Club
area up to the stands.  Brigid -(TM)s signal was to thrust her baton over
her head, her breasts wobbling tightly before coming to rest.  He loved the
way those circlets moved in little, well, circles.  Were they being
propelled by those hard pink nipples they were screwed onto?  Or did the
circlets cause her breasts to sway more?

   Once again he felt the possessor of secret knowledge, having seen her
total nakedness and how the circlets were fastened onto her.  He looked at
them and wondered how far her nipples, stretched by the hidden grommets,
extruded.  The circlets themselves didn -(TM)t seem to protrude very far.
They made her breasts look slightly more puffed-out but that was all. 
Certainly nothing like that pointy bra Madonna wore in the 80 -(TM)s.  He
wondered how Brigid -(TM)s nipples felt in this cold.  Did the cold make
supporting the circlets more bearable?  At least it couldn -(TM)t be as
uncomfortable as those  -�bulldog -� clips.

   He took in the rest of her posture  -" her  -�call to attention -� pose.
Her baton up in the air, her other arm extended behind her, fingers
outstretched, one leg in front of the other, the rear leg bent slightly at
the knee.  Kind of theatrical, but that was the name of the game with a
marching band.  He saw something he -(TM)d noticed before.  In this
posture, the toes of her rearward foot were spread.  Her pinky toe, the
school colors meticulously painted on the tiny nail, was almost off the
sole of her heeled silvery flip-flop and nearly touching the cold muddy
ground.  It looked so precarious.

   But Brigid was strong and, as she began marching and everyone fell into
formation behind her as she strutted, she exuded strength and confidence.
It had not been a good day for her, one misfortune after another.  Being
doused by cold water from above.  Falling face down into the cold mud which
squirmed into her circlets and into her bottom, and squished up between her
toes.  Having hot tea spilling on the bare slope of her breast and down her
tummy, icy water splashing over her bare feet and legs, having a freezing
cold cloth poking into her pussy and into her asshole, her whole naked body
plunged into ice water with her back against a big block of ice, finally
having her nipples bit and stretched by pliers.

   But that was then.  She had put it all behind her.  And now, as he and
the other trombones marched out behind the drum majors, the cheering as the
band came out in formation, the Tunemasters were supreme.  Yes, being in a
marching band was considered geeky.  The uniforms certainly were, at least
in any other setting.  But out here on the football field during halftime,
no other outfit would do.  As they began marching in a circle around the
field, each being careful to stay six feet behind the one in front, two
feet from the one to the side, the crowd cheered more loudly, a cheering
heard even after they started into  -�Catch That Tiger -�, and his heart
swelled with pride.

   This is where all that practice paid off  -" all those before-school
practices on this same field, at the ungodly hour of 6:30 a.m., in all
kinds of weather, enduring Sarge -(TM)s benevolent but strict discipline,
in the rising sun and often in drizzle and biting cold.  Everyone in their
regular clothes, with coats on when it was cold, though Brigid had taken
her shoes and socks off to get used to marching in the majorette sandals.
And now, here at the big game, in uniform, all the drudgery was forgotten.

   The TV trucks seemed to be everywhere.  He couldn -(TM)t tell from his
angle but he guessed there were cameras at every corner of the field.  They
knew this would be on local TV and probably the Boston local news too. 
This was their moment!  All those guys who teased the band members for
being geeky, they couldn -(TM)t help but envy them at a time like this. 
The formation was excellent, the band sounded great, not a single flubbed
note in spite of the chill.  Looked great too.  Even though all the band
members except one were covered from neck to knees in plastic ponchos, the
magnificent uniforms could still be seen clearly, moving in perfect
synchronicity around the field as Brigid and the drum majors turned into
the center and he hooked up with Jamal in front of him now, and the other
percussionists in the rear rank, as the band formed a huge donut circling
on the field.  In the middle, it was out of his view, but he knew the drum
majors were turning around in sync as they did their rolls, and Brigid was
prancing and doing some throws.

   The cheering continued, audible to him even through the music.  The
ponchos muffled the sound but only a little.  It was beginning to drizzle,
as he could tell from looking down on his poncho and feeling it against his
face, but he couldn -(TM)t hear the pitter-pat against the plastic,
everything was so loud and alive!  The cheerleaders, in the Dad -(TM)s Club
area, put down their sodas and just had to clap.  Even the tiny bunch of
Brookline fans in their little grandstand stood up, getting some
circulation going, and seemed impressed.

   Now was his big moment.  It was his cue, as the first trombonist, the
one on the left.  Glancing down carefully while still playing, he stopped
exactly at the 47-yard line and marched in place.  The other trombonists,
watching him, stopped with him.  He looked forward as Jamal and his line
pulled away.  Now, he watched Sarge, in his unobtrusive position on the
sidelines.  Sarge was waiting for the band to bunch up into  -�tight -�
formation, just three feet between each rank.  Now Sarge signaled.  Still
marching in place, Rod turned toward the crowd, as the band went into the 
-�B -� part of the tune on the last go-round.  The trombonists followed him
and now they were in a line, working their slides in the direction of the
stands.

   In a moment, Brigid and the drum majors came down in front.  The band
played especially loud the last few bars.  A few rim-shots from the drums,
then some terrifically high throws from Brigid.  He could see the wisdom of
not having a poncho on the majorette.  The baton would get all tangled up
in it.  One final throw, and then silence.  And now cheers!

   He couldn -(TM)t help but smile.  Smiling in formation was O.K.  The
cheers continued as Mr.  Simonetti, with his wireless microphone and a
folded-up umbrella, walked tentatively onto the field, at the sideline,
about twenty feet in front of Brigid and the drum majors.  The cheering had
barely died down when he said,  -�Let -(TM)s hear it again for the
Tunemasters! -�

   More cheering, and some whistling.  The drum majors stepped off to the
right, and stopped in line.  He looked to the left, at Brigid, whom he
could see in profile, about ten feet in front of him, a little to the side,
so as to complement, and not obscure, the presentation of the band in
formation.  She was in  -�presentation -� position, hands on her hips,
baton in her left hand (she was left-handed), again with one foot in front
of the other, rear leg bent so that her rear foot was on its toes, the sole
of the backless sandal separating from her heel.  She was smiling too.

   Mr.  Simonetti introduced Roddington McNeil, and an incredibly old man
hobbled onto the field with a cane.  He had on a business suit, a fedora on
his head, and rubbers over his shoes.  He gave a labored wave to the crowd
as Mr.  Simonetti introduced him.  The cheers seemed to be from the older
parents.  Nobody in the band had seen this guy before, though they -(TM)d
seen his name on a plaque in the lobby, near the glass case that had the
old band pictures and trophies.  Mr.  Simonetti motioned to the new
scoreboard and asked Mr.  McNeil to say a few words.

   The old guy grabbed onto the microphone, his hand over Mr.  Simonetti
-(TM)s, and began to speak in a quavering, old-man voice.  He began
speaking about when he first came to this school, in 1962 --

   Rod realized this might be awhile so he glanced over to Brigid.  What a
fine view he had.  In profile she displayed to him the slopes of her
breasts, her flat tummy, one knee in front of the other -- He was in love
again.

   He looked at her tummy.  It was more like a hollow.  She was on the
soccer team, she was in good shape.  He remembered again that time he had
walked through her gym class, her doing exercises with the other girls in
her T-shirt and gym shorts, sneakers and socks.  So covered up compared to
now.  What a fine-looking tummy, flat and just slightly muscular.  Flushed
red with the cold like the rest of her, though her toes and fingers were a
little purplish by now too.  White girls -(TM) skin was so interesting.

   He noted the smoothness of the tummy, down to her navel, then the long
expanse down, down, down past her delicate hip bones, down, down, down some
more, finally to the top of the tiny V-shaped uniform bottom.  He knew what
her pussy looked like now, and where her clitoris was, and estimated that
they began just millimeters below the top of the little triangle of fabric.
The skin above was flawless.  How did she shave her pubic hair there?  What
did she use?  A razor?  Or some kind of cream like girls use to get the
hair on their legs?

   He thought of last year -(TM)s majorette, Grenicia.  During one of the
halftimes last year, during a moment like this, he noticed she had bumps
down there, some kind of irritation.  Fortunately for Grenicia her skin was
real dark and you couldn -(TM)t notice unless you were up close.  Maybe she
shaved too close, or had some kind of allergic reaction to the cream she
used.  Brigid, with her white skin, could afford no such mishap.  To have a
red rash visible above her uniform bottom would look pretty bad.

   Of course, Grenicia had been lucky.  That whole last year, the band was
blessed with beautiful weather.  Every Saturday was warm and sunny, even
into December.  St.  Patrick -(TM)s Day was a nice day too.  Brigid, at the
time marching with the clarinets in a full-cover band uniform, must have
looked at the majorette and decided to try out for the job when Grenicia
graduated.  There were about ten candidates, the way he understood it.  And
she got picked, the first white majorette in years.

   And look at how it turned out!  To begin with, the uniform got more
skimpy.  Grenicia -(TM)s circlets were four inches across and, her breasts
being a little small, covered almost the entire slopes.  The uniform bottom
had been bigger, the straps going around the waist, and around Grenicia
-(TM)s quite bigger butt, had been thicker too.  The sandals had had a
strap around the heel which was now gone.  But the worst of it was the
weather.  Grenicia had strutted in the warm sunshine.  But except for those
first two Saturdays in September, poor Brigid had had to endure the coldest
and wettest autumn on record.  It was always raining, or windy, or just
plain COLD, and sometimes all at the same time.  Yet she strutted and
marched and twirled as if it was sunny and 70 degrees out and as if being
the majorette was a great honor that she was thankful for.  Which it was,
of course.  Yet no one who saw this girl, this unassuming, really quite
ordinary though pretty girl, walking through the halls in her jean jacket,
talking with her friends  -" no one could suspect the steely strength
within.

   The old guy kept rambling.  And now drizzle turned into real rain. 
Umbrellas went up in the stands, and Mr.  Simonetti opened up his big
golf-style umbrella so that it covered him and the elderly honoree.  Still
the old guy kept talking, Mr.  Simonetti nodding with just the slightest
indication of impatience.

   Rod was glad for his poncho.  In his full uniform with the thermal
underwear underneath, he was not at all cold.  In fact the poncho acted
like a greenhouse and made him a bit warm.  Not a feeling being experienced
by the poncho-less majorette.  Brigid stood there, in  -�presentation -�
pose, smiling, as the rain began to coat her flushed body.  Her toes flexed
every now and then but otherwise she stayed motionless to the extent she
could.  He watched as a thin sheet of water developed which ran down her
bare back, turned at her sacral dimples, then dripped off the string
surrounding her waist.  Courses of water ran down further, around the
Y-shaped dimple over the beginning of her crack, then washed over the two
cheeks of her butt.  Jamal was right.  Brigid DID have a freckle on her
butt, on the right cheek right near her butthole, about halfway down.  Then
the water ran down the backs of her legs.  On the rear leg, it went down to
her flexed reddened heel, then dripped off her heel down to the sole of her
sandal, from which it ran down and collected under her toes.  Through the
corner of his eye he could see the TV camera guy, fifty feet away, the
camera maybe trained on the speech but could he be actually trained on
Brigid?

   Rod looked at her frozen smile, as the rain dripped off her nose, off
her chin.  What was she thinking?  Warm thoughts?  He saw her start to
shiver.  That was not unusual.  A scantily-clad majorette on a cold day was
expected to shiver.  It was part of the majorette -(TM)s life.  But still
he felt pity as the freezing rain washed over her in its icy caress.  He
wished he could throw his poncho over her, no more than that, wrap her
near-nakedness in his jacket, give her his long pants, his nice warm boots
over her frozen feet -- He had a fantasy of the end of the halftime show,
Brigid jumping into a hot tub set up on the 50-yard line, splashing around
in it gratefully, a special chemical in it making her circlets and bottom
dissolve, her warm wet body finally jumping up in triumph in her warm wet
nakedness to the cheers of the crowd --

   He shook himself away from this bizarre fantasy and thought of Brigid in
happier times.  Those first two Saturdays in September were hot and sunny.
The rest of the band was actually sweating in their wool uniforms and
Brigid was having a great time.  Maybe too great!  There was the Bubble Gum
Game, the second Saturday.  Debra and Virginia had made the ill-advised
decision to chew gum on the way to the field.  What to do with it?  Up in
the stands, having to play  -�Fanfare -�, they had to put it somewhere
fast. There not being any place to put it on their own uniforms, Brigid,
who had no playing to do, offered her circlets.  And so for the rest of the
time up there one could see little pink nubs on her circlets.  It looked
for all the world like her actual nipples were sticking out through holes.
It sure gave him a rise.  Neither Brigid nor her girlfriends seemed to be
aware of this, as they chatted during fanfare breaks and cheered the team
on during runs and touchdowns.  But to see Brigid jump up when Jaysee
caught that long one in the end zone, the pink nubs bouncing up and down 
-" he considered himself lucky to have taken in that sight once in his
lifetime.

   The old guy rambled on -- Mr.  Simonette was trying, gently, to wrest
the microphone away but McNeil had it in a death grip in his gnarled hand.
Maybe he was trying to show how hardy he was despite his age, standing up
and talking for a long time in this cold rain.

   The rain got more torrential now, and now a gust of wind that almost
knocked him over.  Maybe others in the band too.  Their ponchos flapped
ferociously around them.  Mr.  McNeil, perhaps aware of this, spoke louder
and closer to the mic.

   Brigid adjusted her toes very slightly to the wind but kept in place,
smiling, hands obediently on hips, baton wrapped in the fingers of her left
hand.  Currents of cold rain ran down the slopes of her breasts into the
circlets, no doubt chilling her nipples before re-emerging below.  Now
there were drips coming from the undersides of her breasts, water
accumulating, then dripping, accumulating, then dripping -- Cold rain
likewise ran down her tummy into her uniform bottom, no doubt running in
between her pussy lips, maybe going inside -- Cold rain washed down her
butt, down her crack, no doubt running against her hidden butthole --

   Now with the increased flow the rain began going on top of her circlets
and spouting off them.  Like skiing, or one of those fountains in Italy you
saw pictures of, where water squirts out of a statue -(TM)s nipples.  Two
little streams, coming off Brigid -(TM)s breasts.  Now her shivering
increased and the streams scattered.

   How long was this old guy going to go on?  Mr.  Simonetti leaned forward
to the mic, trying to say something, but the guy just kept talking.

   He pictured Brigid shivering so much, that her breasts scattered the
water like a lawn sprinkler.  A comical sight.  On sale now  -" the
Majorette Lawn Sprinkler.  Then he scolded himself for being so cruel. 
Still, he was beginning to get concerned about her.  Sarge, under his
umbrella in front of the stands, seemed to look concerned too.  Hopefully
the old guy was almost done.  Unfortunately he had only gotten up to 1985
or so --

   He had been getting concerned and the fact that Sarge was concerned made
him more so.  Sarge had led a band in the Army for years.  And this was his
tenth year leading the Tunemasters.  Marching bands were his life.  He
could handle any type of situation  -" like that time last year when
Chelsea, one of the flute players, vomited during the Fourth of July
parade. Sarge quickly snatched her to the side and got her some medical
help, and moved the marchers around so that the march continued with hardly
a blip.  Fortunately Chelsea was O.K.  But it was the kind of eventuality
that he knew how to deal with from his years and years of experience.

   But now Sarge looked uncomfortable and uncertain.  This was a situation
he had never had to deal with before.  Majorettes had to get used to
marching in the cold in skimpy uniforms, it came with the territory.  But
the marching kept them warm.  Standing still in freezing rain was
different.

   Rod stood there miserably in his sweaty warmth, feeling the rain pelt
his poncho, and underneath the poncho was his jacket, then his shirt, then
his thermal underwear.  The rain was a remote feeling, like being inside a
house and hearing it hit the roof.  But Brigid had none of these
protections.  The rain entombed her bare skin, the cold no doubt piercing
her to the bone.

   She shivered and the rain cascaded over her, into her circlets and her
uniform bottom and deep into her most private crevices, then down finally
over her bare purple toes.  It was not just her toes.  Her entire nearly
naked body now had a purplish tinge to it.  She had no place to hide from
the cold.

   And now it got worse.

   The rain started feeling hard, like little stones.  He looked down at
the muddy field and saw to his horror that the rain had changed to sleet!

   Yet Roddington McNeil, the old fool, kept babbling on.  Mr.  Simonetti
was getting more insistent in trying to interrupt but Mr.  McNeil kept on
hogging the microphone.  The people in the crowd, huddled under their
umbrellas or under raincoats, were losing interest, rolling their eyes, no
doubt joking to each other as to when this geezer was going to finish.

   This was ridiculous.  Everyone in the crowd is all bundled up, wearing
gloves, under umbrellas, and Brigid was standing out in front of them
wearing practically nothing.  She stood as still as she could.  Her smile
was as frozen as the rest of her.  And then, finally, a sign of weakness 
-" one knee buckled and she had to switch feet.  Now it was the right set
of toes that was planted firmly downward, spread a little bit, purple from
the cold, millimeters from the muddy ground, and the left heel that was
arched up, the last few drops of rain dripping from it onto the sole of her
miserably inadequate flip-flop.  His feet were warm in their socks and
boots.  How he wished he could give her his socks!

   At least with the ending of the rain she was no longer covered with the
coursing of freezing water.  The temperature might be even lower now but,
with the cruel caress of the wintry wind like the world -(TM)s roughest
towel, her skin was drying quickly.  Brigid -(TM)s Rule.

   He and the other trombonists decided to check out her goose bumps.  A
favorite pastime of theirs, on cold days, that is, almost every day of this
football season  -" taking note of the many varieties of Brigid -(TM)s
goose bumps, where they appeared, how high and how many.  Today was a
record breaker.  She had goose bumps all over  -" those on her her
shoulders, her arms, and her legs were always visible , but the inner
recesses of her butt cheeks were always where they were highest.  Today
they were monumental, sharp little mountains, going right into her crack,
someone inside where the tiny hidden black string bifurcated her cheeks and
pressed snugly and intimately against her butthole.

   As the old man went on, Rod saw Sarge waving from under the little
awning in front of the stands.  He had gotten an extra coat from somewhere
and was motioning as if to open it up.  In other words, he was waving for
Brigid to come off the field and put some damn covering on.

   A drastic measure, perhaps unprecedented in Sarge -(TM)s experience, but
this was a drastic situation.  Rod looked over at Brigid.  The freezing
majorette evidently saw Sarge  -" in fact, from where she was, it was
impossible to miss him  -" and did not react.  C -(TM)mon, Brigid!  He
sighed.  She was stubborn.

   His thoughts were distracted by the novel sight of the tiny grains of
sleet bouncing off her bare shoulders.  And the top slopes of her breasts.
And her knees.  With so many aspects to this new spectacle, each trombonist
decided to pay attention to one.  Rod looked at the shoulders.  The sleet
came down in one direction but bounced off at angles depending upon which
angle of her beautiful curves they hit.  The ones that hit the tops of her
shoulders bounced straight up, then came down again, bouncing either in
front or behind on the second bounce.  The ones hitting the sides of the
shoulders bounced off to each side.  Some bounced up and fastened onto the
lovely wisps of red hair under her cap.

   Sidney, the trombonist next to him, watched the grains bounce off her
cute little cap and the braided up hair below.  George, the next one, was
mesmerized by the scattering of the little grains by her breasts and
circlets.  The ones that hit the circlets shot out especially far out in
front of her.  Well, he figured, that made sense.  The vinyl of the
circlets was harder than the skin on the bare slopes of her breasts. 
Herman watched the sleet bouncing off her hips and butt.  Deion liked the
sight of her bare knee and how the white stones shot out in front as if she
were kicking them.  At the other end of the trombone line, Lorenzo watched
Brigid -(TM)s right foot and the specks of ice bouncing off her spread
toes.

   The sleet got a little bigger and fell harder, and made a real racket
against the ponchos.  It made it hard to hear McNeil and increased the
sense of unreality, that this was some kind of dream.  Though of course for
Brigid it was all too real.

   Sarge -(TM)s waving became more insistent and he could detect Brigid
shaking her head, as slightly as possible so as not to be noticed by the
crowd, an incongruous gesture to her frozen smile.  Then he realized that
following Sarge -(TM)s instruction was not a simple matter.  The TV cameras
were trained on the band as well as McNeil, in fact now that the speech
turned out to be so boring they were probably more into the band.  And it
was certain now that the guy at this corner of the field was focused on the
majorette.  For Brigid to leave the field would be distracting and
disruptive to the show, and possibly would be the one item to make the
news.  -�Frozen majorette can -(TM)t take it any more! -� The screaming
headline on the Boston Globe.  The show, the show  -" with a marching band,
it was always about the show.

   Still, hardy as she had become from all those days marching in the cold,
Brigid must think of her health.  And so the words came out of his barely
moving lips, words that he couldn -(TM)t really believe he had said until
they entered his mind through his ears.

    -�Brigid, go! -�

   His first thought was that he was in big trouble, talking out loud in
formation like that, but no one could hear him through the white noise of
the sleet hitting the ponchos, except Brigid and maybe Sidney and George.
He waited for a response.  Then he cleared his throat and said again,
moving his lips as little as possible so no one in the stands could see, 
-�Brigid, go and put that coat on!  We -(TM)ll be fine! -�

   Shivering, she replied,  -�I c  -" can -(TM)t! -� He screwed up his
courage and said,  -�Don -(TM)t be foolish!  You -(TM)re freezing! -�

    -�Ya think I don -(TM)t knnnnow that! -� In her Providence accent.

   He had confronted her and, in his nervousness, thought he had lost her
friendship.  So he had nothing to lose.   -�I care about you, Brigid! 
PLEASE go get that coat on! -�

    -�N  -" no. -� She closed her eyes  -" maybe trying to transport
herself into a place of warmth, a hot beach maybe.  Or under a hot shower.
Or maybe thinking of herself as being one of the rest of her band, all
covered up under a poncho, as if she was once again marching with the
clarinets.

   The sleet began to accumulate on her cap.  Little crescents of white
crust began to form on top of the circlets.  Down below, the white grains
were filling up the spaces between her toes.

    -�Thank you, thank you, Roddington McNeil! -� Mr.  Simonetti said.  The
old man had had to catch his breath, finally allowing a space to jump in.
McNeil looked around, as if awakened, then looked back at the band and at
the majorette who was turning into a kind of frost-encrusted sculpture.  
-�Oh sorry  -" what a fine band  -" thanks for your time! -� And with that
he hobbled with his cane off the field, followed by Mr.  Simonetti.

   The sleet, as if on cue, ended.  Now it was just a gray sky and a chill
breeze.

   The second the two men were off the field Brigid lurched into action.  A
bit more stiffly than usual, but it was oh so good to see her come to life.
She spun on the sleet-covered muddy field, shaking the white crust from her
cap, her circlets, her toes, and thrust her baton into the air.  A loud
roll-off woke the band up, as instruments went up to lips.  And now the
intro to  -�Stars and Stripes Forever -�.  A bit flubby, but by the time
they were two bars into the first section they were back on their game. 
Their final tune of the year, a big finish, the grandest and most famous of
all marching band tunes.

   And one of the hardest, especially for the flutes.  Fortunately the
trombone part was not that hard.  As he pumped away on his slide he smiled,
watching Brigid twirl, at first slowly, but then her body went from purple
to red, and her smile once again became the smile of a living person.

   But  -"

   Now she stumbled!  The heels of one of her flip-flops sank into the mud.

   *****

   Brigid stumbled, but only for a second.  She didn -(TM)t seem upset
about it.  In fact she seemed to expect it.  Then, to his astonishment,
hardly missing a beat she kicked the heeled flip-flop off to the side,
where it landed on the 40-yard line, and on the next beat kicked off the
other.  And she continued her routine like nothing had happened.

   Rod -(TM)s eyes widened as he pumped his trombone.  So did the other
trombone guys.  Brigid was strutting and twirling barefoot!  Yuck!  The
sleety mud was up almost to her ankles, oozing up between her toes, as she
spun and kicked.  On her kicks to the side and front, little bits of mud
flew out from her toes.  Within seconds the school colors on her toenails
were totally obscured by brown muck.

   Yuck!  What a violation of the rule about what Sarge always called 
-�neat and proper presentation -�!  Yet Sarge, on the sidelines, was
actually smiling.  And talking to people to his side, as if answering their
comments.  Rod realized this was what Sarge had been mentioning to Brigid
before halftime, when he had pulled her away from chatting with her uncle
the cop.   -�If it gets too muddy, dispense with the footwear. -�

   Now the showy part, and the trombones swung to the left and then to the
right, in perfect sync.  This was the beginning of the  -�trio -� section,
the main tune, and as they broke into it the crowd cheered.  Nothing like
your folks and your family cheering you on.  It was a great feeling.  The
TV cameras were eating it up, scanning the field, each line of the band
kicking and high-stepping, all the way back to the percussion line at the
rear.  But most of all the cameras trained on the barefoot majorette
slopping around in the cold mud.

   Brigid was having a great time.  As she spun and twirled and threw the
baton up, it looked like a different type of dancing.  Looser-limbed, more
relaxed.  More African.  She was so stiff and formal sometimes, it seemed
like she had a second baton up her butt.  But not now!  It stood to reason
that without having to totter on those heels, having to grip her toes to
keep those backless sandals on, she could move around more freely.  It also
just was the sensible thing to kick off the sandals when twirling on a
muddy surface.  He wondered when she had practiced majoretting barefoot. 
Certainly each time he had seen her, doing twirls on that grassy patch
during recess, she had worn shoes.

   Her face was flushed, not with cold now but with exertion.  Imagine! 
Not two minutes ago she was shivering and miserable and battling
hypothermia.  Now she was alive and hot.  He realized for the first time
what twirling meant to her, what a thrill it was for her.  Nobody would
suspect it, seeing her around school in her regular clothes, mostly a quiet
normal girl, talking with her friends in the hall -- Now, dancing around
barefoot and nearly naked in the mud in front of the crowd and the cameras.

   And now as she swung around, her jiggling breasts leading the way as she
threw them just so, she looked back at him and smiled.  Just for him.  His
heart leapt.  Yes!!  She wasn -(TM)t mad at him for confronting her about
running off the field to put on that nice warm coat.  He could see now that
she had made the right decision to tough it out.  How much would have been
lost if at this moment the band -(TM)s majorette was huddled on the
sidelines.

   But she was smiling at him  -" remembering that he had said  -�I care
about you Brigid -�!  He didn -(TM)t know what the future would bring, but
right now it looked promising.

   With the sleet no longer hitting their ponchos, the band really rang
out. Now on the final few bars they hit fortissimo.  The drum guard -(TM)s
beats sounded like cannons.  The big climax to the tune, the show, the
season!  Now Brigid threw an incredibly high throw, the baton going up what
looked like a hundred feet, and she spun around and spun around like five
times as it took seemingly half an hour to come down.

   Holy  -"-!  She was really going to do it!  A split!  Brigid turned to
the side and her left leg went forward and her right leg back  -" and as
her bare butt hit the mud, her muddy toes spread and extended in front,
kicking out mud, she caught the baton on the final cymbal crash.  The
trombone players thrust their instruments up to the sky in unison.

   A pregnant second, and then the crowd let loose with a big roar.  He
thought he could detect a chanting undercurrent in there, some guys in the
back rows maybe,  -�Frigid Brigid Frigid Brigid Frigid Brigid Frigid Brigid
 -"  -�

   Sarge ran out and helped Brigid up.  The insides of her legs were coated
with mud but she didn -(TM)t care.  On his prompting everyone took a bow.
Then Sarge playfully waved to the camera guy who was now within ten feet of
them.  Brigid waved too, with a big smile and a wink, her other hand
tucking the baton next to her bare hip.

   Rod smiled, looking at her flushed butt, her total nakedness from
behind, interrupted only by the splatters of mud on her back, her buns, her
legs, and the tiny horizontal string just above her crack, and he thought
of her lovely hidden brown eye.  Maybe it was winking at him now.  It was
corny but he decided to wink back.

   Halftime show over, the band broke formation and trotted off the field
as the football players, now assembled at the sidelines, waited to charge
onto it.  Brigid ran to retrieve her sandals; then zigzagged back to the
fence, her toes kicking up bits of mud behind her.  He watched her go.

   She ran to the gate where her three little sisters and two little
brothers were waiting along with her parents too, all cheering and
laughing, and ready with warm washable boots, a big fluffy blanket to wrap
herself in while they watched the second half, and a huge thermos full of
hot chocolate!