It’s still dark out when we hit the highway, but by the time we make it to the University of Illinois, three hours later, the sun is shining. It’s one of those rare days where there’s a tiny bit of leftover snow on the ground, too, so everything feels especially bright. I know it will all melt by the time we take the field for competition, but the early morning sun makes the ground look as if it’s covered in jewels.

“We’re going to tune in ten minutes, then we go to photos and pre-staging before we compete. You’re going to love this, Kensi,” Willow says. She’s wired on a few energy drinks. I counted three empty cans in her car. I’m pretty sure that isn’t safe, but I’m also fairly certain that there’s little difference in her personality—wired or not.

Willow walks around each section, listening and adjusting instruments as everyone warms up, her whistle perched at the edge of her lips.

“Just one more reason why drum line is the best,” Jess says, rapping out a drumroll on the rim of his snare. “We don’t tune.”

I laugh and wait at the back of the moving truck for a few of the booster parents to help unload the xylophone, smirking when one of the wheels falls off into my hand as they pull it from the truck. I bend down and lift the leg up so I can work the wheel back in place, and suddenly the weight is lighter.

“I hope you know this is butt-crack early, and I would only show up to something like this for you,” Owen says, his head buried in its usual black hoodie.

“You’re here!” I squeal, rushing into his arms. He catches me and holds me under the sides of his coat, shielding the cold breeze from my skin. We changed into our uniforms the second we got to the campus, and I haven’t been warm since.

Owen rubs his hand on the giant feather on the top of my hat. “You guys look like birds. Why do you have to wear these?” he asks.

“It’s so the judges can see us on the field. Willow says it makes the formations pop more,” I roll my eyes.

“But you don’t march…” he says, fluffing my feather once again. I slap his hand away and straighten my hat.

“Yeah, I tried that argument, but here I am, all plumed,” I say.

“Well, you’re adorable. Go win something. You do get to win something, right?” he says, taking a few steps away, moving backward toward the stadium.

“That’s what Willow says. This is like her Super Bowl, you know?” I say, wide eyes.

“Yeah, so I’ve heard.” Owen shields his mouth as he passes Willow, but she hears him anyhow and punches him on the arm. “Owwww!”

I smile as he turns, my heart feeling warm inside. Everything feels right—at least for right now.

Most of the morning is spent standing around, rolling my xylophone from patch of grass to patch of grass, until we’re in the tunnel. It’s kind of cool being in here, and I look around at the motivational words painted on the wall, the most amusing the threat that any opponent will feel the Orange Krush.

Before today, there was no reason I would ever find myself in a sports tunnel at a major university. The whole scene feels silly, and maybe a little pointless, but it also feels…good.

As we get ready to take the field, Willow calls us all in for one final huddle, and Jess leads everyone in a chant of hoorahs, as if we’re actually the university’s football team—about to scream through the tunnel to take on Ohio State or Kansas. The longer everyone cheers, the more it makes me giggle, and the louder I’m cheering too.

Once we hit the field, it’s just like any other Friday—Willow atop a small ladder, her arms keeping a steady beat that we all seem to be perpetually a hint behind. What’s different about today though is how everyone in the stands is paying attention. People are actually cheering—people from other schools, either already having gone or waiting to perform. They’re supportive, appreciative, and when they whisper to one another between songs, I can tell they’re competitive.

Willow was right—this…feels…awesome!

It seems like it takes us only minutes to pack up after the performance, and soon we’re in the stands, waiting for the final two schools to perform. Owen stays, sitting behind me, his legs on either side of me, his arms wrapped around my body, keeping me warm. We were allowed to change out of our uniforms after the performance, but most of us left our shirts on, wanting to feel like a team.

The award ceremony drags on, with awards for dozens of categories. Willow is beaming because she received a medal of distinction for drum major.

“She does wave her arms with excellent precision,” Owen jokes in my ear. I elbow him because Jess is close, but when I hear Jess laugh, I ease up on Owen.