He was positioned to the right of Lou Jameson on the snare drum, who was wearing sunglasses like all the drummers did. He had never been very friendly to Weed and more than once had commented that anybody could play cymbals and he’d seen girls doing it in other bands.

Western Guilford High School in white and black was directly in front of Godwin. Lakeview Junior High in gold and green was to the rear. Bright, brave uniforms of all colors and designs must have stretched for a mile, Weed calculated. The parade was starting to move. The lead band out of New Jersey exploded into “God Bless America,” which wasn’t very original and the trumpets were a little off.

Weed stood tall and proud. He did a few toe lifts to loosen up.

“Left foot out and point flex and point flex and really stretch it,” he recited.

Jameson looked at him with disdain.

“Left heel two inches off ground while ball and toe remain touching the ground.” Weed practiced a low mark time with a quick, snappy motion. “Ankle touches knee on end of each beat, toe pointed straight down the leg, feet flat.” He executed a perfect high mark. “Push down on beat on left foot, then mark time.”

“Hey, cut it out,” Jameson said.

“No,” Weed retorted.

He used to be intimidated by Jameson. But after being arrested, getting locked up in detention, mouthing off to a defense attorney and striking a deal with a judge, Weed wasn’t scared of anyone.

“Three, four, halt. To left, right, foot crosses over, mark time hut, and one, two, three, four, weight on toes.” His crab step was flawless.

“I told you to fucking cut it out,” Jameson whispered.

“Make me.”

“I’ll beat your ass.”

“Hope you beat it better than you do that drum,” Weed said.

“TO THE READY!” the drum major shouted from the front.

Weed came to attention. One thing about his cymbals, they sure got heavy.

“BAND, TEN-HUT!”

He strained to see what the color guard was doing way ahead. When the woodwinds started forward marching, he knew he was next.

There was nothing random about Smoke’s decision to steal the black nylon Stanley tool belt when he broke into Bubba’s workshop. Its extra deep pockets were perfect and he had known it at the time, because Smoke had been planning for a while.

He was dressed in worn-out, soiled jeans, a filthy tee shirt and dirty scuffed Red Wing boots. A paint-spattered baseball cap was low over his eyes. He wore Oakleys and hadn’t shaved in days. No one paid any attention to him as he walked across yards, trying to see the parade like everybody else.

Smoke had conducted a thorough surveillance in the George Wythe parking lot while the parade was lining up. He knew where everyone was. He had spotted Weed. Smoke had walked right past the police chief and the two cops who had spoken in Godwin’s auditorium. It was hilarious. Smoke’s nerves were humming. He was pumping adrenaline and almost manic.