Twirl Girl

Brassy notes ringing into blue sky lure me, and I decide to follow the music. My soles strike the sidewalk, timed to the thump of the bass drums. Sam walks at my side, looks up at me and smiles, furry ears perked. We crunch through fallen leaves.  

It is football night, and a river of plumed red hats dams the intersection of Park and Morris, the band blocking the street, marching in place, moments away from parading into the stadium. They fill the neighborhood with sound, delicious sound. I stop and drink from the source. 

Out front, the majorettes dance in plain red mini dresses with long sleeves, skirts flaring out like bells. Their legs are long and lithe and uniformly tan from their dance tights. 

My mind drifts to those faded old Kodachrome slide photos of my mother and my aunt in matching outfits with batons. My mother used to take a roll of wrapping paper and nestle it in the crook of her arm, showing us how to properly march with a baton. Would she have bought me a baton had I been assigned a girl at birth? Some version of that question—and the possibilities it opens up—has haunted my thoughts for as long as I can remember. 

The girls toss their batons high into the air and spin and catch them as one. I am impressed. Sometimes I watch marching bands during the Thanksgiving Day parade, and inevitably, one or two majorettes fumble, though their poise is never broken; they simply pick up the baton and keep spinning, smile and march on. 

They say a smile is contagious and boosts your mood whether or not it is genuine. These girls have practiced their smiles, yet they also look truly happy. But I can’t bring myself to smile back. 

I notice a girl taller than the rest, her long, silky blonde hair pulled back and ribboned at the crown of her head. She kicks her knee up and spins around with her baton. Her smile shines. What if I could smile like her? 

The band pauses, but I decide to stay. It is only me watching now. The majorettes ease up; their bodies relax. They talk to one another. The girl I was watching leans over to her friend, whispers in her ear, and suddenly points directly at me. I freeze. It takes me a moment to realize she is pointing at Sam, because he is that kind of cute dog. I want to believe she is pointing at me and about to say, We have another baton, do you want to twirl? 

M. S. Reagan, originally from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, is a writer and MFA candidate at WVU in Morgantown, West Virginia, where they are working on a memoir about being trans and disabled during the first Trump presidency. Reagan’s poetry appears in Appalachian Review, and they won the Baltimore Review Summer 2025 Flash CNF Award. In 2024, Reagan was a finalist for the New Ohio Review Literary Award in Creative Nonfiction. When not writing, Reagan is most likely hanging out with Sam, a 120-pound mix of Lab, German shepherd, and mastiff. Follow them @m-s-reagan.bsky.social.

This essay is a Short Reads original.