And, following right behind that one, was a second: I didn’t just like marching band.
I loved it.
And there had to be room in my life for it, even on my journey to becoming a professional horn player.
All of these thoughts ricocheted around in my head in a matter of seconds, filling me with music and joy. I took a breath, and came in on cue for the “Stars and Stripes” solo.
It sounded awesome. I rocked those notes like I’d been born to play them, pouring excitement and joy and new understanding into each one. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the cameraman heading my way.
Yeah!
The camera came closer. I closed my eyes to really power through those last few bars. I had to make them count.
I blocked out the crowd noise, focusing on the mellophone’s sound and on the solo, hoping the cameraman was getting this. Adrenaline coursed through my veins on top of the caffeine, making me feel both sharp and trembly. My hands started to sweat.
Time to open my eyes and give a half smile to the millions of TV viewers from behind my mouthpiece when I was finished. Almost done!
The camera was about a foot away from my face, so I focused on the crowd behind it. My eyes settled on a man sitting nearly dead center in the bleachers. He wore a funky black hat—a fedora?—and round glasses like my dad’s that were perched on an enormous red nose. It was amazing I could pick anyone out of the group, but my heightened, caffeinated senses were on overdrive. Something about him was vaguely—
Then I knew.
It was Richard Dinglesby, director of Shining Birches music camp. What was
he
doing here?!
Deet-deet, deet-deet, deedle-deedle-leet-deet, bleedle . . . bleedle—black-blee!
My head went fuzzy; all of the blood in it drained to my feet. A pit of horror opened in my middle. The last notes came out inarticulate, smooshed and sloppy, more like muddy puddles than the light, dancing droplets they were supposed to be.
Forget the awesomeness of my band revelations.
I gakked the solo.
On national television.
In front of Richard Dinglesby from Shining Birches.
40
I don’t remember much after the disastrous end to the solo. I know I marched out of the review area with the rest of the band, I know we crossed the finish line and marched to where our buses were parked; I just have no recollection of anything except pulsing heat in my face and the weight of shame on my shoulders. I kept my eyes focused on the trumpet player’s hat in front of me. I couldn’t look at anyone.
I made a massive, massive mistake.
On national television.
I couldn’t uphold my end of the bargain—we all worked so hard to create this moment, and I blew it.
The entire band probably hated me.
I hated myself.
Was it the caffeine? My slick hands? The shock of Richard Dinglesby sitting in the audience? I’d played the solo perfectly a bunch of times before—and had done an amazing job on it at nearly three a.m., when there was no one around to hear it!—why couldn’t I do it right this time?!
My dad’s voice, suggesting that I not take the solo, echoed around my brain. He was right. I took on too much. I embarrassed the Hellcats and myself, and for what? I cracked under the pressure. What did that mean for my chances at the Shining Birches audition? I didn’t even want to think about that.
The buses were in sight. AJ stopped the group and put us at parade rest, then shouted some stuff that I didn’t pay attention to and dismissed us. The whole band cheered. I clutched my horn to my chest, waiting for the anger that was sure to come my way when the yelling died down.
Instead, arms wrapped around me from behind and lifted me off the ground in a bear hug.
“Whooo! Chick-
EN
! You did it!” Steve put me down and Punk popped into my line of sight, hand raised in a high five. Red-faced and grinning, they both looked so happy they could explode.
Was this a joke?
“Don’t leave me hanging!” Punk said. “C’mon!” He raised his arm a little higher.
I burst into tears.
“Chicken!” Steve said. Punk’s mouth dropped into an O of surprise. “What’s wrong?”
I could barely get words out.
“I guh-guh-gakked it,” I said between sniffs. Jake, Hector, and Sarah had appeared, also glowing.
Punk and Steve shot glances at each other. “It was four notes, Elsie. You were
amazing
for the rest of it.”
I didn’t understand how they could think that. I ruined it!
“Your performance was awesome,” Jake said. “Our performance was awesome. We did an amazing job!”
“Cut yourself some slack, Elsie,” Hector added. “You only got the solo two weeks ago. It’s totally cool.”
Sarah nodded, a playful smirk on her lips. “Everyone has bad articulation sometimes,” she pointed out.
I managed to crack a smile at her words.
“Don’t let four notes ruin your whole experience,” Steve said. “Seriously. It was
four notes
. I know that you’re bummed, but let’s not lose sight of the crazy fun we just had. Your bad mood is bringing me down.”
“We’ve been playing since three a.m.,” Punk reminded me. “Your chops must be shot.”
Even though I wasn’t one hundred percent sure that I believed all of their words, my fog of embarrassment started to lift. I didn’t want to bring them down. The day
had
been pretty amazing up until those four notes . . .
“YEAH!” AJ came by, slapping fives. “Good work, Chicken,” he said.
I flushed. “It didn’t come out right,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize!” he said. “Shake it off. It’s done. We just marched in the Darcy’s parade ! !” He kept going, offering congratulations to everyone.
I stepped back from our little group, watching how happy and excited they were about what we’d just done.
Wait . . . we HAD just done something really cool and amazing. As a group. All of us.
I’d marched through Manhattan in the biggest parade in the country, if not the world, playing my instrument.
I’d performed a solo on national television.
I’d done it with my friends, and . . . okay, my boyfriend.
But that wasn’t quite true.
We’d
done it. All of us. Together.
I’d had my little piece in the form of the solo, but if it weren’t for the group, I wouldn’t be here in the first place. It wasn’t about me, it was about the Hellcats.
Sure, it seems like a no-brainer, but ever since I had picked up my horn it had always been about me—my practice goals, my plans, my needs. And this was way, way bigger than that. Something finally clicked, and a rush of happiness flooded my body.
The band celebrated around me. I watched everyone’s smiling faces, allowing myself to let it go, feeling waves of gratitude for them, feeling like I truly belonged.
41
By the time we boarded the bus to go home, I was feeling just as good as everyone else about our performance, and had even managed to accept a few compliments regarding the solo.
“You two,” Mr. Sebastian directed at Steve and Punk as we made our way to the bus, “surrender any tools you have. NOW.”
“
And
,” I added, forcing a stern tone and trying to hide a grin, “I told you I had plans for you.” They glanced at each other, uneasy. I was
so
not letting them off the hook for locking me in the bathroom. “I don’t want you conspiring on the ride home. Hector, did you bring your
Star Wars
DVDs?”
He patted the outside pocket of his backpack. “Don’t leave home without ’em.”
I turned to Punk. “Switch seats with Sarah. You have to listen to Hector recite lines all the way home.” Punk gave a theatrical sigh.
“What about my punishment?” Steve asked, acting tough. I glanced at Sarah, whose mouth was open in shock or delight—or maybe both.
“I’m sure Sarah can figure something out,” I said, and grinned.
After that, I nearly crept into my seat on all fours. I was that tired.
“Unbelievable,” Hector said from across the aisle.
“Totally,” Jake agreed, appearing in the aisle. He’d helped load the equipment truck, and squeezed into the window seat next to me. Fairy fingers skittered across the back of my neck. “At least we’ll have the rest of the weekend to recover.”
“Not all of us.” I groaned. “I have my audition in two days. And the director of Shining Birches witnessed my gak.”
“Chicken,” Punk said, “he’ll never know it was you. Seriously. Let it go. You’ll be
fine
.”
I pretended to laugh with the others, but I was terrified. Would I be able to play? I’d felt so good about my pieces the other day, but now, who knew? My nerves were shot. What would this do to my confidence ?
It was like Jake knew my thoughts. “You’ll do great,” he said, wrapping an arm around me. “You are the Zombie Chicken who survived the Bathroom of Doom and played to tell about it.”
I laughed for real at his lame joke. “Maybe that’s the name I’ll give to the audition panel,” I said. “At least they’ll know I’m not going down without a fight.”
That started a whole conversation between Jake, Hector, and Punk about who would win in a fight—from me versus the audition panel to Han Solo versus Mr. Spock. I switched seats with Jake so he could speculate without leaning across me. I rested my head against the bus window, hand entwined with Jake’s, replaying the events of the last few hours in my head, then thinking about the work I’d put into Shining Birches.
At least it’ll be over soon, I thought, and finally drifted off to sleep.
I only wished I could’ve stayed that way. When we arrived at school, my parents—along with the rest of the town—were there to greet us, like we were celebrities or something. A local TV crew and a few reporters were camped out in the parking lot, waiting to interview the band about our experience.
Once they heard that I was the girl who’d been playing “that big trumpet solo,” reporters surrounded me like hungry birds around stale bread.
“What’s your name?” one called.
“So you play trumpet?” squalled another.
“Tell us how it felt to be on national television,” peeped a third.
“Elsie Wyatt. It’s a mellophone, not a trumpet.
Mellophone
. And it felt pretty awesome.” What did they think I’d say, that I hated it?
While Mom prattled, I got my stuff and tried to avoid the reporters (I spotted Punk with a photographer, shooting his striped orange-and-black Hellcats hair). A news crew shot footage of Sarah and a few of the color guard doing spins and tosses.
Jake met me by the bus, holding my mellophone case.
“You’re going to do great at that audition, you know,” he said, handing it to me.
I smiled. “Thanks. For . . . lots of stuff.”
He leaned over and gave me a quick kiss, with a promise to check in and see how everything went.
Dad found me a second later, a guarded smile on his face.
“You were wonderful,” he told me. For once, I didn’t care that he heard—or saw—me mess up.
“I want you to meet someone,” I said to him. My heart was pounding, but I didn’t feel as nervous as I would have even before we left. Things were different now.
I
was different now.
“Hey Jake,” I called. He’d gone back to the luggage bay under the bus, and returned carrying his duffel bag. “I want you to meet my dad. Dad, this is Jake. He’s . . .” I paused to find the right words. “He’s important to me.”
My dad extended his hand for Jake to shake.
“Elsie did an awesome job,” Jake said. “I bet her chops are shot.”
“Her mom and I are very proud,” Dad responded, giving me a big smile.
I smiled back. Jake wished us a happy Thanksgiving and went back to help unload.
On our walk to the car, before Dad could say anything about Jake, or the botched solo, a woman flagged us down. She looked young and was carrying a notebook.
“Elsie—Ms. Wyatt—one more word. You must have worked hard for that solo. What does marching band mean to you?”
Okay, that stopped me in my tracks. Dad stepped on my heels.
Everything I’d realized during the parade flashed through my mind. Originally, I’d wanted to do a great job on the solo so my dad would see me on TV and . . . what? Think I was a good player? Take me seriously? I’d wanted him to realize that forever, and no Sousa solo was going to change his mind. Marching band was about
me,
not him.
I wanted to be on TV, playing that solo as best I could, because . . .
“I love this group,” I answered. “And I’m proud of what we did today.”
I smiled at the reporter and climbed in the car, not even glancing to see my dad’s reaction.
42
That night, after I enjoyed some of Aunt Denise’s dry reheated Thanksgiving turkey, my mom and I sat on the couch together and watched coverage of the parade on the news. The story began with a summary of the Minutemen’s accident and even showed a grainy cell phone camera video of a piece of our performance at the competition. Then there was footage from the Darcy’s parade.
We saw the Hellcats marching in to the parade review stand, color guard with their flags at a carry and the instrumentalists sharply at attention. Then it switched to us, mid-performance, as we broke into the marching maneuver just before my solo. They even showed me playing, close up. My eyes were closed, and the combination of intensity and joy on my face was hard to miss.
“Beautiful,” Mom said.
“Absolutely,” Dad agreed. I hadn’t even realized he’d entered the room. Two days ago, I’d have been nervous and angry and all kinds of awful if he came in. Now I was fine.
The three of us watched the end of the segment—shots of our bus pulling into the school parking lot and us unloading, a brief interview with Mr. Sebastian and Punk (“It’s all about band love,” he said, in response to the question about his hair), and after a few pithy comments from the anchor—“not a turkey in the bunch,” was one—it was over.