My mom clicked off the TV, shot Dad a very serious look over my head, and left. I picked at the fringed hem of the blanket draped over my lap. Dad sat on the end of the couch, in the same spot that Mom had vacated.
He leaned forward and rubbed his eyes under his glasses.
“I probably haven’t done a good job of telling you this, Elsie, but I am really, really proud of all you’ve done this term. Starting high school is a big deal, and you not only balanced your new class load, but took on marching band as part of your audition package. It’s impressive.”
I considered his words. Hearing him finally say that he was proud of me was nice, but as I’d realized earlier, I didn’t
need
him to say it. It was time to make decisions that were right for
me
. I could still be a professional horn player, still go to the New England Conservatory and travel around the world playing my instrument, still go to Shining Birches, even—but I didn’t have to take every step that he did to get there. It was time to follow my own path. And stop hiding behind my horn to avoid anything hard or upsetting.
“Thanks,” I said, not knowing how to explain my feelings.
“You stretched yourself taking that solo,” he said. “It was brave. I respect that.”
Okay, even if I didn’t need him to say he was proud of me . . . hearing that I had his respect made me puff up with pride. After all, he
is
the principal horn player in the Boston Symphony Orchestra.
“The band needed me to play it,” I explained, blushing. I couldn’t stop myself. “I worked really hard.”
“Honey, your dedication blows me away. I
know
how good you are, and how much work that takes. You don’t have to hide that—every musician works hard. And it’s awful when that hard work doesn’t pay off. This is not an easy pursuit.”
He was right. I
did
hide from him. I’d been shutting him out from the thing we both loved instead of sharing it with him because I was afraid he was judging me and that I’d come up short. Instead, all he wanted was to protect me. He was so afraid to let me grow up and face reality that he tried to keep me safe from everything—including, ironically,my horn.
“I’m not afraid of getting rejected, because I know how hard I’ve worked—and that’s good enough for me,” I said, finding confidence as I spoke. “And,” I added, “I
love
marching band.”
“I know you do,” he said. “I’ve been so focused on my own experience that I didn’t think there was value in doing things any other way. Music is about passion and heart and love, and if a group brings those feelings out in you, it’s the right place
for
you.”
The season flashed before me: learning a new instrument, dealing with the uniform, drilling eight to five steps, passing out, the field show competition and bleacher collapse, fighting with my parents in the parking lot, fighting with my friends all season, getting locked in the bathroom, the rise and fall of the solo, having Mr. Sebastian stay late and help me practice my pieces for the past two weeks—I’d done it all for Shining Birches.
At least, I
thought
it was for Shining Birches. Turns out, I’d learned a few things—how to be a good friend, how to be part of an extended family, how to support something larger than myself, and maybe even how to have a boyfriend—that had nothing to do with music but everything to do with heart and passion and joy. And marching band.
And if Dad hadn’t brought us to Austria last spring, none of this would have happened.
This was a full-on “Ode to Joy” moment. I wrapped my arms around my dad and gave him a big squeeze.
He was right.
I’d found my place.
Coda
So, that Saturday, Dad and I drove to Chestnut College for my Shining Birches audition.
In spite of my insane Thanksgiving, I managed to get my nerves under control and played phenomenally well. It didn’t hurt that I sat behind a screen during my audition, so I couldn’t see the panel and they couldn’t see me . . . or that I’d doused my slick palms with baby powder before picking up my instrument.
Later, I found out that Richard Dinglesby—Mr. “sit smack in the middle of the Darcy’s review stand and throw off soloists” himself—praised my playing. When I met him at the post-audition reception he asked how my holiday had been. I proudly told him where I’d spent my Thanksgiving, fully expecting him to scoff at marching band, just like my dad.
“Wonderful!” he cheered. “I played trumpet in my high school and college marching bands. Best time of my life,” he added. If he’d sprouted wings and flown out of the room, I wouldn’t have been as shocked. We talked drill charts and field show music for fifteen minutes. I even admitted I was the Hellcats soloist.
And as for the audition . . .
I was the youngest person accepted into the program in over a decade.
I was the youngest person
ever
accepted on French horn.
But I’m not going. Not this summer, anyway.
Shining Birches’ schedule interferes with band camp.
Acknowledgments
There’s a whole ensemble that helps a book come together. I’d like to extend heartfelt thanks to:
My agent, Sally Harding, for her patience, responsiveness, and support. Thank you for believing in my work.
My lovely editor at Dial Books, Liz Waniewski, for her insight, thoughtfulness, and care with the manuscript, and thanks to the whole Dial team—copyeditor Regina Castillo for polishing my words, designers Linda McCarthy, Jeanine Henderson, and Nancy Leo-Kelly for making the book beautiful. I am so grateful for all of their efforts on this book’s behalf.
My writing group: Annette, Gary, Heather, Megan, Ruthbea, and Phoebe, for their critiques of multiple drafts, support group services, and keeping me on track and focused.
The 2009 Debutante author’s group, for their continued support, encouragement, and virtual chocolate. Extra-special thanks to Debs Jackson Pearce, for sharing color guard expertise, Saundra Mitchell, for the real-life chocolate, and Kate Messner, for providing space and time to write at the Swinger of Birches retreat.
Julie Berry, for coaxing, listening, and evaluating.
The friends and family who took the time to read various stages of the manuscript and help with technical details: Jerry Kazanjian, Katie Huha, and Bonnie Dougherty.
My daughter, who keeps me grounded, laughing, and constantly telling stories.
My husband, Frank—whom I wouldn’t have met if it weren’t for marching band—and who takes on roles of house elf, chef, therapist, primary dog walker and child care provider when I’m on a deadline . . . and does it all with patience and good humor.
The band directors whose programs were a venue for a bookish, shy girl to grow into a confident leader. Thank you, Mr. Jones and Mr. Miller, and special thanks to Sebastian Bonaiuto and Bob Mealey. The work you do reaches far beyond fields and stages.
And, last but not least, many, many thanks to everyone I marched with at Laguna Hills High School, Los Altos High School, and Boston College, including Katie Ginder-Vogel, Dan Johnson, Annie Watson, Bill Murray, Brad Davis, Shelagh Abate, Corrie Chomich Steeves, Amy Workman, Kayte Bellusci, Jeff Pelletier, Sarah Brenner, Jessica Madon, Chuck Keefe, Rick Laferriere, Sara Gibb, Bill Dougherty, Brian Nolan, Matt Kita, and Kara Fitzgerald. All of you look great in polyester.