“Easy, easy,” someone—AJ, I think—murmured. “It takes a second.”
I opened my eyes and everything steadied. Steve handed me the cup and I took a grateful sip. The water cooled me from the inside out.
And that’s when I was finally able to look beyond the little group surrounding me. Every member of the band was sitting facing me. Or where I was, behind this clump of people. My face flushed.
What an impression. After today, I reminded myself, I’ll be gone. I won’t have to deal with these people again. I won’t—
“Can you stand up, honey?” Mr. Sebastian placed a large hand on my back and helped me to my feet.
As soon as I stood, everyone—I mean,
everyone
—started cheering and whooping.
“Yeah, Elsie!!”
“Whoooo!”
And then, over everyone, I heard, “Yeah, Zombie Chicken rises! ”
That did it. Shouts of “Zombie Chicken!” rang all over the field.
Mr. Sebastian and Steve guided me to the sidelines. The members smiled and waved as I sat on the bleachers. I tried to ignore them, but Steve nudged me.
“They want to know you’re okay,” he whispered in my ear.
Startled that they would even care, I blurted, “Really?” This whole group of people, who instigated my clucking disaster and called me Chicken, was cheering to support me?
Really?
He nodded. I raised my arm in a wave, and a fresh round of cheers began. AJ returned to the podium. Mr. Sebastian pulled a cell phone from his pocket.
“I think we should call your parents, Elsie.”
The horror of explaining this to my dad—that I’d fainted while pretending to play an instrument other than my horn—raced through me. I switched from feeling overheated to ice cold.
“Uh, no. No, thank you,” I amended. “I’m fine. Really. Maybe I could just . . . sit and watch?” I tried, hoping that would satisfy him.
“Well,” he said, brow wrinkled. “It’s not exactly school policy—”
“But I’m fine. Steve was right. I locked my knees. It won’t happen again,” I said hurriedly.
Of course it wouldn’t happen again. I’d never step on a football field again for as long as I lived.
5
I let myself in through the kitchen door and plopped the seven zillion tons of brass instruments, papers, and embarrassing memories on the floor next to the bench at our table. Mom hates it when I leave my stuff there, but it’s convenient and I really didn’t feel like carrying anything an inch farther than I needed to. I was torn between wanting to slither to the floor in exhaustion and filling the largest glass I could find with ice cubes and Diet Coke and
then
slithering to the floor. Option two seemed the way to go.
I grabbed a glass from the dish rack and opened the freezer, basking in the chill. Although I’d had water and sat out for the rest of the morning session at practice, this was the hottest I’d been in a long time—maybe since we’d taken our annual trip to the Berkshires for Dad’s summer concert series and enjoyed all of Mahler III during a heat wave four years ago. It’s a long, long symphony.
To get through the last movement I had to stick an ice pack down the back of my shirt.
I staggered to the den and flopped on our oversized plaid sofa, icy beverage perched on my stomach. My whole body hurt: back, arms, thighs . . . even my face, which ached from playing and felt shiny and hot from the sun. I’d been at camp for four hours and bailed on the all-band lunch to come home—but since I’d passed out, no one tried to stop me when I left. They expected me back for an afternoon/ evening session from two to six. More of that torture? No way. I’d have my dad drop the mellophone off at the band room the next morning and be done with marching
anything,
let alone marching band. Tail between my legs, I’d put aside my Vienna-fueled anger and ask him to help me find a local youth orchestra that would accept me this week. Maybe he could even pull in a few favors to get me a late audition somewhere other than Boston Youth.
Because no matter what, I needed an ensemble for that Shining Birches application.
I lay there for a few more minutes, but the throbbing in my muscles finally motivated me to move. I needed an aspirin.
About to climb the stairs to the second floor, I heard my dad’s voice coming from the front of the house. He spends three days a week at a practice studio in Boston, practicing, preparing for his gigs, or giving lessons. I hadn’t realized he was around, and as much as I didn’t want to have the conversation, I needed to tell him I was home and not going back for the afternoon session.
His voice floated from under the door of my parents’ shared office. I stood outside, prepared to knock, when what he was actually saying sunk in:
“She thinks that she can get in, Mike, but I’m not so sure. We’ve talked about it, but she’s adamant about auditioning this year. Maybe I should put a call in to Richard Dinglesby.” A pause. “Blind auditions in November.” Another pause. “I just don’t want her to be disappointed.” He quieted, listening to the person on the other end of the phone. Based on the “Mike” reference, I guessed he was talking to his college roommate, who was also a musician.
And talking
about
me. And my Shining Birches audition. And by the sound of it, he completely doubted my ability to do well.
I thought I’d felt queasy on the field, but that was the tiniest wave compared to the tsunami of nausea that crashed through me at his words.
“I just don’t think it’s the right time for her,” Dad finished. “It’d be too much. She’s too young and she wasn’t able to audition for Boston Youth Orchestra this spring. That’s really the proving ground.”
That was it. The vomit-y feeling disappeared, replaced in an instant with utter rage. Shining Birches was
the
best program in the Northeast—maybe in the whole country—and he didn’t think I could do it. He didn’t think I could handle it, and he felt the need to tell everyone he knew, evidently.
And it was his fault that I couldn’t audition for Boston Youth!
Well, I’d show him. I would be better than good. I’d be better than he ever was as a kid—I’d be
great
. I’d totally handle all of it—school, marching band, and audition prep—without his help.
And
I’d get in to Shining Birches. Then what would he say?
I stepped away from the door, sure that the heat from my rage would set the wood on fire—or at least melt the ice cubes in my drink. I took the stairs two at a time, taking care not to make too much noise and bring Dad out of the office. I needed to find that aspirin and get back to band camp.
The afternoon was more of the same as the morning: Stand. Play. March. Stand. Play. March. Stand. We got what our section leaders called “band buddies,” which is a three-ring binder with a strap on it, so you can wear it like a messenger bag. Inside were pages and pages of our drill—the marching formations we’d learn to make on the field during the show.
Little x’s with numbers next to them showed each person’s position. I was number forty-eight, and I squinted at the book to find out where I was supposed to stand. After a minute, I spotted the tiny number a couple of spaces off the line marked “45.”
Jake couldn’t find his number, and Steve was busy helping someone else, so he wandered over to me, band buddy extended.
“Help a section member out?” he said with a grin. He was number forty.
“Sure.” I wasn’t sure I was qualified to be help to anyone, but he didn’t seem to mind. We nearly bumped heads over the top of the drill chart and I pulled back with a nervous laugh.
“There you are.” I stabbed at the page. He was also off the forty-five, a few people behind me. With a “Thanks, Chicken!” tossed over his shoulder, he scooted back to the trumpets. Why hadn’t he asked one of them for help?
AJ, the drum major, called us to attention, then put us in parade rest to explain how the drill charts worked. Essentially, marching bands divide the entire field into a grid, and at all times you’re supposed to know where on the grid you are. You figure that out by counting steps—eight steps between every yard line—and everyone takes the same size stride and starts with their left foot. So before we even set up for drill AJ had the freshmen stand shoulder to shoulder and march the length of the football field, from one goalpost to the other, while yelling, “One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-LINE!” to get us to march properly and in step. We did this
five times
. FIVE!
And the entire time I concentrated harder and yelled louder than anyone else—probably scaring Hector, on my left, and Jake, on my right—ignoring the sweat dripping down my back and my burning arms. Forget asking Dad to help me find a new ensemble.
I wasn’t going to quit.
I was going to get in to Shining Birches on my own.
I was going to prove my dad wrong.
6
Over the next week, I attended every band camp session and doubled my practice time at home to learn the hateful mellophone. The fingering chart helped, but playing with the opposite hand really slowed me down. However, the sound I was able to produce was
amazing
. The French horn is made of eighteen feet of coiled brass tubing, and the mellophone uses much less than that. So my lungs, which are used to blowing air over a dozen feet before making a sound, can blast through the mellophone like a brakeless freight train going downhill. Basically, I’m really, really, loud.
And once I figured that out, I blew my brains out. Figuratively speaking. On the last day of band camp, Steve eyed me all during sectionals.
“
Someone’s
learning how to toot her new horn,” he teased.
“
Someone
better watch out,” I tossed back, “because I will get so good on this, your dreads will go straight.” Steve stepped back in mock fear, and the rest of the section
ooh-ed
and laughed at my comment.
I’m glad they thought it was funny, but when I first said it, I didn’t mean it to be.
Then, in ensemble that afternoon, AJ shouted to us, “Hey, high brass! It sounds like someone cranked the volume to eleven! Tone it down.”
Punk, next to me in the arc, snickered. “Rein in those mighty lungs, Chick-chick.” I glowered, but lightened the breath power. I couldn’t help it if the rest of the section couldn’t keep up. A football stadium is a big space; you’d think we’d be trying to fill it with as much sound as possible—in a musical way, of course.
After practice, Jake came over to me as I was putting my stuff in my locker.
“You sound good, Chicken,” he said, staring straight at me.
I ignored his use of my nickname . . . and the prickly feeling in my stomach. I didn’t know what to make of Jake’s attention. It made me wish my best friend, Alisha, hadn’t moved away in seventh grade; I could puzzle this out with her. We’d bonded over brass lessons in elementary school—she was a trombone player—but she’d ditched her instrument in sixth grade and switched to dance. When she grew up, she wanted to be a ballroom dancer on one of those competitive dance TV shows. We compared practice schedules and went to each other’s recitals. And when stuff came up, she totally understood when I said, “I can’t go, I have to practice.” When she moved . . . well, I still had my horn.
Jake also
almost
made me wish that I’d paid attention to those gossipy girls that flooded every bathroom between classes in junior high, sharing lip gloss and boy-stories. Maybe then I’d know how to act in these types of situations.
“Thanks.” The locker door swung shut and I spun the combination dial.
“Listen,” Jake said, “a bunch of us”—he gestured across the band room, where Hector, Sarah, and some of the other freshmen were standing—“are going to the Chilly Spoon for ice cream before tonight’s session. Want to come?”
I didn’t, not really. I had to practice my other—real—horn. Because of band camp’s long days, I’d only worked on my classical pieces at night. And with an extra rehearsal this evening to run through the field show, I’d lose even more practice time. But I didn’t want to seem rude.
“Can’t,” I said, and shook my head. “Stuff to do.”
A bummed-out expression flitted across Jake’s face, which made me regret rejecting his invitation. Why was he even asking me?
“I need to practice my horn,” I offered as explanation. My hands were starting to sweat. “My other horn, I mean. I have a big audition to prep for.”
“That’s cool,” he said, and brushed his bangs out of his eyes. “What audition?”
I pointed across the room at the colorful poster outside of Mr. Sebastian’s office. “Shining Birches.”
Jake whistled through his front teeth. “Whoa, that’s the big time,” he said. “I thought that was for upperclassmen only.”
I shrugged, relaxing a tiny bit. Talking about music was easier than talking about other stuff. I had all the answers. “If you’re good enough, they’ll take you.”
He nodded, solemn. “I bet you’re right. Have fun practicing.” He waited a second, and when I smiled, he jogged back to the group.
My heart tugged a little as I watched them leave.
When I got home, I felt so good about finally nailing the mellophone that I had to let it out before sitting down to hit the horn. Dad was futzing around in the yard and Mom was still at work. So I did what I always do to celebrate when I’m alone: I busted out some Beethoven. I popped the disc of the final movement of the Ninth Symphony—the “Ode to Joy”—on in the den, and, turning the volume up as loud as I dared, stood in the middle of the room, closed my eyes, and pictured the orchestra in front of me: the strings starting the melody softly, lightly, horns underneath: la-da da-da da-da-da-da . . .
then louder, more insistent, with the addition of the percussion and woodwinds: ba-da da-da, da-da-da-da!
a stormy flurry, before the vocals begin. . . .