Finally, on our eighth attempt, the marching clicked.
“Eureka!” AJ shouted from his podium. “Why was that so hard?”
A few people muttered answers, but I don’t think AJ would have liked what they had to say.
“Grab your instruments. Break into sectionals. Work on ‘America.’ We’ll come back for ensemble in thirty minutes,” AJ bellowed.
Immediately we scattered to the sidelines to retrieve our instruments. I dodged the trombones, which were laid out to spell HI! We’d positioned our mellophones bells out, mouthpieces in, making a horn-flower. Of course, I’d stuck mine next to Punk’s. He glanced at me.
“Why’d you do that?” I whispered. After being all bottled up while marching, my words came out more angry-sounding than I’d intended. A hurt expression briefly crossed Punk’s face.
“Told you. He looked like an idiot. He used to be a horn player and now he’s all drum-major-y. It’s good for him,” he said.
“That’s not what I meant.”
Punk shrugged.
Steve gave Punk a long look when we lined up for sectionals, and then turned to me.
“I don’t know what’s going on here, mellos,” he snapped, “but I hate having our section singled out. Ten push-ups.
Now!
”
I’d heard that the section leaders sometimes made their sections do push-ups if they got in trouble, but I’d never actually seen it. For a second, anger flared through me.
How dare he?
I didn’t want to put my hands on the filthy ground and exercise.
Then I remembered: No one would be doing push-ups if I hadn’t laughed in the first place. Great.
I put down my horn and dropped with the rest of my section. Together, we counted off each push-up—led by Punk—while the trumpets just watched.
Ignoring the layers of grime that coated the parking lot, I collapsed—along with everyone else—after the last one.
“Get up!” Steve called. “We’ve got work to do!”
I forced myself to stand and grab my mellophone—which no longer felt heavy, even after doing push-ups. Was marching band making me stronger? Jake, at the end of the trumpet line, gave me a big smile, then stuck his tongue out. I blushed.
As Steve counted off and I raised my instrument, a series of tiny realizations pattered through me like raindrops :
Playing mellophone was getting easier.
Even though I did stupid things, these people liked me.
Without trying, I was making friends.
And then came one big realization:
I was starting to like marching band.
10
Three weeks into the school year was our first major marching band performance.
Homecoming.
I stood outside of the band room, watching students stream into our football “stadium” (a few rows of bleachers and a parent-staffed snack shack) for the pregame pep rally. We’d march in with the cheerleaders, play a few of our stands tunes (pop songs and crowd-pleasers) while the cheerleaders danced, then take our spot in the bleachers until halftime.
“You ready, Chicken?” Steve tapped me on the shoulder and I turned. “Time to suit up.”
“Totally,” I said, but my mouth was a little dry. Just nerves—I get hit with them every time I perform. I’m used to it now. My dad gets dry mouth too. He says it’s a family trait. Just one more thing we have in common.
Inside the band room, Sarah waved me over. “I snagged a spot where we can change,” she said, pointing to the alcove where our little group met on the first day of band camp. “The boys evidently are getting evicted.” She pointed, and I saw Jake, Punk, Hector, and the rest filing out the door with their uniform bags. “I think they’re changing in the gym. Bye, guys!” As she gave them a silly, finger-waggling wave, I got the urge to sneeze.
I am not a dainty sneezer. As I let loose into the crook of my elbow with, as my mom calls it, a roaring “nasal explosion,” everyone in a fifteen-foot radius paused to stare at me. Sarah took a step back.
“Epic,” the piccolo player behind me murmured. I blushed.
“Let’s get our stuff,” I said, and my audience went back to what it was doing.
We went downstairs to where the uniforms were stored. A band mom handed me a hanger cloaked by a bright orange zippered plastic garment bag.
Back in our alcove, I unzipped the bag and laid out the parts of my uniform: black polyester suspender pants (sporting a HeHe High orange stripe) with a waist that was chest height, mirror-like black shoes, a military-style orange-and-black jacket with shiny silver buttons displaying the HeHe High Hellcats crest on the front. Sarah and I surveyed the landscape of synthetic fashion failure.
“How do we even
do
this?” she said. “I’m not sure I can squeeze into this.” Her color guard outfit was a shiny silver spandex unitard and short blue skirt.
“Yeah, right,” I groused. “You, who are about as skinny as your flagpole, will look awesome in that. I have no hope.”
I had on a pair of black nylon running pants, and I followed Steve’s advice to invest in a pair of form-fitting bike shorts, which I wore underneath. I kicked off my sneakers, whipped the nylon pants off, and stepped into the uniform pants, pulling up the bib-like front as high as it would go—which was somewhere near my armpits. Sarah doubled over laughing.
“They’re pants that double as a bra!”
She was right.
“Very funny. Without your skirt, you look like a roll of aluminum foil,” I said, and grinned.
Fully dressed, I felt like I should stand straight and not breathe. Which, considering the first rule of marching band—if it’s not comfortable, you’re doing it right—meant that I probably looked pretty good. I twirled in front of Sarah, who was adjusting her skirt.
“So, how do I look?”
“Oh, simply stunning,” she said. “But sadly, you’re not the only one wearing that outfit today.” I gasped in mock horror, but before I could say anything, AJ’s whistle sounded.
“No hats today!” he yelled as the boys returned to the band room. “Two of our sax players forgot theirs, and will be giving us a stirring rendition of ‘This Old Man,’ reggae-style, before we take the field. Hellcats baseball caps, everyone!”
“Yikes,” Sarah said.
“Glad it’s not me this time!” I responded. We packed up our street clothes and she left to meet the color guard while I got my instrument out and found my section.
AJ, as always, was true to his word. Before we left the band room, the two sax players—both boys, one freshman, the other a sophomore—did a Bob Marley–inspired “This Old Mon,” complete with hilarious dance moves. Thankfully, AJ stopped them after “he played five.”
“Let’s go!” he called.
We lined up in our marching formation and the drummers tapped quarter notes to lead us through the parking lot and to the football field. Although I’d practiced there dozens of times, filled with people and decorated with banners, it looked like a completely different place. A thrill ran through me.
We formed an arc on the field and ran through some of our stands music—“Build Me Up Buttercup” and “Shipping Up to Boston” were two of the songs—while the cheerleaders danced. The band even hammed it up, throwing in a few spins and horn swings that we’d been practicing in sectionals. The now-familiar power of the group surrounded me, but there was a new sensation . . . what was the word?
Elation
. Like, total, heart-skipping happy funness. I was into it, the rest of the band was into it, the crowd was into it . . . the whole thing was a blast.
Once the football team came on the field we climbed into the bleachers, where, big surprise, we had to stand for the entire game. AJ would write music selections on a whiteboard as the game progressed—different songs for when we had the ball or when the other team did. Next to me, Punk and Steve shouted at or cheered for the players, depending on what was going on. I’ve never watched a football game in my life, so I had no idea what was happening. Pretty soon, though, I’d figured out that our near-constant playing of “The Imperial March”—our music for when the team was on defense—was bad news. The score and crowd size at halftime reinforced that.
When we took the field, the previously packed bleachers were dotted with spectators. Our team’s poor performance gave lots of kids good reason to go home to get ready for the night’s homecoming dance early, I guess. Still, I got a little electric shock as the football announcer introduced us over the PA system, and my heart beat extra-hard as we stepped off into the show.
By the end of the game, I’m pretty sure only the band, cheerleaders, and players’ families were left in the stands, and I was grateful that my parents hadn’t been able to make it. A 56–0 blowout is pretty painful to witness, and even if you have no clue about how to play football, you know that scoring against yourself shouldn’t happen once, let alone
twice
. The band’s job is to stay supportive of the team, though—at least, that’s what AJ kept telling us—and so we had to cheer and clap for them at the end of the game like they’d won.
Our march back to the band room was more like a trudge.
“One down, seven to go,” muttered Steve as we packed up our horns. “Hellcats football is necessary for our existence, but the competition in a couple of weeks is where it’s at.”
I nodded like I knew what he was talking about.
“You going to the dance tonight?” he asked, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye.
“What? Why ?” I said, completely caught off guard and embarrassed for some reason. “Uh, no,” I stammered. “I’ve got uh, other plans.” Me, go to homecoming? No way. Once people had started talking about it at lunch I never even considered it. “I’ll be at Symphony Hall,” I added. “The BSO is playing Tchaikovsky.”
“Of course,” Steve said, nodding solemnly. “How could I forget?” He picked up his uniform bag, leaving me to puzzle over the exchange.
Why did he care whether or not I went to homecoming?
11
One afternoon a couple of weeks later, Sarah met me at my locker before lunch. Since homecoming, she and I had been talking more . . . and I hadn’t spent one lunch period eating in the band room.
“So, what are you going as?” she asked, rewrapping a purple scarf around her neck.
“That’s pretty,” I said, fingering the light fabric. She’d started this funky accessory thing recently—wearing cool clunky jewelry, or a gauzy scarf, or carrying an oversized purse—and reading a lot of fashion magazines. It kind of made me wish I were more into that stuff, but I didn’t have the time to devote to it. “What do you mean, going as?”
She pointed to a sign on the wall. “Hel-
lo
! I know you’ve been out of it, Elsie, but seriously. It’s a dance.”
Oh. The sign was for a Halloween costume ball.
I shrugged. “Hadn’t really thought about going.”
“What?! Come on, Chickie. Really?”
“I have practicing to do,” I muttered, my standard response to everything. Why waste a Friday night at a dance ? I could have a date with Brahms, instead.
“You practice too much,” she said, and slammed my locker for me. “Seriously. You are in high school, and you need to get out.”
Not according to my dad, I thought. He probably wouldn’t even let me go—he’d say I was too young, or give me a hard time about “distractions.” He’d probably never even
been
to a dance!
For a second, I missed the relationship I used to have with my dad. He’d give me all kinds of insider info on the drama behind the curtain of the BSO—who was auditioning for other symphonies, what the guest conductors were really like, which sections pulled the best pranks on the violas (everyone’s favorite targets, for some reason)—and it made symphony life sound exciting and fun and special, like the members were one big, dramatic family. I wanted to be part of all of it—the specialness, the fun, the excitement, the drama . . . it’s why I worked so hard.
But ever since I’d overheard how he really felt about my playing, it was like I couldn’t listen to anything else he said—all I heard were the words “She thinks she can get in, but I’m not so sure.” Where I’d once wanted to follow in his footsteps and be just like him, lately I felt that I needed to prove myself to him—be better than he thought I was. Be better than everyone thinks I
am
.
Sarah was still waiting for my response. As much as I wanted to stay home and practice—and
needed
to do that—I had to show my dad that I could do it all.
“Okay,” I said before I thought about it much longer. “I’m game. Do you have any costume ideas?”
Sarah squeed and clapped her hands, then started prattling about how much fun we were going to have on our walk to the caf. I tried to ignore the growing knot in my stomach.
We put our lunches on the table and Sarah announced, “She’s in!”
I said “Huh?” at the same time Jake and Hector said “Cool!”
“We’re all going,” Sarah said. “You know, as a group. A bunch of the band people.”
“Oh, yeah.” Sarah’s announcement made me feel simultaneously betrayed—for not revealing the “group thing” right away—and shy. What if someone asked to dance with me? What if no one did? Which was the better option, really? The one dance Alisha dragged me to in junior high ended when, while bopping along to some Theo Christmas tune, I slipped in a puddle of spilled punch and sprained my ankle. Putting me with a partner? No way. Spending the evening with Brahms was looking better and better. I huffed, then slumped in my chair while everyone started talking about costumes.
“We should coordinate as a group,” Hector said. “You know, pick a movie or something and all go as characters from it.”
“Great idea!” Sarah said. “We could totally be characters from
Dusk
.”
“The vampire movie?” Jake asked. Sarah nodded. She’d been obsessed with the
Dusk
vampires since her cousin took her to the movie a couple of weeks ago.
Steve, who’d plunked down his lunch, groaned. “You can’t be serious.”