Notes From An Accidental Band Geek (9 page)

The others exchanged helpless looks.

“I don’t know what we can do,” Hector said. Today he was wearing a
Star Wars
shirt that read: “I’m not lazy, I just have a bad motivator” around a picture of a robot. I didn’t get it. He added, “It’s not like any of us have an extra shako hidden in our lunch bags or anything.”

Okay, I deserved that for my snarky comment this morning. I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes, the sound from hundreds of conversations bouncing off the caf’s walls.

“Can you call someone and have it dropped off?” Sarah’s voice rose out of the din. My dad
was
probably still home. His quintet rehearsed on Wednesdays, but I think they met in late afternoon. He’d probably grumble about having to come by the high school, but at least I wouldn’t be running laps or making farm noises for the marching band.

I opened my eyes and sat straighter. “Yeah, I’ll call my dad.”

“Steve will never have to know,” Sarah said, triumphant.

“Steve would never have to know what?” His deep voice was right behind me.

Sarah turned pink.

“Ba-daaa . . . BA-DAH!” sang Hector. I glared at him.

“Nothing,” Jake said. “It’s cool.” He slid his chair over so Steve could sit.

For the rest of lunch I worked on the lab report I was supposed to finish the night before while Steve helped Jake with some big extra-credit math problem. Hector and Sarah made supply lists for our Halloween dance costumes. Just before the bell rang, Jake brought me to the far side of the caf so I could use his cell phone. His hair flopped over his eyes as he showed me how to unlock the key pad, and my heart did a funny stop-start.

The phone purred in my ear until Dad picked up and I explained that, no, I was not sick or anything—I just needed my band hat.

“You need to be responsible for your own belongings,” my dad said in his lecture-voice. “A professional musician is always prepared.”

I gritted my teeth against the shame his words delivered. It’s not like I forgot something every week. And, seriously, what did my band hat have to do with being a professional musician?! “I know, Dad. I just left in a rush this morning and forgot. It won’t happen again.” I took a deep breath, stressed. “The bell’s going to ring and I need to go to class.”

He sighed. “Fine, Elsie. I’ll drop it off in the front office this afternoon, on my way to rehearsal. Last time though, okay?”

Only
time, I wanted to add, but I thanked him and clicked the phone off. Our conversation left me feeling like a deflated tire. Before this year, Dad and I had so much in common, so much to talk about; everything was easy between us. But now it was as though every time we spoke, someone was saying the wrong thing or hearing different words. I sighed.

Jake, who’d nicely stepped away to give me some privacy, slipped the phone back in his pocket and raised an eyebrow at me.

“He’s going to bring it.”

“Cool.” Jake turned away, then back, like he wanted to say something.

“What?” I said, immediately regretting the harsh way the word came out. What was wrong with my mouth today?

“Nothing,” Jake said, eyes to the floor. Not before I saw the hurt in them, though. “Glad it’s okay.”

That wasn’t what he wanted to say, and I knew it, but the moment was gone.

13

At the end of the day, I stopped by the front office and picked up the ugly plastic shako box. For our dress rehearsal we were supposed to wear our hats—not full uniforms—so AJ and Mr. Sebastian could more clearly see our formations during the drill. Plus, it’d get us freshmen used to playing with the hats’ goofy chin chain that draped just below our lower lips.

We ran through the field show a few times, then were called to the sidelines and told to suit up. I opened my hatbox, careful not to let anything spill, and removed the heavy headwear. No plume-chicken needed today.

I balanced it on my head and felt a tap on my shoulder. Punk.

“You need to straighten it, Chicken,” he said. He grabbed both sides of the hat and adjusted it until it felt like it was going to come off. “If you’re wearing it right, the balance feels funny. It takes some getting used to.”

“No kidding,” I said. How was I going to play like this? The other events we’d done at school since homecoming consisted of us wearing our band T-shirts and baseball caps, so we hadn’t had to get decked out yet.

Prep time over, AJ called us back to opening set and put us at attention. The hat wobbled on my head as I brought the horn up. The brim was low over my eyes, causing me to overshoot my spots. Based on AJ’s shouting, others were having just as much trouble as I was. Amazing how the simple addition of a piece of ugly headwear could mess up everything you’d been working on for nearly two months.

“Watch it!” came Punk’s voice. I narrowly missed crashing into the clarinetist in front of Hector who I was used to seeing a lot sooner, thanks to Mr. Hat. That put me off step, and I had to do a little skip-hop to catch up and get back into alignment with my group. I heard Hector snicker. This was like starting all over again. Frustration rose in me, and I fought it, focusing on staying in step, playing, and hat balancing.

We finished the show and stood in our final set: a “company front”—standing shoulder to shoulder from thirty yard line to thirty yard line. It seemed like every freshman was at least a step out of their spot. We looked more like a gap-toothed smile than a straight line.

“Well,” AJ called from the podium, “that was a horror show. Reset, and let’s do it again!”

Thursday and Friday slipped by, and I managed to get mostly caught up on my homework. Steve assured me that I’d have some downtime between the parade and field show competition on Saturday afternoon, so if I really needed to, I could bring school stuff.

“However,” he cautioned, “there’ll be a zillion distractions and you probably won’t get much done.”

Distractions, I could handle. And although I felt tingles of excitement surrounding the field show competition, I was downright panicked over not being able to practice for Shining Birches for two whole days. The audition was six weeks away! But although my playing chops needed a night off before the show to ensure their full strength for Saturday, I couldn’t help but wonder if taking time away from my French horn meant a competitor would win my spot at Shining Birches. Tension knotted my back and shoulders.

And it made me really pleasant too.

“Stupid shoes!” I snarled as I kicked Dad’s concert dress shoes away from the door. I held about thirty gazillion pounds of band stuff—shoes, hat, mellophone, music, and a backpack full of field show competition must-haves—and was waiting for Steve to pick me up so we could meet the band bus at the high school.

My mother called a sharp, “Elsie Kate! Do
not
speak in that tone!” from the other room.

I left, trying really hard not to slam the door, which opened not two seconds after I stepped outside. Dad.

“Your mother said someone is going to pick you up?” I stared down our street, not meeting his eyes. What was this about?

“My section leader. Steve. He’s going to drive me to the band room, so we can catch the bus to the competition.”

“Remember our conversation from the first day of school?” my dad asked. At his solemn tone, I turned. Part of me expected to see a smirk or smile on his face, but a larger part knew it wouldn’t be there. The larger part was right. He was serious.

“It’s my section leader, Dad. It’s
daytime
. We’re going to school. With other people. To take a bus to a band competition.” Did he think I was going to a party? My dad had never cared about this stuff before. We were strangers to each other. Where did the dad go who argued Beethoven vs. Wagner with me?

“I’ve never met this boy.”

A little blue car turned onto our street. It had to be Steve. No one else in our neighborhood drove a tiny car like that. My heart thudded in my chest. I didn’t want Dad asking Steve a ton of questions. The thought of that embarrassed me almost as much as the chicken-dropping incident. Would Steve call me “Baby Chick” if Dad got too involved? Or something even worse?

It’s only band, I thought, trying to keep calm. Why was Dad rattling me? I didn’t like-like Steve—no way!—so what was the big deal? My dad needed to chill out.

Steve’s car slowed to a stop in front of our house. I could hear marching band music pouring from his speakers and saw a figure sitting in the passenger seat. I was pretty sure it was Jake. Great.
Two
boys. Dad will love this.

I reached down for the mellophone case, but Dad already had the handle. “Let me help you with that,” he said. A total excuse to walk me to the car.

“Sure,” I muttered.

Steve popped out of the car when he noticed that both of us were moving toward him. “Mr. Wyatt,” he said, holding out his hand. Dad shook it. “It’s a pleasure to see you, sir. I mean, I’ve been watching you at the BSO for years, but it’s nice to meet you in person.”

The fire in my face would melt my bell. Dad immediately morphed from scowly face to professional horn face, but that almost made it worse. He told Steve the story about the night James Levine fell off the stage while conducting while stashing the mellophone case in Steve’s trunk. It closed with a clunk.

“Break a leg,” Dad said.

Steve thanked him. I exhaled. Apparently, Dad hadn’t noticed Jake in the front seat.

“And drive carefully, young man,” Dad said. He reached for Steve’s hand. “You’re carrying my precious cargo.”

So much for relief. My face flamed.

“Dad, we’re going to be late if we don’t leave.” The embarrassment-o-meter was sky high. I had to get him to stop. Luckily, one thing my dad is, is never late for a rehearsal or performance. Barbeques and family parties? Those are another story. “Mr. Sebastian says the bus leaves promptly at eight.”

“Nice to meet you, sir,” Steve said.

“Take care of her,” Dad replied. I nearly dove into the car as soon as the two of them separated. Could he have made me sound like any more of a baby?

“What was that about?” Jake asked from the front.

“Distractions,” I muttered.

14

If I thought the first day of band camp was chaotic, it was nothing compared to competition day. Band members packed instruments for transport, the color guard practiced choreography and spins in all corners, and others were running around with some purpose I couldn’t figure out. I gaped. So did Jake.

“Welcome to crazy,” Steve said. We followed him in and plunked our gear down in a place where it was least likely to get trampled, then huddled with Hector, much as we had on the first day of band camp, and watched Sarah practice her spins—she wasn’t dropping her flag anymore, and had great articulation. The percussionists packed their drums into big cases while the sousaphone players unscrewed their bells and the band moms grabbed people who had uniform problems. Jake nudged me and pointed to a big note on the whiteboard:

DON’T FORGET—ALL FACIAL JEWELRY AND EARRINGS MUST BE REMOVED FOR PARADE INSPECTION!

Underneath that last part, someone added: THIS MEANS YOU, PUNK!

I laughed. In spite of the activity and busyness, I finally started to relax. It’s here, I thought. My first competition. It felt different from the umpteen zillion concerts and shows I’d played in before, and I couldn’t wait to see what it was like when we got to the stadium. We’d be competing against six other bands, but thirty would be performing, total.

“The buses are here!” I’m not sure where the shout originated, but soon others picked it up and it ricocheted around the room. Then the chant began:

“Hua! Hua! One-two-three!

Hellcats movin’—get ready!

We bring it bad,

We bring it loud,

Screamin’ Hellcats . . .

We are proud!”

Our section leaders had told us the bus protocol and that the freshmen would have to load the equipment truck, supervised by the drum line.

After sweating with Hector—who was wearing a gray
Star Wars
Cantina Band T-shirt to mark the occasion—as we maneuvered the boxed-up marimba (kind of like a big xylophone on wheels, only with pedals like a piano) onto a lift on the outside of the truck, we grabbed our stuff and waited at the front of the band room for Sarah and Jake. They came out a few seconds later, Sarah muttering something about having to load the number five bass drum (our largest) by herself.

Jake led us onto the last bus in the line, where the four of us snagged the front two seats.

This is nothing like orchestra, I thought. In the other ensembles in which I’d performed, the audience came to us. We didn’t have to lug all of our stuff—we just showed up in “concert dress” (either white top and black skirt or pants, or black dress) and ready to play. We hadn’t even started the performance part of the day and I’d already done more heavy lifting and organizing for marching band than I ever did in orchestra! But in marching band, we didn’t have to jockey for chair position . . . and there was more than applause at stake tonight: A big, shiny trophy was up for grabs.