Notes From An Accidental Band Geek (10 page)

It’s funny—since I never played sports when I was a little kid (it was hard to get me to come out from behind a music stand, even in elementary school), and music was less about competing with others and more about me competing with myself to be the best player I could, I never thought much about winning and losing. But the idea that the musical group I was a part of would be judged against other bands ? Well, that sparked a new competitive streak in me. All I wanted was to win that trophy—to be part of the best group on the field and have everyone know it.

Sarah slid into the seat next to me. She’d stayed lukewarm toward me since I’d flipped out over being Miss Piggy, so I hoped this was a good sign. She gestured to the history book propped on my knees and asked if I was going to do the reading.

“If I can stay awake long enough,” I said. As if on cue, I yawned so big my jaw cracked. She giggled.

“Chicken, cock-a-doodle-do!” someone called, and jostled my shoulder. The bus was mostly empty and Steve was peering into my seat. I glared at him. Where was Sarah? Why hadn’t she woken me up? Was she still mad at me after all?

“Get your stuff and get suited up! We’re due in warm-ups in twenty minutes!” He leaped off the bus.

I grabbed my backpack of supplies and pulled the mellophone case out of the overhead rack. When I stepped off the bus into the crisp October sunshine, my hands tingled with adrenaline. My first competition!

The girls’ changing area was between buses one and two. A band mom handed me my uniform bag and I found Sarah, who’d spread her towel on a grassy patch. But once I saw her, I didn’t know if I should approach her or not. What should I say about the bus? Why did I care?

“Hey! Sleeping Chicken!” She waved and called me over. “You were so out of it that I couldn’t bring myself to wake you up.”

I smiled, more relieved than I expected to be. She made room next to her stuff, and I spread my towel and got my uniform out. Around us, other girls from band and color guard were getting decked out in their polyester finest, giggling or complaining over each piece of band-tastic clothing.

As we changed, Sarah chatted about a fashion design elective that she wanted to take in the spring. She didn’t leave me much time to respond—I wouldn’t have really known what to say anyway—so I just nodded and smiled as she prattled. Her enthusiasm reminded me of when Alisha talked about dance, which I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed. It was nice to listen to someone else so into their “thing,” even if it wasn’t music-related.

It was nice to have someone else to listen
to
, too.

AJ’s whistle tweeted over everyone’s chatter. Time to line up. Sarah headed off with the rest of the color guard. I grabbed my hat, stuck the chicken-plume in the slot in the center front of it, and raced to the warm-up area.

In uniform, we were intimidating. Thanks to the cut of the jackets and pants, it was nearly impossible to distinguish who was male or female, let alone identify individuals. We stood in our warm-up arc, and the serious and focused expressions on everyone’s faces reminded me of how classical musicians look before a performance. Even Punk, who I almost didn’t recognize without the nuts and bolts in his face, seemed intense. AJ warmed us up, then gave us basic instructions about the inspection, parade, group photos, and the downtime before the field show performance. By the time he finished explaining everything, butterflies had taken up residence in my stomach.

“Remember,” AJ cautioned, “at inspection
everything
counts! A speck of lint on your pants will get points knocked off. A crooked hat—we lose a point. Earrings? Nose rings? Deductions. Not standing at attention properly? Instrument dirty?
Mega
points off. And they identify you based on your spot, so I will know who you are!”

I don’t think anyone heard the last part. As AJ was speaking, a band as big as an army marched by to a military-style drum cadence. Their red-and-black uniforms, black hats and plumes gave them a menacing appearance, and every Hellcat watched as they passed. Their straight-backed drum major led their parade block with force and intensity. Awed, I couldn’t pull my eyes away.

“That’s the Marching Minutemen of Revolutionary High,” Steve whispered to me. “They always kick our butts in the parade category, but I think we have their number for field show this year.” Their line seemed never-ending.

“They’ve been selected to march in this year’s Darcy’s department store Thanksgiving parade,” Steve went on.

Okay, that was impressive. Like most people in America, I watched the parade on Thanksgiving morning while my parents got ready for the holiday. What an honor for this group!

I flashed back to the first day of band camp, when I thought all of this stuff was ridiculous. And, on some level, I knew that it kind of still was—especially to a real musician. But seeing the Minutemen sparked my competitive streak. So what if they were way bigger than us? Or louder? Or going to perform on national TV in a matter of weeks? We were going to kick their butt. I had a goal bigger than just playing my best—
winning
. I wanted that trophy! My heart pounded with excitement. I caught Jake’s eye across the arc and gave him a smile. He grinned back, and I felt happy and light—like one of those parade balloons.

We formed our parade block—basically a rectangle, five people per row, and about a third smaller than the Minutemen—and AJ brought us to attention. I stood between Punk, who was in the center, and Steve, who marched on the outer left side.

AJ counted off and gave the forward march command. My heart thudded over the drum line as I kept pace with Steve and Punk, careful to keep our line straight. We marched through the school parking lot to the inspection station, where we stood at parade rest while AJ waited for the judges’ signal.

When he got it, he called us to attention in a loud, clear voice. We snapped into position.

One hundred twenty-five people held their breath.

Seconds later, a clipboard-carrying judge was in front of me. I smelled his grape bubble gum. Using all of my concentration, I kept my eyes locked straight ahead. Even when, surrounded by a cloud of synthetic grape-ness, the judge leaned in to examine something on my shoulder, I didn’t so much as flicker my glance in his direction. My stomach and heart danced a hot tango. I tightened my grip on my horn and waited for him to finish.

That’s when the itch started. Right at the tip of my nose; it was like a tap-dancing butterfly had landed there. It was completely maddening, and there was nothing I could do about it.

My eyes filled with tears. The sensation was absolutely torturous.

And, I realized with growing horror, it was turning into an urge to sneeze.

15

Let’s say there’s such a thing as “sneaking” a delicate sneeze during parade inspection—which is nearly impossible anyway—there’d be no mistaking the lion-like sound I make when it happens. I squeezed my eyes shut tight, then opened them, hoping that would kill the urge.

No dice.

I tried breathing faster, then slower, to take care of it.

How long did inspection
last
? My nose tingled like ants were marching around in there.

Horrified, I realized it was out of my control.

My head flew back, mouth opened, and I let loose—just as AJ’s whistle gave us the signal to move forward.

The sneeze roared out of me even louder than I expected. A fine mist settled over my mellophone, which I still held at attention. My hat slipped, visor covering one eye. In my peripheral vision, Steve winced. The trumpet player in front of me cringed, and it may have been my imagination, but I swore that AJ’s plumed hat became just a little bit straighter out of aggravation.

The drummers tick-tick-ticked a straight beat for us until we reached the parade’s starting line. Then AJ put us in parade rest and gave us the at ease command. Before Steve could say anything, I fixed my hat and raised one hand in the “stop” gesture.

“I know. I know!” I said, near tears. “I did everything I could to stop it, but nothing worked.”

“Actually,” Steve said dryly, “I was thinking about changing your nickname from Chicken to The Bomber. How does such a big noise come out of such a small person ?”

Ha-ha. Steve’s lame attempt at humor only made me feel worse. AJ called us to attention. Time to step off.

Our marching cadence—what the drummers play between songs when we’re on the parade route—started. More than just a simple tick-tick-tick to keep us marching in step, the cadence has a groove to it, like a percussion-only song, and its heavy bass beat triggered car alarms all along the residential street as we marched.

“Whoop-whoop!” called someone behind me in the parade block—probably a drummer. I grinned, post-sneeze guilt nearly gone.

Spectators lined the parade route. I kept in line with Punk and Steve, holding my head high. After twice through the cadence, AJ signaled us to start playing our medley of marches. We played through that twice, then it was back to the cadence. Repeat.

After three repetitions, the excitement wore off. I had no idea how long the route was—someone had mentioned three miles, but it felt as though we’d been walking for ten. Band parents and Mr. Sebastian wove through the parade block, offering us sips from water bottles when we weren’t playing.

Finally I spotted the review stand ahead on my left. A small crowd sat on portable bleachers. The judges’ table was down in front. We’d march through, and the judges would score us based on our sound and marching precision.

Before I had time to think, AJ counted off. Unlike never-ending inspection, what seemed like a second later I’d crossed the far side of the review area. We hadn’t even finished playing the whole piece.

From there, it was about the length of a football field to the end of the parade. When we crossed the finish line and AJ put us at parade rest, a wave of exhaustion hit me.

“Good job, people!” AJ called to the whole group. He was standing near Steve, shouting so the entire band could hear him. Then, quieter, to us, “I want to know who the sneezer is.
Now
.”

I lifted my head to confess.

“Me,” said a voice from my right. Punk. Covering for me
again
! What was it with him?! Well, this time I wouldn’t let Punk take my punishment—based on AJ’s glare, running laps would be a treat compared to what he had planned. I opened my mouth to protest when a parade volunteer came up to AJ and whispered in his ear.

“Picture time!” he called to everyone. And, only to Punk, “We’ll talk later.”

We were still in parade block, so AJ marched us to the photographer while I wondered what was up with Punk. Portable bleachers had been installed in a local park, and the notorious Marching Minutemen stood on them, finishing their formal picture. Even post-parade, they seemed intense. Especially their drum major, whose eyes were downright scary.

“I heard he makes their whole band run laps before practice,” Punk stage-whispered to me. “People yurked during their band camp.”

I shuddered. The Minutemen were so intimidating, it wouldn’t have surprised me.

“You don’t have to keep covering for me,” I whispered to him. He stared straight ahead at the Minutemen, like he hadn’t heard me.

“One, two, three!” shouted the photographer. A flash. “Beautiful! Beautiful! Okay, now quick—set up a silly picture ! ”

In a blur of red and black, kids scrambled into funny poses—a group of trumpets raised a piccolo player above their heads, some trombones stuck their hats on the slides of their instruments, and the sousaphones coordinated some goofy gangsta signs.

Crack!

I jumped, the sound so loud that my inspection station sneeze seemed like a whisper.

Steve pointed to the other band.

The Minutemen in the middle of the bleachers seemed to be standing a step lower than the kids around them.

Then they disappeared.

16

Right after the collapse, it was total chaos for what felt like two hours, but was really only about ten minutes. AJ, Mr. Sebastian, and every available parent and volunteer rushed toward the Minutemen, shouting for cell phones and to call 911. We broke formation immediately and also rushed forward to help, but were scooted back by the adults. I huddled with Jake, Steve, Sarah, and Punk, unable to tear my eyes away from the scene. Kids were crying and yelling that they were trapped; some were walking around, calling their friends’ names, hurt and bleeding. Punk just kept muttering “
Dude
” over and over again, under his breath.

My hands shook, and my mellophone—which I refused to put down, it felt like it was my anchor—wobbled and jiggled. Steve noticed and put his arm around me.

“That could’ve been us,” I said. “We were next. That could’ve—”

“Shhhh,” he soothed, and gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “It wasn’t. We’re okay.”

“But they’re
not
!” I cried. I heard the hysteria in my voice. I clamped my jaw shut and concentrated on breathing.

AJ and Mr. Sebastian ordered most of us back to the bus, but asked the biggest guys—mostly seniors on drum line and the sousaphone players—to stay and remove the Marching Minutemen’s gear. Later, we found out that they also held up sections of the broken bleachers so that the paramedics could get to the kids trapped underneath.

Back at the buses, I sat with Sarah, Hector, and Jake on a towel in the sun. Wailing sirens and heavy horns comprised the disaster soundtrack playing in the background. Each time an ambulance left—I counted thirteen of them—the noise would get louder as it raced through the parking lot near us, then would lessen and finally fade as it sped to the hospital. We didn’t say anything until the last siren echoed into the distance. I checked my watch. It had taken nearly two and a half hours to get every kid out. Sarah’s eyes were puffy and red from crying.