Notes From An Accidental Band Geek (16 page)

“Kermit always dances with Miss Piggy.” I batted my eyelashes at her, forcing playfulness that I didn’t feel. There would be time to tell her about Jake later; I could use this chance to ask her about Punk.

She nudged me. “You are too funny,” she said. “But there’s something else going on. What’s up?” She took a tube of lip gloss from her bag, applied it in the mirror, and handed it to me.

I told her about seeing Punk against the wall after Jake and I finished slow dancing.

“He
must
like you,” she said, forehead furrowed while I tried her sparkly gloss. I didn’t like its fake pinky shine and wiped it off. Maybe Sarah was right, but that wasn’t the vibe I got from him. The first bell rang.

“I dunno,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m not sure that’s it either.” It was nearly time for class, I had no answers, and no idea what to do when I saw either of them.

Sarah leaned back against the sink, her giant purse bumping her knees. “Aren’t you going to ask me anything?”

“Huh? Ask you about what?”

“Seriously, Elsie?
Seriously?!
We can have all these conversations about you, you, you, but you never think to ask about who I like or what I’m doing or anything that’s going on with me—or anyone else.” Her tone shifted faster than a sports car, and I reeled. Where did this come from? What had I done wrong?

Then I remembered our last bathroom chat—and her admonishment to think about other people. Crud.

“Sarah, what? I’m sorry. I didn’t know. . . .” I fumbled for the right words. “Is there someone you like?”

Way to sound lame, I chided myself.

Sarah stuffed the lip gloss in her bag and stalked to the door. “Figure it out,” she tossed over her shoulder. The door closed. The tardy bell rang.

Fab-tabulous, Elsie.

At least it got Jake and Punk off my mind.

 

 

 

It didn’t matter if Jake was in my thoughts or not—he was absent from class and wasn’t at lunch. Sarah hadn’t spoken to me since we left the bathroom, even though I tried to apologize two more times in the hall, and I was as frayed as an old shoelace.

Hector, who sat between Sarah and me at lunch, hadn’t heard from Jake all weekend.

“Did
you,
Elsie?” he asked, mischievous smile dancing at the corners of his lips.

“No,” I snapped back. “Why would I?”

The smile disappeared. “Uh, well. Erm. You two . . .”

“We danced. At a
dance,
Hector. You danced too.” I couldn’t control my words. I knew I was taking a bad few days—and an awful morning—out on him, but I couldn’t stop. Or didn’t want to.

“You’re so darn
touchy,
Elsie.
All the time,
” he snapped back at me. He grabbed his bag and gathered his stuff, face red and his eyes bulging behind his glasses. “And you say mean things to me, a lot.” He balled his fists. Even his scruffy gray backpack, which had ridden up high on his shoulders, looked angry.

It was like being punctured with a needle. My attitude withered, and I saw—again—what a total jerk I was being. But it was too late. Hector stormed off, the Chewbacca keychain decorating his bag swinging to a furious beat. I’d forgotten—or ignored—everything that Sarah said at the dance about other people’s feelings, and for the second time in the same day found myself wishing I could rein in my mouth. Miss Piggy, indeed.

I didn’t even need the costume.

I booked it to the girls’ bathroom, holding back tears until I was safely in the farthest stall from the door. Once I slid the bolt lock, the flood started. I covered my mouth to trap my sniffles, and just stood there and wept. All I did was hurt my friends—friends I hadn’t even realized I
wanted
until joining marching band. Why was I so awful? What was wrong with me? The first bell rang, then the tardy bell. I was late for class, and I didn’t care.

I stayed in the bathroom for another ten minutes, and then went to the nurse’s office to fake a headache and get a late pass. One of the girls in Hector’s section had used that trick to get out of a French test, so I figured it’d work for me. When the nurse saw my blotchy face and swollen eyes, she nearly called my mother. She probably thought I was carrying a contagious disease, not just suffering from bad-frienditis.

Hector and Sarah ignored me in bio, going so far as to switch their seats so we wouldn’t be near one another. I totally deserved it. I went through the motions of taking notes and listening while wallowing in my poor behavior.

That afternoon, the band room was its usual chaotic whirl of kids warming up, putting instruments together, and lugging equipment onto the field. I walked through the room in a cloud of shame. My hands skidded off my locker when I went to get my mellophone.

Hector and Sarah stood on the opposite side of the room, speaking quietly to each other, not even glancing in my direction—just like in bio. Steve was busy helping one of the players in the pit pack the marimba, and Punk and AJ pored over a set of drill charts.

Punk! I’d been so upset over the Sarah/Hector thing, I hadn’t even thought of him. Great.

I was completely alone in a sea of people.

25

After getting my horn and band buddy, I found a piece of floor away from Hector and Sarah where I wouldn’t get trampled and waited, alone. Typically, at the start of practice, we get our instruments and head to sectionals for a quick warm-up, then over to the field for drill and ensemble rehearsal. Today, though, there was a big note on the whiteboard that read: SET UP & SHUT UP.

“Settle down, people! Settle down!” Mr. Sebastian called. A beat. “That means you, drum line! Knock it off back there! ” Along with everyone else in the room, I turned to see what Mr. Sebastian was talking about. The drum line had made a human pyramid. The cheers and whoops that exploded—not to mention the theatrical takedown—ate up another minute or two.

“I have some news to share with you. It’s exciting, but a bit bittersweet.” The overhead lights shined on Mr. Sebastian’s receding hairline. He paused. We waited.

“We’ve been invited to march in the Darcy’s Thanksgiving Day parade,” he said.

The room erupted louder than a volcano. In fact, I’m sure the people who live
on
the nearest volcano heard us. Mr. Sebastian let us holler for a minute or so, then raised his hands to quiet us down so he could continue. “If we go, we’d travel to New York on the day before Thanksgiving, march in the parade on Thanksgiving morning, and return home late that afternoon. It means you’ll be away from your families for the day—”

“My parents can’t wait to get rid of me!”

That came from Punk, I’m sure.

“You’ll be away from your families for the day,” Mr. Sebastian repeated over the laughter. “But I did say there were two parts to this news . . .”

Whispers and murmurs slid around the room like eels through water.

“The bittersweet portion of this is that we’ve been asked to serve as replacements for the Marching Minutemen.”

You could have heard snow fall.

Mr. Sebastian rubbed his face with both hands. “I’ve spoken with the representative from Darcy’s, Mr. Macy, as well as the Minutemen’s band director. The Minutemen suggested that we replace them, as a thank-you for the support and help we gave them during the bleacher collapse.

“I know this is an awkward situation,” he went on, “and I want you to be the ones to make the final decision. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for us, but it
is
at the expense of the other band.”

AJ raised his hand.

“I think we should do it,” he said. “There’s no way we’d ever get invited to do the parade if this hadn’t happened—we’re not big enough to make the minimum size requirement, for starters—and so we seriously should accept the invite or they’ll just give it to someone else.”

Steve nodded and spoke up. “Maybe there’s something we could do to honor them—carry their banner behind ours, or play their marching arrangements?”

His suggestion was met with more chatter, and Mr. Sebastian took an official vote. With all the other arms in the air, no one noticed me, sitting numb, like a block of wood.

I couldn’t go to New York for Thanksgiving. There was no way.

The Shining Birches audition was that Saturday.

26

Around me, the excitement built as Mr. Sebastian and AJ ushered us out for practice. We’d have to work our butts off to be ready for national TV on Thanksgiving morning. And parade was not our best skill. Not even close.

Of course, none of that mattered to me. I
had
to be home. Home, practicing for Shining Birches! Sure, much to my surprise I’d grown to like marching band, but I never lost sight of my
real
musical goals: that audition. Despite what I’d told my mother, I was panicked over the lack of time I’d spent behind my horn. Doing quick math, I’d averaged somewhere between five and seven practice hours a week—which was nowhere near what I’d need to master the audition pieces and get into the program. And practicing for Darcy’s would mean additional time commitments and a huge distraction. Before the audition, over Thanksgiving break, I’d counted on having two full days of nothing but horn playing (well, and eating). And since my dad was performing in two holiday kickoff concerts, I’d have plenty of home-alone time. With Darcy’s in the way, everything would change.

I moved through rehearsal on autopilot, anxiety about Jake (still MIA—was he sick?), Punk, Sarah, and Hector completely overshadowed by New York. I didn’t even care when I stepped out of line during the percussion feature, crashed into a piccolo player, and AJ had to stop and reset the band from the beginning.

When we were finally dismissed from the field, I went to the sidelines to find Mr. Sebastian. Anticipating his flip-out, my stomach was as heavy and hard as a rock, but I had to tell him.

He and AJ were leaning over the podium, score for the show stretched out in front of them, working through a section. The other band members were headed into the band room, the pit percussionists wheeling in their instruments.

Finally, they finished. Mr. Sebastian stood straight and AJ folded the long score, then left.

“Um . . . Mr. Sebastian?” My voice was too soft for him to hear. I tried again, louder. “Excuse me?”

He spun around. “Elsie! What can I do for you, dear?”

His smile was so wide and kind that I froze. I didn’t know how to begin. To my complete humiliation, my eyes filled with tears.

“It’s . . . uhh . . . well . . .” I had to force the words out. “I just can’t go to New York,” I said, rushing everything together. “I’m sorry.”

His smile melted faster than ice cream on a hot day.

“What do you mean, Elsie?” he asked. “I realize that students haven’t spoken with their parents yet, so there may be some conflicts. Were you planning on traveling for the holiday?”

I wished it was that easy.

“Not exactly,” I said. My hands were sweaty against the cold metal of the mellophone. “I have a big audition on Saturday.”

“Saturday?”

I nodded.

“As in, two days after the parade?”

I nodded again.

“Well,” he went on, big smile back, “that’s no problem! We’ll be back on Thursday evening . . . in plenty of time for your audition.”

How was I going to say this without sounding snotty and ridiculous ?

“I understood which day we’re coming back,” I said. “That has nothing to do with it. I just need the practice time.”

It sounded snotty and ridiculous.

Mr. Sebastian’s face twitched.

“Are you saying that you are forgoing a major performance opportunity to rehearse?” There was heavy silence while he waited for my reply.

“Kind of?” I offered. “But not really.” Getting out of quicksand would be easier than getting out of this mess. “I’m sorry, Mr. Sebastian, I just really, really need to practice.”

He inhaled through his nose in a noisy huff, then tilted his head to watch a flock of birds. The field was empty, and in the parking lot, a few cars started as kids left.

“I gather this is an important audition for you,” he said. His words came out carefully formed, with distinct spaces between them, like glass marbles.

I nodded. “It’s for Shining Birches.”

Mr. Sebastian took off his glasses and rubbed his face. I couldn’t tell if he was completely frustrated or furious.

“Elsie, that’s a program for upperclassmen. Most of the applicants—”

“I know.” I cut him off, surprising myself. But I really, really didn’t want to hear him talk about how young I was, or how I probably wouldn’t get in, or how it’d be better if I waited until next year to audition. Heard enough of that lately, thank you very much.

“I know a lot about the program already,” I said, trying to cover up my rudeness. “My dad went there when he was in high school, and I know how hard it is to get in—especially for someone my age. That’s why I need to practice.”

Mr. Sebastian rubbed his face again and pinched the bridge of his nose. He took another deep breath. “Let’s go into my office,” he said.

I followed him across the field into the nearly empty band room. AJ was there, watching a recording of our parade performance the day of the Minutemen bleacher collapse. He barely glanced at us as we entered—he was too busy scribbling notes on a sheet of legal paper.

Mr. Sebastian pulled a ring of keys from his pocket and opened his office. I hadn’t been in there before, and was surprised at how small and cluttered it was. Shelves of videotapes, music scores, drill chart folders, and books overflowed onto the floor. Photos of the Hellcats going back to 1995 lined the walls, and instruments needing repairs nestled in cases labeled with yellow tags formed a shaky pyramid on the floor. There was barely room for a chair opposite his desk.

“Have a seat,” he said.