Notes From An Accidental Band Geek (18 page)

“Hector,” I began gently, “I’m really, really—”

“Save it, Elsie,” Sarah snapped. “You’ve apologized to him—us—before. It doesn’t mean you’re going to change. You’re still the same obnoxious kid you were in junior high, always acting better than everyone else because you play the horn.”

Her sharp words took my breath away. Heat rose in my face. Hector shifted from foot to foot, caught between the two of us.

“I know,” I tried. “But this time—”

“This time is different?” said Hector, voice sad. “I don’t know if I believe you, Elsie.” The first bell buzzed.

“I don’t,” Sarah snipped.

They weren’t even giving me a chance to
explain
!

“Look, I know we’re not as important as your
goals
or your
horn,
so we’ll let you get to class,” Sarah said.

As much as her words hurt, they also showed me her point. As soon as horn life got stressful, I treated them poorly. I was so embarrassed, I didn’t say anything in response, just watched helplessly as they left me standing in the hall and the crowd thinned.

I didn’t even try to make it to English on time. The late bell rang when I was just steps from the door, and I had nothing to say to Mrs. Beman when she told me I’d be getting a tardy for the period.

I saw Jake outside of history, just before lunch. Based on his expression, he knew what went on between me, Hector, and Sarah in the hall.

“Look, Elsie,” he said before the bell, “they’re upset.”

“I
know
they’re upset! I’m upset too! It’s my fault that they’re so mad.” I was dangerously close to losing control.

“I don’t want to be in the middle of this,” he said. “I can’t be. You have to work it out with them, Elsie.”

Miserable, I nodded. What was I going to do at lunch ? I didn’t want to sit there while Hector and Sarah threw eyedaggers at me. I wanted to escape behind my horn.

When class ended, I met Jake in the hall. “Go to lunch with those guys. I think they need time to cool off and I don’t want to make things all weird.”

Confusion flitted across Jake’s face. “What about you?”

“I’m going to the band room,” I said. “I need to practice.”

“Elsie!” Jake rubbed his head with both hands. “Seriously, is that the best idea?”

“Well, they don’t want to talk to me right now,” I said. “And playing will make me feel better. Honest.”

Jake just shook his head. “Suit yourself.”

“I’ll see you later, okay?” I didn’t want him to be mad at me too, but this was the best I could do. And despite what he thought, I wasn’t hiding. Playing would hopefully help me get my emotions in order.

“Fine. I’ll come by your locker at the end of the day.” We stood awkwardly. What should I do ? Hug him?

Instead of a hug, he squeezed my hand.

“See ya,” he said, and left me in the middle of the hall, alone.

29

I spent all of lunch blowing my brains out on my horn, working those audition pieces like it was my job. (Okay, it was.)

And like I’d told Jake, it made me feel better—for the time being. However, after I put my horn away, I realized that it didn’t magically fix my friend situation. I trudged to bio, mentally running through scenarios for apologies and making up. I was no good at this stuff, and my guts churned to an andante beat.

The Sarah/Hector wall was back. I tried to break through it with a smile when I came in, but they turned away, eyes dark.

I dropped my book bag on the floor and slumped in my chair. They were not about to make this easy.

“Look, guys,” I whispered at their backs, while the teacher took attendance. “I’m sorry. I’m
really
sorry.”

Nothing. No reaction. I may as well not have been there.

“Can’t we at least talk about this?” I tried.

The girl in front of me snickered. I wanted to poke her neck with my pencil, but I refrained.

Hector peered at me out of the corner of his eye, then frowned.

Mr. O’Malley brought the class to order, forcing me to stop my ineffective apologizing. I took notes, sneaking glances at Sarah and Hector the whole time he was lecturing on cell structure. Maybe they’d thaw a little, so that when it was time for us to break into lab groups, I could partner with them.

“Okay, get in your groups!” Mr. O’Malley called.

I turned to Sarah and Hector. They weren’t looking at me at all. Without saying anything, they got up and walked to a table in the far corner of the room, joining a girl from color guard and someone I didn’t know.

“You can totally work with us, Elise!” the girl in front of me chirped.

“It’s
Elsie,
” I snapped as I gathered my lab sheets. My sharp tone didn’t even come close to the stabbing pain I felt as Hector and Sarah went to work without me.

 

 

 

The following afternoon, Sarah and Hector still weren’t speaking to me. Jake, maintaining his neutrality, insisted that the three of us leave him out of it—which basically left me out of lunch. Again. Why sit at the table and make it awkward for everyone? I practiced. Again.

Having no friends meant I had nothing to lose, so I decided to confront Punk at practice to figure out what his deal was. I hadn’t seen him in the halls, and he was purposely avoiding me at band—every time I turned to him, he made sure to be absorbed in something else.

But our usual practice schedule had changed. Everyone was getting their instruments and then sitting on the risers, not heading straight for sectionals. I retrieved my mellophone from my locker and plunked down next to Jake. Hector and Sarah stayed on the opposite side of the room, as cold as the Arctic. Jake gave me a warm smile and squeezed my hand, which tingled like an electric shock.

“Who’s that?” someone behind me whispered. I’d been so busy staring at Jake, I hadn’t paid attention to much else. And I definitely hadn’t noticed the guy hunched over the podium with AJ and Mr. Sebastian. They were all studying a score.

Mr. Sebastian called us to order, and the other kid straightened. He had one arm in a sling. And that’s when I realized: He was a Marching Minuteman.

“This is Kip Bellsworth, drum major for Revolutionary High’s band,” Mr. Sebastian announced. “He’s going to work with us to help us prepare for our Darcy’s parade debut.” Mr. Sebastian said a bunch of other stuff, but I didn’t listen.

Instead, I focused on Kip, who was tall and cute—was that a requirement for being drum major?—then I flashed back to the day of the accident, remembering his intense eyes and the talk about how he made his band run laps before practice. The intensity had left his face. All that was left was sadness. Where had he been when the collapse happened? The accident was a month ago, and since he was still bandaged, I guessed he’d gotten pretty hurt. And in spite of that he was here to help us out.

“This is a big deal,” Jake whispered. “This doesn’t usually happen.”

I would guess not. And from Kip’s expression—a mix of worried, disappointed, and determined—this was a
very
big deal to him. I’m sure he wished he were working with the Minutemen.

Mr. Sebastian sent us out with our section leaders to learn the new parade piece. I was so nervous about confronting Punk—who’d been sitting on the opposite side of the room—I didn’t hear Mr. Sebastian calling my name until Jake nudged me.

“If you have a minute, Elsie?” Mr. Sebastian said. He blew a big, exasperated puff of air from his cheeks. “You’ll catch up with the high brass momentarily.”

The other drum major, Kip, still stood with Mr. Sebastian. Up close, I could see the faint yellow bruises around one eye. His arm was wrapped in a cast to the elbow. And I noticed that I’d been mistaken earlier. The intensity was still on his face. In fact, he studied me like he was evaluating my worthiness for whatever they had planned. Immediately, I stood taller. Not that it helped much.

“The Minutemen’s parade medley contains the piccolo solo from Sousa’s ‘Stars and Stripes Forever.’ I assume you’re familiar with it?” Mr. Sebastian asked. I nodded. Of course I was. It was the last song played at every Boston Pops concert! I’d heard its frolicking
tweet-tweet, tweet-tweet, tweedle-leedle-leet-deet, leedle-leedle-eet-leet-lee!
since I was a baby.

Kip crossed his good arm over his bad one. “We rearranged the solo for mello in our band,” he said. “We have a kickin’ player and thought it would get more attention that way.” He shrugged. “Plus, it’d be easier than mike-ing a flute or pic at the parade.”

“Okay,” I said, keeping cool. I hoped I knew where this was going.

Kip and Mr. Sebastian exchanged glances.

“I want to offer it to you,” Mr. Sebastian said. “You’re the loudest player in your section, and I’m confident you can master it. Can you handle learning it and your audition pieces for Shining Birches?”

Kip showed nothing but skepticism. Just another person to add to my list to prove wrong.

“I can absolutely handle it,” I said, while my brain replayed my dad saying that I shouldn’t accept the solo if they offered it to me. “I’ll totally do it,” I added, sealing the deal for myself.

“Sure you’re up for it?” Kip asked me. His eyes searched my face. I’m sure he saw what everyone else did: a short, round freshman who looked like she belonged in junior high. And that was not me—not anymore.

“Don’t worry what I’m up for,” I snapped. “I will rock that solo harder than you could ever dream.”
That
made Kip take a step back—and sparked admiration in his eyes.

“Easy, there,” Mr. Sebastian cautioned. “Okay. You’ll get it next practice. Go to sectionals.”

I felt Kip’s skeptical eyes on me as I left. Sure, it’d mean practicing a little more on mello than I’d planned, but the solo was only a few bars. Once I had it memorized, I’d be golden.

30

I joined the rest of my section in our customary practice spot by the oak tree. Only now, instead of blazing summer heat, a chill autumn breeze blew by, kicking up fallen leaves and swirling them in a ballet around our ankles. Punk stood between two other players, not in his usual spot on the end, next to me. He didn’t look at me as I joined the group.

Steve ran us through the march medley once or twice. In most Sousa marches, the trombones carry the melody—the main part of the song—so other instruments just play off-beats underneath them. As a high brass player, all I had to worry about was not getting lost while counting. And since I can count to two, I was set.

But Steve wanted to make sure we stayed together, hit the notes cleanly, and got through the piece without crashing and burning. The medley began with “The Liberty Bell” (which, Steve told us, was also the theme from some ancient TV show called
Monty Python’s Flying Circus
—okay, he didn’t say “ancient,” he said “awesome,” but who cares?), went into the “Washington Post” march, and finished with “Stars and Stripes Forever.”

“Okay, time’s up!” Steve said. “Head to ensemble.”

We gathered our stuff. This was my chance to talk to Punk. I sidled up to him as he cleared the spit valve from his horn. I coughed.

“Hey.” He glanced at me, but didn’t say anything.

“Uh, look,” I tried, shuffling my feet so I was slightly in front of him, forcing him to watch me. “I know you’re mad. Or upset. Actually, I don’t know what you are—only that you danced with me when you were Frankenstein and we haven’t talked since.” The words tumbled out of me like a swift horn run.

Punk raised a pierced eyebrow. We were close to the ensemble arc. I didn’t have much time.

“I’m not sure what I did, but I’m sorry for it. And if you tell me what the problem is, maybe I can fix it.” I felt like a tiny dog yapping for attention.

He tilted his head to the sky and blew a big puff of air out of his cheeks, just like Mr. Sebastian had. “Chicken, it’s all cool. Seriously.”

“Oh, really?” I said. The Sahara wasn’t as dry as my voice. “That’s great.”

We’d reached ensemble. Kip and AJ stood at the podium, conferring.

Punk stepped into the mellophone line between two other players. No way was he freezing me out like Sarah and Hector. I needed to know what was going on. Jutting my elbows, I muscled in between Punk and Mac, another junior.

“A little ‘excuse me’ would go a long way, Zombie-chick,” Mac snapped.

“Sorry,” I said. Punk raised that eyebrow again. AJ called us to attention.

“I want an
answer,
” I whispered at Punk out of the corner of my mouth. I set my gaze on Kip and AJ.

“There is none,” he muttered. “We’re cool. That’s it!”

AJ counted off, and we played the medley. When we reached the solo section in “Stars and Stripes” the rest of the band rested or played off-beats. I imagined playing the intricate solo, lighter than what’s typically played on a brass instrument, and fairly complex. It’d be awesome.

However, realizing the amount of work it would take to perfect this and my audition pieces terrified me. Now I understood why Dad said not to take it. But I couldn’t resist the opportunity. I pushed my nerves down.

We finished the run-through and AJ put us in parade rest.

“Not bad for a first time,” he called.

“But not great either,” Kip added. He paced back and forth in front of the podium. “The key to making this medley work is articulating every note—really making them pop—and right now, they’re running together like mush.”

“Possibly because it’s the first time we’ve
played
it,” I muttered, louder than I probably should have. Who was he to diss our articulation?

“What was that?” AJ’s head snapped in my direction. “Who said that? You are in parade rest, and there is
no talking
!” He came to our side of the field. “I know it came from over here.”

That’s when I realized I was in trouble. AJ was mad that someone had spoken while Kip was talking—it totally made AJ, and our band, look bad. So much for using my brain more than my mouth. I swallowed hard.