Notes From An Accidental Band Geek (20 page)

BigHorn_211: yo

The_Jaker: hey

“ChewbaccaRulez”—Hector’s screen name, stayed silent. I had a another internal debate over what Jake’s “hey” meant—did he finally believe me about Punk? Was he just being polite?—but then brought my attention back to my horn problem. Instead of getting into it with all the guys, I told Jake I’d see him tomorrow and sent Punk a private message to ask if we could talk.

Itznotpermanent: sure! want dance lessons?

After a quick “ha ha. NOT,” I summarized my horn teacher problem, leaving out the part about the major fight with my dad. I wanted to keep that to myself.

Itznotpermanent: mr s could help. he gives private lessons

I hadn’t thought of Mr. Sebastian. It never occurred to me that he gave music lessons . . . okay, it never occurred to me that he’d be good enough to help me out. A wave of embarrassment crashed over me. I’d been making the same judgments about Mr. S. as my dad had about marching band in general—that it wasn’t “real music” and didn’t count . . . and that the band director wouldn’t be capable of teaching me a classical piece.

I thanked Punk and put the computer back to sleep. First thing tomorrow, I’d ask Mr. Sebastian about taking over my lessons until the audition. A prickle of fear nudged my heart. What if I’d been too rude to him, and he refused?

Because if he wouldn’t do it, I was in serious trouble.

 

 

 

I spent the rest of the afternoon in my room, sorting my classical music playlists, unwilling to face my dad.
He
should apologize to
me,
I thought, and if I went downstairs it’d be like admitting defeat.

Mom came home about an hour before dinner. I crossed the hall from the bathroom, and when I turned around she was at the top of the stairs.

“Something went on here,” she said, and pointed to my room.

Obediently, I went in and sat on the bed. She pulled the door closed and leaned on the frame, folding her arms. The brass name tag from the bank was still pinned to her sweater.

“Okay, what’d I miss?” she asked. “And don’t say ‘nothing,’ because your father is sulking in the office and said that you two ‘had words.’ What words did you have?”

I tried to control my emotions. “Dad said that Mrs. Rinaldi is sick, I had no lesson today, and then we got into a big fight over whether or not I take my horn seriously.” I clamped my mouth shut against the tirade threatening to flood the space between us.

My mom sighed and leaned her head against the door. “Honey,” she started, “you know he just wants the best for—”

I had to cut her off.

“I’m tired of hearing that he just wants the best for me. I work my butt off, and he wants me to give up!”

“Of
course
he doesn’t want you to give up.” Mom sighed. “He holds you—and himself—to high standards. He wants you to achieve your goals.”

I snorted at that. “Give me a break.
Nothing
is ever good enough for him! And
you’re
always stressed about unknown dangers,” I cried, flinging Mom into the drama too. “It’s ridiculous!” So much for control.

“Your father knows how talented you are, and he wants you to be successful. As for me . . .” She shrugged, helpless. “I’m your mother and I worry about things. About
you
.”

“So knowing I’m talented means he doesn’t have to acknowledge it to me, ever? Whatever.” I collapsed onto the poor pillow I’d tortured earlier. “And sometimes your worrying is just over the top,” I added, voice muffled.

She nodded, surprising me. “You know what? You’re right about your dad. One hundred percent. This is something that the two of you need to work out together.”

I was glad that she agreed with me, but her comment was a little too similar to Jake saying that he didn’t want to get in the middle of me and the Hector/Sarah disaster. What I wanted was for her to fix everything—and give me a hug. My insides felt raw, and a major part of me was still really, really hurt by what my dad had said about my commitment to the horn.

My mom crossed the room and smoothed my hair, then gave me a peck on the head and the hug I so badly needed. “I’ll try to worry less, but I can’t make any guarantees.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I muttered.

“Sometimes it’s not easy to be talented and hardworking,” she added before she left.

That
was the understatement of the year.

32

My dad had a concert that night, so we didn’t have round two of our fight over the dinner table. Instead, I ate in near-silence with my mom. Even though I was glad that my dad wasn’t there, I just wanted to get my apology and focus on my audition pieces and solo. Until that happened, this situation was just one big distraction. Can’t imagine where I got that phrase.

The next morning I got ready for school early so Mom could drop me off on her way to work. I wanted to talk to Mr. Sebastian first thing, instead of waiting until after practice at the end of the day. Because if he said no, I needed to find another option, fast.

Mom deposited me in the empty parking lot closest to the band room, giving me déjà vu to my first day of band camp. When I got to the door, I thought I’d arrived too early—the lights were off inside. Embarrassed and desperate, I knocked. A streak of yellow light emerged from Mr. Sebastian’s office, followed by Mr. S. He let me in.

“What a surprise, Elsie! Looking for an early-morning practice session?”

“No.” I shook my head. “I wanted to talk to you, actually.” I shifted from foot to foot, uncomfortable.

“Let’s sit.” He pointed to the risers we sat on before practice. I tucked my legs under me and clenched my necklace. “Okay, shoot,” he said.

After the conversation we’d had about this a week ago, I didn’t know how to ask for his help without sounding snotty. Where to start? What to say?

“You know I’m applying for Shining Birches,” I began.

“I remember our discussion about it,” he said dryly.

“Uh . . . yeah. Well, I kind of might need some help with that,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

I picked at a spot on the industrial carpeting. “Well, I just found out that my private teacher has an emergency and can’t help me, and I need to work with someone to get my audition pieces right.” Mr. Sebastian didn’t say anything, just watched me like he knew that I wasn’t finished. “And I thought that, since you asked me to do the Sousa solo, and that’s pretty stressful on top of everything else . . . I was hoping that you could maybe help me . . . figure out who could help me out with my pieces.”

Mr. Sebastian raised an eyebrow. “Let me get this straight. You are asking me to help you figure out who you can work with until the Shining Birches audition; and, because I gave you a solo, this would make things even?”

Realizing how ridiculous it sounded, I nodded, miserable.

He rubbed his chin, like he was thinking hard. “Hmmm . . . I don’t know if I know anyone who gives brass lessons . . .”

A pit of fear opened in my stomach. I’d blown it. He wasn’t going to help me.

“It’s just—I’m really stuck and stressed,” I blurted.

“I was just teasing, Elsie! It’s okay!” He studied my face carefully. “You are
really
worried about this.”

I nodded again.

“It’s just—I want to do well at my audition, and I really want to do a good job at the parade, and it just feels like everything is too much all of a sudden.” I clamped my mouth shut. It had gotten
way
ahead of my brain!

Mr. Sebastian frowned. “I’m sorry that the solo for Darcy’s is adding to the pressure you’re feeling. I honestly wouldn’t have given it to you if I knew it was going to cause you this much anxiety. But I know you can do it, Elsie. You are talented and a strong enough player to pull off both beautifully.

“And of course I will help you between now and Thanksgiving. I’ll stick around and we can work in the afternoons and at lunch.”

I was relieved, but the fear of not being prepared—of blowing the whole audition—was hard to shake. After all I’d been through with my dad this fall, I
had
to get in. If I didn’t, and had to wait a year, I’d basically be admitting that I wasn’t cut out to be a professional musician. I only hoped that Mr. Sebastian could help me.

“Can I have your horn teacher’s name? I’ll get in touch with him and we’ll come up with a plan. Just remember us when you get in, Elsie.” His eyes twinkled.

A wave of gratitude swept through me. Just hearing that
someone
had confidence in me gave me hope that I could pull this off. Maybe, just maybe, I could do it all and make it work.

33

I thought prepping for a field show took a lot of work; working on a parade routine for a nationally televised celebration made any rehearsal before this look like a nursery school music class. Once we were done with brutal sectionals, where we played and played and played the medley until our fingers locked up, Kip and AJ marched us back and forth across the football field in our parade block, perfecting our eight to five steps and straight lines. Oh, and did I mention we did this with our instruments up, but not actually playing them?

Yeah. It was pretty awesome.

Mr. Sebastian even added an additional parade rehearsal on the Saturday morning before Thanksgiving. I spent so much time with Sousa, I could play the medley in my sleep—if I had time to sleep, that is.

All I was doing was playing one horn or the other. Luckily, the week before Thanksgiving we didn’t have that much homework. I barely did any of it. My days looked something like this:

Rinse, repeat.

Outside of practice, I barely saw Jake. He was polite and cool, and I’d pretty much resigned myself to the fact that I’d blown it with him. Same with Hector and Sarah. I’d basically given up trying to talk with them. My heart ached for the lost friendships—and whatever Jake and I might have been—in a way that was far worse than when Alisha left. I threw myself into my horn even more.

I never saw my family, which, considering the unresolved drama between my dad and me was probably a good thing, and I had no idea how I was going to survive the weekend of craziness—or what would happen when it was over. But, on the positive side, working with Mr. Sebastian was great—much to my surprise. He knew the pieces I had to learn for the audition, and, even better than just knowing them, he’d played them! Plus, he was in touch with Mr. Rinaldi, so I felt like I actually had a chance.

Tuesday, two days before Thanksgiving, Mr. Sebastian and I were in the band room, horn at my lips, working through the audition pieces for the zillionth time. I tapped my foot to keep the beat, and as my fingers depressed the keys on my instrument, I found that place where all of a sudden it’s not me who’s playing—the music flows from the horn and I’m just its conduit. The melody was light, but the sound of the horn was honey-rich. Together, they created a warm dance that wove through the band room—a total “Ode to Joy” moment for me.

I finished the piece, letting the last note ring, and put the horn in my lap. My lips tingled. Mr. Sebastian applauded, and I smiled.

“Congratulations, Elsie! ” he said. “That was just beautiful.”

He was right. I knew it in not a bragging way, but in an “I’d listened to it too” way. I had it in me to nail this audition. I was so excited!

I just wished I had someone to share the moment with, or call after I got home.

“Thank you,” I replied, and smiled again. “I couldn’t have done this without your help.”

Mr. Sebastian handed me the sheet music off the stand and grabbed its base, ready to put it on the rack at the front of the room.

“You and Mr. Rinaldi did the hard work—I just came in at the end. No matter what happens, Elsie, remember this moment. You can—and will—get into that program if you play like this on Saturday.”

My heart swelled with pride. As he crossed the room, something in his walk reminded me of my dad, and my heart deflated a little bit. I wished he was as proud of me as Mr. Sebastian was. He would be, I admonished myself, once I got in.

“Don’t forget to bring your bags with you to school tomorrow. The bus leaves right after seventh period.” Mr. Sebastian offered this last reminder as he locked the door to his office. “We’ll have a long, exciting day.”

I packed up my horn and returned my chair to the stacks that lined the room, thinking about how hard I’d worked for this one weekend . . . and, right after that, I realized that this weekend was all I had. Two solos. I should have been really excited for the traveling part of the trip and thrilled to go on an adventure with my friends, but all I felt was loss: two lost friends. One lost . . . whatever Jake was. Or would’ve been. Spending all this time practicing seemed like a good idea at the time—I was certainly prepared for what I had to do—but that’s all I was. Prepared.

And I made a decision: I needed to stop playing and start fixing things. By the time I came to school on Monday, I wanted everything to be different—I’d have been on national TV, playing a solo for millions of people on an instrument that barely four months ago I’d never heard of, and I’d have auditioned for Shining Birches. And hopefully, definitely, gotten in. And hopefully gotten my friends back.

 

 

 

That night, after dinner, I packed my bag. As I was zipping it closed, Mom came upstairs, phone in hand.