Notes From An Accidental Band Geek Read Online Free PDF Page A

get in to Shining Birches. Then what would he say?
    I stepped away from the door, sure that the heat from my rage would set the wood on fire—or at least melt the ice cubes in my drink. I took the stairs two at a time, taking care not to make too much noise and bring Dad out of the office. I needed to find that aspirin and get back to band camp.
     
     
     
    The afternoon was more of the same as the morning: Stand. Play. March. Stand. Play. March. Stand. We got what our section leaders called “band buddies,” which is a three-ring binder with a strap on it, so you can wear it like a messenger bag. Inside were pages and pages of our drill—the marching formations we’d learn to make on the field during the show.
    Little x’s with numbers next to them showed each person’s position. I was number forty-eight, and I squinted at the book to find out where I was supposed to stand. After a minute, I spotted the tiny number a couple of spaces off the line marked “45.”
    Jake couldn’t find his number, and Steve was busy helping someone else, so he wandered over to me, band buddy extended.
    “Help a section member out?” he said with a grin. He was number forty.
    “Sure.” I wasn’t sure I was qualified to be help to anyone, but he didn’t seem to mind. We nearly bumped heads over the top of the drill chart and I pulled back with a nervous laugh.
    “There you are.” I stabbed at the page. He was also off the forty-five, a few people behind me. With a “Thanks, Chicken!” tossed over his shoulder, he scooted back to the trumpets. Why hadn’t he asked one of them for help?
    AJ, the drum major, called us to attention, then put us in parade rest to explain how the drill charts worked. Essentially, marching bands divide the entire field into a grid, and at all times you’re supposed to know where on the grid you are. You figure that out by counting steps—eight steps between every yard line—and everyone takes the same size stride and starts with their left foot. So before we even set up for drill AJ had the freshmen stand shoulder to shoulder and march the length of the football field, from one goalpost to the other, while yelling, “One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-LINE!” to get us to march properly and in step. We did this five times . FIVE!
    And the entire time I concentrated harder and yelled louder than anyone else—probably scaring Hector, on my left, and Jake, on my right—ignoring the sweat dripping down my back and my burning arms. Forget asking Dad to help me find a new ensemble.
    I wasn’t going to quit.
    I was going to get in to Shining Birches on my own.
    I was going to prove my dad wrong.

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    Over the next week, I attended every band camp session and doubled my practice time at home to learn the hateful mellophone. The fingering chart helped, but playing with the opposite hand really slowed me down. However, the sound I was able to produce was amazing . The French horn is made of eighteen feet of coiled brass tubing, and the mellophone uses much less than that. So my lungs, which are used to blowing air over a dozen feet before making a sound, can blast through the mellophone like a brakeless freight train going downhill. Basically, I’m really, really, loud.
    And once I figured that out, I blew my brains out. Figuratively speaking. On the last day of band camp, Steve eyed me all during sectionals.
    “ Someone’s learning how to toot her new horn,” he teased.
    “ Someone better watch out,” I tossed back, “because I will get so good on this, your dreads will go straight.” Steve stepped back in mock fear, and the rest of the section ooh-ed and laughed at my comment.
    I’m glad they thought it was funny, but when I first said it, I didn’t mean it to be.
    Then, in ensemble that afternoon, AJ shouted to us, “Hey, high brass! It sounds like someone cranked the volume to eleven! Tone it down.”
    Punk, next to me in the arc, snickered. “Rein in those mighty lungs, Chick-chick.” I