Notes From An Accidental Band Geek Read Online Free PDF

glowered, but lightened the breath power. I couldn’t help it if the rest of the section couldn’t keep up. A football stadium is a big space; you’d think we’d be trying to fill it with as much sound as possible—in a musical way, of course.
    After practice, Jake came over to me as I was putting my stuff in my locker.
    “You sound good, Chicken,” he said, staring straight at me.
    I ignored his use of my nickname . . . and the prickly feeling in my stomach. I didn’t know what to make of Jake’s attention. It made me wish my best friend, Alisha, hadn’t moved away in seventh grade; I could puzzle this out with her. We’d bonded over brass lessons in elementary school—she was a trombone player—but she’d ditched her instrument in sixth grade and switched to dance. When she grew up, she wanted to be a ballroom dancer on one of those competitive dance TV shows. We compared practice schedules and went to each other’s recitals. And when stuff came up, she totally understood when I said, “I can’t go, I have to practice.” When she moved . . . well, I still had my horn.
    Jake also almost made me wish that I’d paid attention to those gossipy girls that flooded every bathroom between classes in junior high, sharing lip gloss and boy-stories. Maybe then I’d know how to act in these types of situations.
    “Thanks.” The locker door swung shut and I spun the combination dial.
    “Listen,” Jake said, “a bunch of us”—he gestured across the band room, where Hector, Sarah, and some of the other freshmen were standing—“are going to the Chilly Spoon for ice cream before tonight’s session. Want to come?”
    I didn’t, not really. I had to practice my other—real—horn. Because of band camp’s long days, I’d only worked on my classical pieces at night. And with an extra rehearsal this evening to run through the field show, I’d lose even more practice time. But I didn’t want to seem rude.
    “Can’t,” I said, and shook my head. “Stuff to do.”
    A bummed-out expression flitted across Jake’s face, which made me regret rejecting his invitation. Why was he even asking me?
    “I need to practice my horn,” I offered as explanation. My hands were starting to sweat. “My other horn, I mean. I have a big audition to prep for.”
    “That’s cool,” he said, and brushed his bangs out of his eyes. “What audition?”
    I pointed across the room at the colorful poster outside of Mr. Sebastian’s office. “Shining Birches.”
    Jake whistled through his front teeth. “Whoa, that’s the big time,” he said. “I thought that was for upperclassmen only.”
    I shrugged, relaxing a tiny bit. Talking about music was easier than talking about other stuff. I had all the answers. “If you’re good enough, they’ll take you.”
    He nodded, solemn. “I bet you’re right. Have fun practicing.” He waited a second, and when I smiled, he jogged back to the group.
    My heart tugged a little as I watched them leave.
     
     
     
    When I got home, I felt so good about finally nailing the mellophone that I had to let it out before sitting down to hit the horn. Dad was futzing around in the yard and Mom was still at work. So I did what I always do to celebrate when I’m alone: I busted out some Beethoven. I popped the disc of the final movement of the Ninth Symphony—the “Ode to Joy”—on in the den, and, turning the volume up as loud as I dared, stood in the middle of the room, closed my eyes, and pictured the orchestra in front of me: the strings starting the melody softly, lightly, horns underneath: la-da da-da da-da-da-da . . .
    then louder, more insistent, with the addition of the percussion and woodwinds: ba-da da-da, da-da-da-da!
    a stormy flurry, before the vocals begin. . . .
    I conducted my imaginary orchestra, pointing to each section, bringing them in one at a time, completely absorbed in the music, washed over by the sound and perfection and beauty of the piece.
    I really get into my