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

Beethoven.
    The vocals culminate in a huge crescendo, there’s a beat or two of silence, and the finale builds to a huge, resonant celebration of choral awesomeness. Arms keeping time, I guided my performers through the movement, heart nearly bursting with the emotion. The last note, and— silence .
    From behind me, applause.
    Shocked, I turned to find my dad leaning against the door frame.
    “I—uh . . .” I stammered, embarrassed and wondering how much of my performance he’d seen.
    He crossed the room and gave me a hug.
    “I listen to that when I’ve had a great day too,” was all he said.
    It was just what I needed to hear.
     
     
     
    That night, after our final band camp session, I dragged myself home, exhausted. School began the next day, and I could barely muster up the energy to care, let alone be nervous. In some respects, I guess that was good. I mean, although I’d spent a week with upperclassmen and getting a feel for band, I still had no idea what to expect from high school itself. And the ice cream invite that I’d rejected reminded me of one thing: I was starting high school with basically no friends. After Alisha moved, I wasn’t the best at keeping in touch, so we drifted apart. And, truthfully, after she left I felt like I didn’t need any real friends—I spent nearly all of my free time on my horn or going to concerts with my dad, I was super-busy with band and orchestra, and it didn’t bother me that I was alone when I wasn’t playing my instrument.
    There were plenty of kids in the bands I was in, but I didn’t think they’d get my obsession with music and practicing like Alisha had. Take Sarah, for instance . . . before the whole articulation incident she’d been really friendly toward me—I think partially because she was one of the only girls in her section too. But she wasn’t a great player and it seemed like we wouldn’t have much in common.
    However, Jake’s invitation and the past week made me realize just how alone I was. I’d met lots of people in band camp—some, like Jake and Hector, I could even see getting to know better.
    I just didn’t know how to make that happen.

7
    Later that night, I tore through my closet, trying to figure out what to wear for the first day of school. I’m pretty average-looking: dishwater-blond hair, brown eyes, and I’m short . . . so people think I’m even younger than I actually am. It’s so annoying. Mom had taken me clothes shopping, but nothing we’d bought seemed right: The skirts were dressy, it was too hot for jeans, my capris and shorts seemed way too . . . ordinary. Why couldn’t dressing for school be more like dressing for concerts ? Black skirt, white shirt. Or just a black dress. Fed up, I finally picked an outfit—gray capris, blue-and-white shirt—and went to bed.
    Of course, when I woke up I completely changed my mind and started over. The whole time I was getting ready my mom hovered at the door, asking if I needed help or was nervous.
    “I’m fine, Mom. Seriously.” I was lying through my teeth, but she didn’t need to know that. I twisted my hair and clipped it, hoping that it made me look older . . . although maybe the music note clip that I used was too much?
    Mom was stressed about me going to high school—she stressed about nearly everything—but you’d think she’d act calm for my sake. When I finally came downstairs, she was waiting, camera ready.
    “First-day picture, honey!” she called, blinding me with the flash. I held my hand in front of my face as though blocking the paparazzi.
    “Really, Mom?” She’d been doing this little ritual ever since I started preschool: taking photos on the first and last day of school so she could bookend that year’s scrapbook with them. The problem? She never made the scrapbooks. About every eight months or so I’d find her clicking through photos saved on our hard drive or rummaging through a shoe box of keepsakes. “I have good intentions, ” she’d