I own nothing.

I tried other stories... but they were only because I felt the need to do something other than just read before. Now, I really want this one to work. So, here goes.

BPOV

Band. Some people like it and some people hate it. I love it.

My parents divorced when I was a mere infant. Renee, my mother, left my dad Charlie, the Podunk town of Forks, and the rain for sunny Phoenix, sixteen and a half years ago. I'm almost seventeen now, and just went through a drastic change.

Rosalie, my sister, Renee and myself were the inseperable Swans. (Yeah, Renee didn't feel the need to change her name and go through the legality issues.) Seeing as my mom pranced around the house with jazz, classical and big band music on all the time, it was only natural Rose and I got into it.

Sixth grade year Rose and I joined the band program at our local middle school. I, naturally, took to the brass because they are such powerful machines that one can not help to wonder at its brilliance. Trumpet was my forte. Some were surprised I could honk out some serious sound on it! This didn't surprise me, though. I am usually underestimated.

Rosalie, on the other hand, was more into the rat-a-tat of percussion. Of course she received some mockery on it, since it is a "man's instrument". Clearly they had not anticipated a kick in the nuts after a Rose show. Well, a kick in the nuts, possibly, but not the show. Rose had a real talent for the snare and was not modest of her "mad skills", as she refers to them.

Mom came to our performances; the first few were terrible, but they grew better in time. By the end of Freshman year, Rose and I made leadership. (You know, the section leader, drum major. All the good stuff.) Things were great, and we were on top of the world!

But all good thing must come to an end. Right? Well, in our case. Yes, it does.

Mom was out doing her routine jog through the park when she stumbled upon a man. (Yeah, she's a klutz.) Phil Dwyer. He is an aspiring baseball player. I guess I shouldn't say "aspiring" as he is already in the minors, but he wants to make it big time. Rose will straight up tell you how it is.

"Man, that's fucked up. Look at his batting technique. Not up to par. Nah uh. Maybe I can help with the batting. But damn! His running? I think one-nut Felix could do better. And that's saying something."

The one-nut guy, Felix, he was the local streaker. Every town has one, don't deny it. The cops gave up on trying to catch him years ago. As long as no children were present, they let him be. He would always throw out penis shaped candies to the people he passed. Well, it was a warm summer day when he tossed his candy into the baseball shooter, not knowing it was on, turned to the people in the crowd, and told them he had a new way of giving out his balls. Walking to the shooter, about a foot away, and a loud BANG erupts from the inside. Felix was on the crowd cradling his boys in seconds. Needless to say, Felix no longer runs streaking in the park. The one-nut thing must have done something to his ego. Go figure.

Anyway, mom and Phil got engaged in the end of my sophomore year. Phil got signed to a bigger team (still minors, of course) and went on tour. Renee missed him, therefore Rose and I decided to move in with Charlie. The small town police chief of Forks, Washington. Yay, us.

The only redeemable quality about Forks, is its band. They have won national awards for their excellence, and to say I was not excited about joining them, was a huge understatement. Oh, and Rose was pretty pumped as well.

So, Rose and I were off in the new present from mom and Phil, a midnight blue Lexus IS250. Miserable drive it was. Twenty five hours. But it was worth it to bring the car.

Charlie had a normal sized, three bedroom house. Thank goodness. Rose and I differ too much to share the same room. Besides, I know what that girl wears to sleep. And it does not involve shirts or shorts. Or clothes, for that matter. I would prefer not to wake up to a naked Rosalie, thank you.

So here is why I lay awake. Tomorrow is the first day of indoor training for marching season. Rose and I decided this would be the day to go scope out the playing field and discuss strategy with Mr. Rackner, the head band director. Charlie already called him and set us up to meet at eight in the morning, get everything set and hear us play before practice at nine.

So, am I excited? God, yes! Can I sleep? Hell, to the big fat, no.

So? Yes, no, maybe so?