A/N: Hi there! Oh look at the nice people reading my story! Just a warning,
it sucks! But Holley and Robbie are making me write it, so hey! Anyway,
just to clarify, I don't hate my oboe… I just wish it was marchable. But,
continuing…
Chapter One:
(Insert Title Here)
Emily sighed as she sat in the stands watching the game. Strains of "The Horse" filled the air and echoed off the cold metal bleachers surrounding her. She listened to the screaming fans and wondered, "Why would anyone voluntarily go to a football game?"
A pitster besides her laughed, "You know they just come to see us, Em."
Emily shrugged and replied, "They come to see the band march. Not us pitlings. We don't matter, remember?"
Emily was bitter. Pit had never been overly appreciated in her band, but just this morning an exceptionally anal French horn had told her that pit wasn't really a part of band.
"You just sit there on the sidelines and jack around," the hornist had yelled, the anger in her voice becoming stronger every second. "You don't belong on the field!"
Though the comment wasn't entirely undeserved, it had made Emily cry. Not sob, mind you, but a single tear had slid down her cheek and onto her beautifully old, beat-up marimba. She had quickly dried her eyes as Mr. Hazzard shouted at the band to hustle back to set nine and try it just one more time, but the rude remark still stung. After all, it wasn't Emily's fault she played oboe. Nobody had told her they didn't march.
"If only I had chosen another instrument," she mused.
Emily still remembered that fateful day she signed up for band. She had been pulled out of choir rehearsal by Ms. Rosen, the director at McMath Middle School. Ms. Rosen was a red-haired, sharp-faced woman who had a passion for band jokes. She had looked at Emily and asked her if she knew what she wanted to play. The timid sixth –grader she had been merely shook her head.
"Well, dearest, how about we put you on bassoon or oboe, what do you think?"
Emily had agreed to play oboe (obviously) and spent her entire summer before seventh grade trying to figure out what an oboe was. Even then she had regretted being conned into playing an instrument she knew nothing about, but that was four years ago.
Now she glanced at the score-board, not caring whether the team won or lost, but rather keeping track of how long she had before it was time to go down and set up pit shit, as it was so fondly known. The clock read seven minutes until half-time, so she summoned her fellow pitlings and the left the stands to go get ready for the show.
Chapter One:
(Insert Title Here)
Emily sighed as she sat in the stands watching the game. Strains of "The Horse" filled the air and echoed off the cold metal bleachers surrounding her. She listened to the screaming fans and wondered, "Why would anyone voluntarily go to a football game?"
A pitster besides her laughed, "You know they just come to see us, Em."
Emily shrugged and replied, "They come to see the band march. Not us pitlings. We don't matter, remember?"
Emily was bitter. Pit had never been overly appreciated in her band, but just this morning an exceptionally anal French horn had told her that pit wasn't really a part of band.
"You just sit there on the sidelines and jack around," the hornist had yelled, the anger in her voice becoming stronger every second. "You don't belong on the field!"
Though the comment wasn't entirely undeserved, it had made Emily cry. Not sob, mind you, but a single tear had slid down her cheek and onto her beautifully old, beat-up marimba. She had quickly dried her eyes as Mr. Hazzard shouted at the band to hustle back to set nine and try it just one more time, but the rude remark still stung. After all, it wasn't Emily's fault she played oboe. Nobody had told her they didn't march.
"If only I had chosen another instrument," she mused.
Emily still remembered that fateful day she signed up for band. She had been pulled out of choir rehearsal by Ms. Rosen, the director at McMath Middle School. Ms. Rosen was a red-haired, sharp-faced woman who had a passion for band jokes. She had looked at Emily and asked her if she knew what she wanted to play. The timid sixth –grader she had been merely shook her head.
"Well, dearest, how about we put you on bassoon or oboe, what do you think?"
Emily had agreed to play oboe (obviously) and spent her entire summer before seventh grade trying to figure out what an oboe was. Even then she had regretted being conned into playing an instrument she knew nothing about, but that was four years ago.
Now she glanced at the score-board, not caring whether the team won or lost, but rather keeping track of how long she had before it was time to go down and set up pit shit, as it was so fondly known. The clock read seven minutes until half-time, so she summoned her fellow pitlings and the left the stands to go get ready for the show.