PROLOGUE
The cold November wind whipped around me as I sat in the bleachers, gazing out at the varsity athletic field. It was late in November, and the marching band season had just ended. Our final performance was no more than a week ago. It had been three months, three hard months that I had been there. It seemed all so long ago.
I was still an 8th grader, yes, but somehow I felt much older at that moment, gazing out across the varsity field that we had practiced on so many times. The wind chilled me again, cutting through my thin jacket that said "Ponra High School marching band."
This was the year they had allowed 8th graders to join the high school marching band. My friend Alora convinced me, and so I had, back in May. But that was long ago. Now it was over.and the three months that seemed to change my entire life were over.
I got down from the bleachers I was sitting in, and leaned against the fence. If we had practice today, the pit crew would be right in front of where I was, sitting around while all the band members glared jealously at them. Well, in that respect they were lucky. I, as a member of the colorguard, would also be envious.
With another gust of wind, I thought I could faintly hear the sound of the colorguard instructor, my instructor, calling, "Guard, right shoulder arms!" It sounded so close.and yet so distant. Remembering Mrs. Loren, the guard instructor, I couldn't help but reflect. Reflect on those three months that changed my life, when I somehow became more than a little 8th grader. . .
The cold November wind whipped around me as I sat in the bleachers, gazing out at the varsity athletic field. It was late in November, and the marching band season had just ended. Our final performance was no more than a week ago. It had been three months, three hard months that I had been there. It seemed all so long ago.
I was still an 8th grader, yes, but somehow I felt much older at that moment, gazing out across the varsity field that we had practiced on so many times. The wind chilled me again, cutting through my thin jacket that said "Ponra High School marching band."
This was the year they had allowed 8th graders to join the high school marching band. My friend Alora convinced me, and so I had, back in May. But that was long ago. Now it was over.and the three months that seemed to change my entire life were over.
I got down from the bleachers I was sitting in, and leaned against the fence. If we had practice today, the pit crew would be right in front of where I was, sitting around while all the band members glared jealously at them. Well, in that respect they were lucky. I, as a member of the colorguard, would also be envious.
With another gust of wind, I thought I could faintly hear the sound of the colorguard instructor, my instructor, calling, "Guard, right shoulder arms!" It sounded so close.and yet so distant. Remembering Mrs. Loren, the guard instructor, I couldn't help but reflect. Reflect on those three months that changed my life, when I somehow became more than a little 8th grader. . .