"David Arthur Renault!" I jump a foot out of my bed and onto the floor as my mother's shriek fills my ears. "You do not want to be late to your first day of band camp!" No, of course not, Mom. I glance at the clock. Seven in the morning is just too early to be functioning in July, especially when school doesn't start for three and a half more weeks. My spine cracks as I drag myself off the floor.

My fifteen-year-old bones shouldn't be doing that.

I grope my way toward the bathroom with closed eyes and don't open them until I am standing at the sink. I stare at the mop of blonde hair on my head. I stare at my abnormally large nose. I stare at my narrow, almost girly, jaw line. I can't bring myself to look into my eyes. I can't sand to see the pale blue mock me. I'm so pasty. Maybe I'll get a tan…

"Art! Hurry up!" It is my brother's voice this time. I retreat into my bedroom after brushing my teeth and pull a pair of shorts out of my dresser. I don't bother changing my shirt. After and hour on the field no one will notice that it hasn't been washed in a week anyways.

I practically fall down the stairs in my sleep-induced haze, but I, thankfully, make it to the kitchen without collapsing. I grab an apple and a bottle of water out of the fridge, pick up my saxophone and head for the front door. I see Jack begin to follow me out of the corner of my eye. I turn abruptly and he stops dead in his tracks.

"I'll walk. Thanks, anyway, bro," and I leave.

I notice two things as I step foot onto the field: one, I'm early, incredibly early; two, only one other person is here. I move slowly toward the awning and the bench on which said person is seated. As I approach, I see a saxophone case tucked under the bench, near his feet. I choose a spot far enough from him and sit.

Silence.

He hadn't looked up as I stepped closer to his resting place, but seeing as he plays saxophone, I feel the obligation to say something to him. I honestly am not in the mood for making new friends, but I'll end up talking to him sometime anyways, so I sigh and open my mouth to speak.

"Hello," says a voice that most definitely is not my own. I wonder for a moment why my voice is suddenly so deep and why I said "hello" instead of the intended "what's up?" He stares at me until I realized that it was he who had spoken. I struggle to form a response.

"H-hey," I stutter. In a burst of uncommon spontaneity, I slide across the cold stone bench and extend my hand. He takes it firmly.

"I'm Art," I say.

"Christopher," he smirks. "I'm your section leader. Welcome to Hell, noob."

And he walks away. Just like that. Something tells me that this guy has serious mental issues. He probably isn't even safe to be in public. Maybe I should call the cops. I reach for my cell phone and dial "9" before I stop. Mr. Ford, the band director, has arrived.

Hell indeed, Christopher.

I put my phone away and begin assembling my horn. Many other band members have showed up since my arrival. After scanning the small crowd for a moment, I see a small group of saxophones congregated near the twenty-yard line. I gather all of the courage I have and join them.

The first person I get a good look at is a girl, a very tall girl. She has to be at least five inches taller than my tiny five foot four inch frame. As I stop on the outskirts of the tight knit circle, I catch a glimpse of my section leader before the giant girl steps in my way. I reach up to tap the giant on the shoulder but am beat to it when a tiny ball of fluff attacks her.

"Samantha!" the fluff screams. Giant, whose name is Samantha, twists around and screams almost as loud as Puffball.

"Ariel!" Samantha reaches out for a hug and winds up lifting Ariel off the ground.

Suddenly sobered, Puffball brushes her shorts off and walks away with a shout of "Gotta get my flute!" over her shoulder.

And all eyes are on me, the deer in the headlights. I feel like an intruder on a very private party. It just has to be my psycho section leader that saves the day.

"Guys, this is Art. Art, guys."

I give a slight nod and a sheepish smile. Everyone acknowledges me and goes back to their conversation, surprisingly leaving me a space in the circle. I step into the spot and begin observing. There are five people standing around me.

There are three boys: Christopher and two I have never seen before. After a few minutes, I find out that their names are James and Samuel. James is quite tall, at least six-four, and he looks very awake. I notice his fingers fidgeting on the valves of his trumpet every few seconds, as if he is anxious to get started. Samuel is almost the exact opposite. He's almost as short as me and is practically a zombie.

The other girl is extremely quiet and keeps looking at Samuel earnestly. He is oblivious, as is expected, I suppose. I hear a whistle from the distance and the people around me scatter. It was this pause between a state of confusion and action that I noticed the conversation.

They were talking about star gate openings and volcanoes.

Christopher glares at me and jerks his head at the center of the field. Dick.

"Marching position. Now. Move it! Move it!" I see Mr. Ford blowing a whistle from the center of the field. The sound registers in my mind. I know what the words mean, but they don't make sense when put in that order. Marching position? What? I look around for a little bit of help, but I see no familiar faces. I decide it would be best just to stand there stupidly.

Suddenly, there is a hand on my elbow, yanking me forward, and Christopher's voice is in my ear.

"Flutes, clarinets, saxophones and mellophones, trumpets, trombones and baritones, and tubas. Starting from the ten-yard line, five yards apart, facing Ford." Then his voice is gone and he is standing five feet away. I look down and realize that I am still on the twenty, but I'm in the middle of the field.

"Band, ten hut," Mr. Ford shouts. A chorus of "hut"s is the reply.

I glance around and there is no movement. Backs are erect, chins are up, instruments are high. There is nothing out of place, except me. I snap back to reality and copy the stance of everyone who is surrounding me. I look back to the director's platform and there is a girl standing in Mr. Ford's previous spot. She begins clapping rapidly, and I have no idea who she is or what she is doing. Her mouth opens, and…

"Band, horns up!"

Wow, that was snappy. I put my mouthpiece on my lips a moment late. She is clapping again, more slowly, and I realize that she is keeping time.

"Forward march!"

Wait, what?

So apparently when the drum major says, "forward march," you, meaning every single person in the band, are supposed to step off with your left foot and march in the direction of forward, perfectly in step, all while you attempt to stay in rank and try not to trip.

It's a lot harder than it may sound.

After the entire band marched together, we split up into sections and began to learn how to do what we just did. We also got to know everyone in our sections.

There are nine saxophones: me, Christopher, Samuel, Samantha, a guy named Stephen (I think he's a senior), a guy named Charles ("call me 'Chuck'") Taylor, a girl whose name I think is Brianna (I'm not quite sure, though), and two guys whose names I don't remember.

Christopher is just as much of a douche as I first believed him to be, but everyone seems to love him. He's a junior and he's been playing sax for nine years. He's first chair in Wind Ensemble and everybody worships him. Why?

Obviously, the world has gone crazy.

After eleven hours of practice, Christopher has decided that I am far behind the other rookie in the marching department. He has also decided that on Saturday we will spend the entire day at his house for one-on-one marching practice. He has decided that he will pick me up at seven o'clock in the morning.

Oh, joy. Fifty-eight hours until hell.