Click. Click. Click. "Band, Atten Hut!" The voice of our band director rang loud in the field. I snapped to attention alongside my friends, my fellow band mates, my family. This was it. The final day of Band Camp, the best week of my life up until this point. I had marched for eight hours a day for the past five days, and more than anything else in the world, I didn't want it to end.
"Forward, march," came the command. Our teacher, Mr. Copeland, was a wonderful man. New to our faculty last year, he became the best thing to happen to our band family in a long time.
"Right flank move." I turned right with everyone else, conforming as I had learned. We were showing off to the parents that had come to pick us up. We were showing that forty hours of marching had not gone to waste, that we were the best band they had ever seen and ever will see.
Not only that, but to see who was the best of the best. Every time someone made a mistake today, whether it be little or huge, one of the talented marching staff would send you off until there was only one member left standing.
"Backwards, march." I got up on my toes, marching backwards, never letting my heels touch the ground. I remember how on the first day, everyone struggled as our calf muscles were not used to the strain. Now we were all used to it, after marching backwards for an hour straight.
All around me, people were getting sent to the side, dismissed for the slightest things like incorrect hand positions. I was determined to win. I knew I could.
"Detail, halt," Mr. Copeland said.
"Step and close," the remaining band kids answered in one voice, stopping in perfect synchronization.
Mr. Copeland reorganized us, filling the spaces left by those not worthy of the title 'Best of Them All.' I was still in, my heart beating so loud I was sure I would get called out for it. The best I had ever done in a march-off like this was third. Lousy third.
"Right hace move," he ordered us, and we all turned to the right- except for those who still didn't know their rights from their lefts and had to leave. "Right hace move. Right hace move. Right hace move."
I knew what old Copeland was doing. His favorite little trick: get us used to going right, then he'll suddenly say left and send half the marching band going right.
Sure enough, he ordered, "Left hace move," and half the band went right.
It was down to me and seven others. The stakes were higher now- and every remaining kid was older than me, a lowly freshman. But this lowly freshman was a marcher, and I had been marching in band since seventh grade.
Mr. Copeland clicked the drumsticks together faster: a new beat. "Time to separate the marchers from the football players," he said with a grin, trying to make us laugh. It didn't work. Everyone managed to keep their face expressionless. "Forward march."
I headed forward, my footfalls matching the clicks of the drumsticks, my feet hitting one of the five yard lines every eight steps like I was supposed to. I watched, never breaking my steps as two more left us. The final six.
Mr. Copeland suddenly began to hit the sticks in an exaggeratedly slow pace. In my opinion, slow marching is even harder than fast marching.
Three more were out, unable to keep up with the slow pace. "Detail halt."
"Step and close," the two other boys and I responded. One, Mike, was a senior and a very good marcher. The other, Kevin, was a sophomore and also very good. And then there's me, Shania, a freshman, and the last girl standing.
No one on the sidelines spoke a word. The silence rang loud, and Mr. Copeland said with his steady, even voice, "Left hace move." I turned left, and almost laughed when I heard Mike roar in frustration. He must have turned right.
Everything was down to me and Kevin. Every move counted. Well, I thought to myself, Shania, this is it. The worst you can do is second now.
"Forward, march." We marched forward at an average pace, and my mind raced wondering what Mr. Copeland would say next. "Right hace move." Ahead of me, Kevin turned. I continued to march forwards. A hace was a turn you did while standing still, not marching. "Detail, halt."
"Step and close," I responded, halting. The only voice.
"At ease, Shania. You won," Mr. Copeland said, and I turned around, relaxing from my stiff posture for attention.
Kevin lay on the ground on his back, utterly disgusted with himself.