A/N: Well, this is my new story. I've been craving to write this since forever. Hope you enjoy. Also, some events in this story actually occurred in real life. Chapter 1

"Cause a part of me is dead and in the ground…

Being strong and holding on, Can't let is bring us down,

My life with you means everything…"

--Daughtry (It's Not Over)

Music. Music was my life, my dream, my hopes, my goal; it was everything positive to me. Music was my escape from reality, my escape from the harsh facts of life. There was nothing that can separate music and I. That is, I thought nothing could separate us. People have been mistaken so many times in life, and maybe these were one of those times. I remember being so excited to get my first used 'new' instrument in my life. I was five, still not able to speak clearly. I get my words tangled up a lot. Well, my parents took me to my first music store. My father seemed to be more enthusiastic that my mom. Once he brought inside, he automatically brought me to the shiny gold instruments. Brass was his thing and I knew my father loved it. He asked the lady at the cash register if he could doodle on a trumpet and the lady gladly accepted. I'm proud to say my father was an extremely good trumpet player. But my curiosity brought me further than a trumpet. I went down further into this music shop and found it- my instrument.

It twisted and turned and circled and it was shiny. One end of the horn curved out to form some huge bell. My father caught me staring at it. He brought the horn down to my level and I stood in awe in front of it. He said it was French. It confused me; I didn't know instruments had ethnicity. I thought it over to myself then. French fries were French! If a fry could be French, so can this lovely instrument be! Then, he further gave detail on what it really was. I wasn't paying attention really; I just stared. So, turns out, it was really called a French horn. And finally, the moment of truth, he let me blow into the horn. Unfortunately, he stopped me because I was blowing on the wrong end. He said you were supposed to play on the small side. And so I blew. Only air came out though. My father said to buzz my lips into the mouthpiece. I tried again into the small end of the horn and blew. This time a dark, mellow sound came out the other end. A smile appeared on my face. I remember begging my dad to buy it for me. He said something about professional, expensive, and used. What he meant was the horn I was playing was professional and expensive, and that he'll buy a used one for me. I agreed. I was going to get my new horn.

In the car, my dad told me to practice my buzzing. My lips were getting tired as they pulled into Baskin Robbins. My parents led me into the ice cream shop and let me choose any flavor I wanted. As we got what we ordered, my father began his speech. "Now, first thing you need to know, Jody. Never play after you have just eaten. If you must, rinse your mouth out with water and water only." I never knew you had to follow rules to be a musician.

As I grew up, my father gave private lessons on french horn. He taught me the entire musical vocabulary, all the classical composers, and everything else he knew. But, as fifth grade hit, they offered band as an extracurricular activity. Unfortunately, they did not let french horn into beginning band. They only had the basic instruments of flute, clarinet, alto saxophone, baritone, trombones, and the trumpets. I asked my father about this and he replied, "Play trumpet." I thought he was being selfish. Just because trumpet was 'his' instrument… But as he continued, I understood. "I want you to get experienced with playing a full band. And if that's all they can offer to you, trumpet is the closest to the french."

My first day of beginning band was unbearable. Nobody knew anything. And the most annoying person had to be sitting behind me. His name was Oliver and played trombone. He liked to hit my head with his slide. I've yelled at him so many times for this, but the teacher yells at me to quiet down in return. The next days of band, people finally get the concept of playing 'together'. Honestly, is that so complicated? What I also figured out in those days, was that Oliver and my parents were really good friends. So, they made us walk home together. Some friends at school asked if anything was going on between Oliver and me because we spent so much time together. My reply was a snort, smile, shake of the head, and walk away. It was simple, and it got through many conversations with the word 'Oliver' in it.

Junior high was a relief as it came. That meant I finally get to play my french horn in class. Most band kids from elementary quit, and those who stayed switched instruments. Such as I who had switched from a trumpet to the F horn. My friend Irene had switched from flute to oboe. And, I thank God that Oliver switched to Tuba. That meant no more slide-head-hitting. Jazz band was a different story. I began to enjoy the trumpet more than I expected and Oliver decided to join also. Guess what he played- trombone. So when the director wasn't looking he'd hit my arm. Irene played alto sax for jazz and she placed first chair.

As our winter concert came, my excitement was increasing. I had never been that nervous or exhilarated in my entire life. It was my first concert and I couldn't believe it. Irene and I were waiting backstage behind the curtains doing all necessary things to make sure everything goes smoothly. I oiled my valves and she made sure she had plenty more reeds. I peeked through the thick curtains and into the audience making their way into the good seats. I look around and see no sight of my parents. "Who are you looking for?" an annoying voice asked. I turn around and find Oliver in slacks and a white button-up. Without letting me answer, he spoke again. "Don't worry. My parents aren't here either. And Jody, you look, pretty in your concert dress." He stuttered between 'look' and 'pretty' and I found it adorable.

Our band director took stage and introduced us as we walked out from the curtains and into our seats. We played those simple Christmas songs that everybody enjoyed. As my solo came up, I looked out into the audience again. They still weren't here. I stood from my seat and played my solo. As I hit my last note, a tear came rolling from the corner of my eye. Obviously, Oliver noticed because he gave me a pat on my shoulder. The concert ended and I helped put instruments, chairs, and stands away. I walked outside into the cold breeze. Sweater. I should have brought a sweater. It was freezing. My eyes were a little watery. "Hey, Jody," Oliver said as he came up to sit by me. "You did a good job on your solo. It was great." I smiled at him, not knowing what else to say. He knew my parents didn't show up, neither did his. "Are you okay?" he asked as he stripped his jacket and placed it around my shoulders. I shrugged. "Do you need a ride home?" I felt his hand on my back. He was trying to make me feel better and I wasn't acknowledging it at all. "My brother's going to come get me. Do you need a ride?"

"Yeah."

"He's here. C'mon," he took my arm and led me into his brother's car. His brother was a senior in high school and could care less about us. Oliver and I both knew he wanted to graduated and leave town. He was a popular football player at his school and he often mocked Oliver for being a band geek.

Once we reached my house, I thanked his brother for the ride. Oliver was nice enough to walk me to the door. But as I went in, no one was there. I checked all the rooms of the house and no one at all was there. Oliver offered to stay with me until my parents got back and that he wouldn't take no for an answer. I was frantic for awhile until he calmed me down and watched a movie in the living room. In the middle of the movie, the phone rang. I immediately ran to the phone and answered.

"Mom?" I assumed. "Where are you?"

"Honey, I'm at the hospital. There was a car accident. I came out with just a scarred arm, but I don't know about your father. The doctors say he was badly hurt. I don't really know much. I'll call you in the morning, okay hon?'

"Mom," I began. She made a noise on the other line indicating she was still there. "Make sure Daddy's safe." I knew she was hurt by the gasp she made, but she agreed.

Oliver walked into the room as tears came rolling down my face. He wrapped his arms around me. I don't know why, but he had held me a long time. I don't know anyone who is willing to hold a crying girl for twenty minutes. We both fell asleep on the couch until sunup. The phone rang again. I ran for it and answered.

"Mom?" I breathed. "How is he?"

She was crying on the other end. I could hear her pain through the phone. "Jody, your father…" She kept repeating that without ever finishing the sentence. "He's gone." She cried even more. Tears were already falling. I dropped the phone and began to hyperventilate. My father was gone. The only one who shared my love of music, the only one who believed in me is dead.

A few days after, we held a funeral for him. I remember as his casket went down so did my heart. My mother never knew what relationship we had with my father and I. Nor did we share it. So, a few months later, I took my father's death really hard. I wouldn't eat, I couldn't sleep, and I refused to play my horn. It reminded me too much of him. In band class, I never played and my teacher never docked me for it. They knew of my father's death and were afraid to speak anything to me. Probably only Irene and Oliver would talk to me. They were good friends, I agree, but they never had a father like mine.

One day, after band class, my band director asked to speak with me in her office. As she showed me where to sit, she began talking. "Jody, I want you to start playing again." She was straightforward. "I also want you to take lessons. You are a good horn player. You just have to learn how to cope with things and move on."

"Easy for you to say." I knew she was taken aback after my statement.

"Jody, Woodbury High School's band director offered to give you lessons. His name is Mr. Allens; he is a french horn player such as yourself. I believe this will hopefully get you playing again. You played with such passion that shocked me. You're only a junior high band student and your standards reach about a junior in high school."

"Mr. Allens? I'm only in eighth grade. He's a high school teacher."

"I know. He went to the winter concert and saw how you played. He wants to start lessons early. But again, this is your decision. You don't have to give an answer right away. Have some time to think about it."

After that, Irene was outside our band director's door waiting for me. She asked what had happened and if I was in trouble. I explained everything to her: how she wanted me to start playing again, how she wanted me to take lessons from a high school teacher, and every other detail she told me. "Are you going to take it?" she asked. "It sounds like a good offer."

I went home that day and took out my french horn. I just stared at it for a moment and remembered all the memories my instrument held. The mouthpiece was unused and the keys were untouched. I finally snapped out of it and played. The warm sound that came out the other end sent a shiver up my spine. I played again, longer this time, and I could almost see my father on the other end of my room. I played again, this time crying causing my eyes to be watery and blurry. As much as it hurt playing, I needed to play again. I decided to take the lessons.

My first day with Mr. Allens wasn't what I expected. We talked more than we did play. He mentioned marching band and that french horns didn't march. I asked him why and he replied that the french horn isn't a marching instrument. "French horns march mellophones during marching season." I have to switch instruments?

"A mellow what?" I watched him go into the band closet and come back out with a box case. He opened it and took out the silver instrument. "Mellophone. It provides a similar sound to the french horn. And the only difference probably is that you have to play with your right hand now." He handed me the horn and let me play on it for awhile. Instantly, I enjoyed it. It was a little hard playing from left hand to the right, but it was coming out okay. After playing a little, Mr. Allens talked about band camp in the summer. He said it was mainly for incoming freshman and rookies, although the veterans will be there.

After my lesson, Irene and Oliver caught up with me. We went to Baskin Robbins and talked a few. They asked how scary our new band teacher was, how hard the music was going to be. When I mentioned band camp, they began to laugh. They thought I wasn't serious, but when they noticed the look on my face, they stopped. "I also have to switch instrument," I said. "It's called a mellophone." They noticed I smiled as I said it. I haven't smiled in a long time.

Graduation day came soon. I was taking my lessons with Mr. Allens once a week and had been practicing mellophone on my free time. My mom had bought a graduation dress for me and it was lain out on my bed. It was pink. Thankfully, the graduation gown was to be worn over the dress, so no one would see. Our graduation was taken place at Woodbury HS's. The high school band played Pomp and Circumstance as we took the stage. Mr. Allens waved when he saw me. The music stopped and the speeches took place. We walked the stage and they handed us our diploma.

After the ceremony, Mr. Allens caught me and introduced me to his band. He led me to the french horn players and introduced us personally. There were only two of them and soon-to-be three. Irene and Oliver came by and they started talking to their new section. Oliver acquainted himself clearly over at the tubas and Irene shyly introduced herself to the flutes and oboes. After that, we all went back to Irene's house for her graduation party.

As summer took place, and my lessons still being taken, band camp rolled by. Honestly, most of the freshmen were nervous. Mr. Allens came out of his office and asked everyone to settle. He introduced himself and his student leaders. There were two drum majors, a student conductor, and others. Leadership interested me, but no freshmen were ever leaders. So, I would have to wait for next year.

The drum majors split us up into five groups, having seven or eight people in each group. They taught us the basic marching steps. There was the mark time, forward hut, backward hut, halt, horns up, dress center, and horns down. I had a little trouble in the beginning, but I was getting better with each coming day. Oliver got the concept of marching rather quickly. He was a natural at it and I was jealous for that. Irene had trouble keeping her flute parallel to the ground. And I couldn't see past the bell of the mellophone. It's all harder than it seems.

Mr. Allens wanted to talk to the brass and percussion after practice. "I want to introduce all of you to…" He seemed excited to talk about it. "To drum corps. Drum corps only consists of brass, percussion, and guard. You know how there's a professional football team- the NFL? Well it goes the same way for band. It's like a professional band, but not a band. It's called DCI. Now if you want more information come talk to me anytime." Oliver was the first to talk to him. He was interested and he loved to march.

By the time camp was over, the rookies had a better grasp on marching and playing at the same time. I remember someone made the analogy of chewing gum and walking at the same time. Our fall season went well. We placed top three in all the competitions we attended. Parade went well, but our field was so much better. The audience clapped and hollered at us. We came home singing on the bus. Irene was probably the worst singer being the one that sat next to me on the bus. Someone in the front of the bus yelled, "Hey band, how do you feel?" And we all knew how to answer that.

Winter season for us was fun. I had joined winter percussion on pit, Irene played the synthesizer, and Oliver marched bass three. It was a fun three months of messing around, which meant not a very high placing for us.

During spring, we did nothing but concert. Concert was great, in my opinion. I finally got to play my french horn. The more I played, the less it hurt me thinking about my dad. Every single moment I laid my fingers on the horn, I felt sadness. Now, it was slowly going away. I was enjoying life a lot more than I did. I had fun with my friends. I went to the mall, the park, and had no obligation to be there. What did this mean? Was I forgetting my father more and more each day? Little did I know it, but Mr. Allens became my father. We've gotten so close over my freshman year. Did I no longer love my father?