A/N: very short chapter, and I'm very very sorry, but I just had to write a cliffhanger. I HAD TO!
To my reviewers:
Ellewyn Greenleaf: our state finals were October 27th, and we didn't qualify. That's why our season's over already. We got absolutely destroyed at Regionals…not that that wouldn't have been different if we had had the fellowship with us! (actually, it might not have been…we live right next to the city that had the #2 band in the country last year—we aren't in their class, but you get the picture)
Emmithar: thank you for reviewing! You just made my day! ::hugs reviewer:: And yes, pic might match him better, but (and now I like I hate everyone) I don't like the flute/pic section leader either. She's mean to one of my best friends. Anyway, I'm glad u like, and here's that update you asked for!
Chapter 4: Friday Night's Party (and Initiation)
One more A/N: Initiation was disgusting. It's filthy, messy business, and I had to go through it this year. But, as I will have the opportunity to torture some Freshmen in 4 years, all is well…
"No way! They don't actually do that at a PARTY, do they?" Boromir stares and me, unbelieving.
"Of course they do. That's what Freshmen Initiation is."
"But…what's a freshman?" asks Sam.
"Someone who's in their first year of high school…or really, more like someone who's in 9th grade."
"Oh…what's a grade?"
"Um….a year, sort of. A school year."
"What's a school year?"
"It's the time from August to June when we're in school."
"Oh. So…your ninth school year, and your first year of high school?"
"Yeeeeessssssssssssss."
"Then I don't have to worry. None of us do. It's all right, Mr. Boromir. None of us are in our first year of high school."
"Well…we might have to enroll you to keep you in the band, but we'll see."
"But as of NOW we aren't."
I sigh. Obviously this isn't getting us anywhere. "Well, It's also for first-time members of the band. That's why the 8th grade guard members are getting initiated, and the people who didn't come to the Survivor Party last year."
"What did we survive?"
"Band camp."
"Oh. I bet that's not as hard as carrying the Ring, is it, Mr. Frodo?" Sam turns to his master, sure that Frodo will protect his opinion. Frodo does—to a point.
"Well, no. Of course not—if you're talking about when we're in Middle Earth. Here, it feels…light. Like it is a normal ring. Are you SURE we can't leave it here?"
"Yes. I'm sure. Bad attempt at a subject change, by the way, Sam." Sam walks away, muttering under his breath. "Last year, as I was telling Boromir, they smeared make-up all over the girls' faces, and sent the guys through an ice cream Sunday slide, and then dumped just about every liquid food idem all mixed together on their heads."
"That's inhumane!" protests Bormoir, and Aragorn, who has joined the conversation, nods.
"Why do they do that?"
"Because they do all sorts of horrible things to the Freshmen."
"Why?"
"Um….'cause everybody does."
"Who's everybody?"
"Like, all the sports teams, and the choir, and just everyone!"
"But why?"
"I don't know? How am I supposed to know? I'm a Freshmen, I don't know how the twisted minds of Seniors work!"
"What's a senoir?" I groan, and slam my head into the wall.
"That looked painful," says one of the hobbits, and since my head is now throbbing, I can't tell which on it is.
"Shut up," I grumble, walking away. Then I just realize what I've said—to a member of the Fellowship! "Ok, ok, I'll tell you! But then will you stop with the questions? It's bad enough I've worked my butt off all week and am getting crap dumped on me tonight…!"
"Sorry!"
"Sheesh! She's grouchy when she gets mad!"
"It's kind of funny!"
"Um…are you all right, Cassandra?"
"What? Yes, I'm fine. A Senoir is someone…"
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Now we're at the survivor party, which marks the end of Band Camp (oh, thank you, God Almighty! You are indeed a merciful savoir! J Right….::notes odd stares of readers:: ok, moving on). We're standing around waiting, because we don't get to eat for a while, since all of the food isn't ready yet. So I, along with the rest of the freshmen + fellowship, are hanging around watching the Seniors prepare their instruments of torture. Two kiddie pools, one normal and one shaped like a fish. A giant tarp. Various food items including, at the first glance: pickles, chocolate sauce, instant cornmeal, rice, raw eggs, mustard, ketchup, barbecue sauce…etc. "Ewww….that's so gross…." I moan, hurriedly turning from the sight of gleeful Seniors filling the pools up with water and cracking raw eggs into one, and emptying the bottles of chocolate sauce into the other.
"What are we doing with the pickles?" one of them screams to another, who is happily spreading the tarp out.
"We're putting them in the normal shaped kiddie pool!"
"The one with the chocolate sauce?"
"Duh, you idiot! Aren't kiddie pools normally little circles?"
"I don't remember!"
"Well, you should And anyway, we're dumping them in there, and then they have to—hey! You guys! You can't watch! Go eat something and stay away!" Groaning, we obey, and wander off the eat some chips—something that the hobbits have taken a liking to."
"Don't eat to many," I warn. "I have a really sick feeling about those pickles."
"I like pickles," says a cheerful Merry.
"Me too!" yells Frodo.
"We do too!" cry the other two hobbits.
"Actually, I'm rather fond of them, also," adds Boromir. Legolas stares at me blankly, as does Gimil.
"Um…What's a pickle?"
I groan, ready for another bout of question answering.
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