This is about our last comp, names changed, enjoy, constructive criticism welcome. J
The last practice finished somberly. As we marched off our field for the last time, I thought about all the interesting memories I had… of twirling my flute, of celebrating (pushups. They're evil, now when we hear "celebrate" we instinctively try to hand someone whatever we're holding and drop) and of avoiding the backmarching quads. We had sweated on that field, prayed for waterbreaks, despaired of ever getting the diagonal down pat and killed each other in the impossible move at the end of Part 1. This was our home, and we were leaving it for the last time with this show. No-one goofed off as we filed back to the band room, no imitations of our drum major, or laughter over some mistake that had happened. We were hoping, hoping fiercely for the clouds to dissipate, hoping to be victorious in the competition, hoping to not make a dumb mistake. Hoping an idiot judge would wander onfield so that we could mow them down… hey, it happens. Quietly, we put our instruments away and dispersed to our classes, still thinking about the next day.
* * *
"Gah!! Stupid weatherman, stupid radar, why are you so green?? It's supposed to be dry here, not "showers all day!!" Come on… please… no rain…" This wasn't good. Our entire state looked green on the radar, dripping wet and promising a mushy field. Our band was having the best season in four years, with Sweeps at the third competition and Grand Sweeps at the previous one. Napa, the fifth, was to be our last. I wanted this to be as fun as the others, but I wasn't sure if it would be.
I woke early in the morning. I was to be at school at 9am, since we once again performed at around 7pm. Our band was one of the biggest, at 180 with guard, and we ended up near the end of the program every time.
"Mom… yes…we perform even if it rains, I told you that a million times! I have a change of clothes… shoes… dang, where's my secret pal present??" We were doing Secret Pals in band, and today was when I was to reveal who I was to the guy I had. Some senior, bass clari… A quick search and a sprint later, I bundled my hatbox and backpack into the car; after five more minutes of frantic nailbiting I waved to mom and began the search for my Secret Pal. After an examination of the Senior bus, I checked the bandroom, where he turned out to be engaged in deep conversation with the drum major. Both looked annoyed as I handed over the gift bag, so I hurriedly backed away. Death Glare of the Bass Clarinetist is very scary, especially when he towers about two feet above you.
I didn't get my present before the bus… I didn't get my present on the bus, either, so I safely assumed it was either a) a drummer, since they had gone early to prep for their comp, or b) a hole, since we had many sick people. That was gonna suck… my friend, Audrey, was a corner, albeit not a very good one, right at the beginning. Opening set. Ouch.
"What do you mean, Audris' sick?" I beseeched Yedda, another flute.
"She called me. She has a fever, she can't march."
"She was fine yesterday…"
"So was Brian, and he's missing." Oh. That's why it was so quiet.
"Uh… tubas can spread out, their spacing sucks anyway, but Audris' a CORNER!"
"I know, I know."
We worried, looking outside at the gloomy sky, and hoped it wouldn't rain. It hadn't yet, so there was a chance we'd be lucky. The hatboxes bounced merrily in the racks above our heads, gloves, brushes and hairties bouncing along with the Shakos. All the girls could do their hair prettily under the hats; my staple was the French braid.
"Christine, you flirt too much" floated back from the front. Ugh… the popular flutes gossiping again. "And, Sam, you don't do much to stop her either."
Stoopid flutes. Drag down the section's rep.
"OoOOoooO look at that guy!" squealed someone else, pointing at the movie we were watching. Boring. "He's so hot!"
"Not as hot as ---percussion member---" someone rejoined. I had my own opinions as to which drummer was cute, but I kept them to myself. No need to tell them everything.
Finally, we pulled into the parking lot of some community center, or so it looked. Maybe it was a school; we couldn't tell. It wasn't raining, thank god, and our drumline was assembled outside. As we tumbled out of the buses, the band teachers rounded us up and explained what we were going to do. First, percussion competition; then, practice on the field, then free time, lunch, flower ceremony, warm-ups and finally performance. This was going to be a long day.
The boundless sea of red-shirted Lynbrook Vikings drifted out to the field. I carefully memorized the way we were going; it might come in useful next year, or if I get lost. On the bleachers, we scoped out where the judges sat; that's where our horns up to the box would be aimed. We found seats, amidst all the other schools in their informal uniforms. Ours were the brightest, but that was probably good: you could spot a fellow Lynbrookie a mile away.
"Ooh, look at that drumline. It's so tiny…" The performance had finally started, and the line marching out wasn't exactly giant. A snare, 3 basses, 2 cymbals and one guy on quads; no pit. The band must be tiny, too… we remembered an even smaller drumline from the last comp, it had been a bass, a snare that had a tiny little cymbal fixed on and quads. The three also doubled as pit in one movement- we had admired the effort of the band, but it hadn't sounded too wonderful. The same went for this drumline.
"Uh.. our music is so much better." We had watched them practice in the bandroom, the basses nervously passing through the cymbals, tentatively plunking through their music… we had seen them onfield that last rehearsal, much improved though still nervous… they had sounded a lot better than this group. "Ugh, look at their drill. Half of it they're marking time." There were good drumlines, of course… some rivals to ours, but overall it looked like we had the best one. Of course, the music was horribly catchy; we had already figured it out on flute (one of the guys from pit began playing it on bells after band a week or so ago; he was told to shut up by the band director and readily strangled by the other drummers) and were sure it would remain forever etched in our brains. (it has).
We continued watching the bands until the awful second when we realized no-one else from Lynbrook remained in the stands. There were 3 of us left, flutes, our other friends having gone back to use the bathroom. No-one else from our band remained. Now that wasn't good.
As we hurried out of the bleachers, two of our uniformed drummers were going the opposite way, looking lost. Panicked, we scurried down the street towards where our buses were (are you sure we're going the right way? Only I was sure ^_^), happily seeing a couple of section leaders doing the same thing.
"Hey! Tori!" Jennie called, and the baritone section leader looked around.
"Wow… freshmen… I'm surprised you found your way, they usually get lost somewhere back there" Tori vaguely waved her hand as we powerwalked past the other schools' trailers. We rounded a corner, and the buses came into view. "Oh dear… look, they're all onfield!" Tori shook her head, and sped up. Our piccolo and his flute friend began running, and I decided to follow them.
We panted up to the buses just as the last clarinets were leaving. Yedda was looking frantically around, but as she saw me she calmed down. Somewhat.
"WHERE WERE YOU?! Here's your secret pal present, someone told me to give it to you, I forgot who come on you're gonna be late they're all onfield already Doc's gonna be so mad!!" She pressed a package into my arms as I flew up the bus steps to get my flute.
On the field, most of the band was already formed in a block. My running had paid off: I scrambled into place together with the slowpoke clarinets, as if I had never lost track of time and sprinted level with the tallest guy on flute. The later arrivals got a nice lecture; I noticed the two lost drummers speedwalking in the distance- they couldn't run in uniform. So far, so good.
"Okay- eights and eights, horns snap up on the forward march and snap down on the mark time. Resume HUT!" Whoa. Better pay attention before Tuba Guy behind me mows me down. Ooh- and guide. Someone's gonna yell at me soon. Wait… what's that? A raindrop? Or did I imagine it?
Sadly, I didn't. Soon, it began dripping more and more; next thing I knew, the command was "Woodwinds, protect your instruments" and I was sticking my poor flute under my band jacket; then, taking my jacket off and rolling flutie up in it and putting the precious bundle on the tarps; then, happily sprinting back to the buses to put away my instrument. The uniformed drummers were cringing, as their uniforms got dotted with rain; the brass was standing sourly at parade rest, watching us out of the corners of their eyes.
We flew back to the buses, where we dried our poor abused pads. When we finally went outside, the brass was under cover too, getting ponchos. Of course, there weren't enough to go around so woodwinds and the still uniformed drummers got priority. ^_^
..more later.
