As soon as Jennie had disentangled herself from the embarrassment, we were supposed to go change. The air was soon filled with shrieks and grunts as people elbowed their way into the uniform trailer, pushing through the crowd outside and with a big breath, diving in. As my turn came, I pushed past a shorty clarinet and found myself in the dark room crammed full of garment bags, hatboxes and bandies fighting to get their stuff. Offering my thanks to The BOB for my hatbox being safe on the bus, I checked through the 50's rack for my #52. Somebody shoved #50 into my hands, and I shoved it back, with a contemptuous "I'm no Kim!"
I really do feel sorry for all the mass-named people… there were so many "Chen"s and "Lee"s, "Kim"s and "Ma"s. The hatboxes featured a large-print last name and a teeny first name, so in the dark it probably was easy to mistake yours for someone else's… Jennie had, at one point.
Somebody tumbled me out of the trailer, and I let them. Sticking my tongue out at Yedda who was still in line, I sprinted up the bus steps to change before the rest of the freshmen filed in. Unfortunately, I was one of the last freshmen to get my uniform so as I stripped to shorts and T-shirt (we'd learned by then to wear stuff under our informal uniforms. Jennie had had an unpleasant experience as she was changing behind a protective screen of 3 garment bags and some guy had pulled one away to check if it was his.) I was practically back-to-back with the guys across the aisle. Still, it was better than the alternative…
Changing behind garment bags wasn't the easiest way: your shoes would usually sneak off down the bus under the seats, and it would take the flashlight that some "pervert" had brought to find them. So, changing in the aisle had several benefits; you weren't cramped, you didn't fear garment bag thieves and you had both seats to dump your stuff in. There were many variations on what to wear under, of course. I don't know when you guys change, but on the bus you could get driven to wear your formal over the informal. I did that once, and my legs felt like armor, what with jeans and the woolen bibber, and the polo neck of my shirt had to be carefully tucked under. More bother than it was worth, but I really digress.
Then, of course, came the Battle of the Hats. You'd grab your shako and gloves out of the hatbox and go outside to breathe while you figured out a way to put it on. This was when all girls seriously debated chopping all their hair off; even with my French braid, it took a couple of minutes to get every strand under. Other girls flipped their ponytails up and had a friend jam the hat on before the hair could escape; one guy with lots of hair ended up being meticulously clipped and pigtailed by the females in his section; Yedda decided she'd rather look dorky in a bun than bother with hair, so her lacy scrunchy glistened yellow-ly on her jet black hair.
Every now and then there was an idiot that had forgotten their hat, but even that could be fixed. Extra hats, gloves and black socks were ready for action in their boxes and plastic bags. The Uniform Moms also had tape, which I used for my loose tailpiece, although it was originally for too-small gloves that didn't stay beneath the gauntlets. I remembered the first time I had asked for "a bit of tape for my flute".
"For your…flute?" The uniform mom looked surprised.
"*nervous laugh* Yeah, my tailpiece is really loose." Dang… no time to have it trued. Again.
Another mom looked at me and laughed. "Flute problems?"
"Yeah." Dude…it wasn't that bad. And not that funny. "My tail keeps falling off." I explained as I tore a piece of tape off and affixed on the right spot. Other bandies laughed. I grinned, proud of my poor flutie.
I grabbed a plume and gauntlets, and went to look for my friends. Put on gauntlets myself? Pshaw, not while I have slav- uh, friends, to help me.
As I was fixing Jennie's right gauntlet, she looked over my shoulder and said, "Ooh, look, they're clumping up! Hurry, hurry…" I obediently tugged at her sleeve and whipped around, picking up my flute. People really were clumping up; must be the flower ceremony, I thought.
It was. As the BD explained, we each got a flower for every year we had been in band. Like graduating, I thought…this was awful, knowing that in a couple of hours I'd be marching for the last time as a freshman. Last time in 2002. Next time I'd march, it would be summer holidays and I'd be back in band camp… supposing I made it to the next ensemble. Too many ifs. Well… we all grouped ourselves together by year, freshmen first, seniors last. As the BD began calling names, we clapped politely, but it was only freshmen, after all. We'd have three more chances at marching. Everybody received a flower and a handshake, somewhat apathetic since nobody knew you very well yet. As I stepped up for my little cloth rose, I felt tears welling up in my eyes. Come ON! This is just marching band, not the end of the world. Yet it felt like that to me, a little freshman flute, with all her friends in marching band.
And then it was over. Some Uniform Mom was pinning the rose to my uniform, and I stood back to watch the rest of my friends receive theirs. Graduating from Zeros in MB to Ones. Doesn't that just make you pwoud?
That's all for now
And- characters, if you happen across this- don't kill me; my memory's not perfect!
