Sure, I'd miss them, I thought. But we still have show to march. And look, it's not raining!
I think I might have jinxed it then and there.

We did a simple circle warm-up, and people were so serious it was surprising. The band usually laughed and goofed off during warm-ups, but once again they surprised me by their solemnity. I silently agreed to behave completely for this last competition, steeling myself against backmarching drumline or the worrying guiding in part 3;I resolved also to play in the beginning of part 3, since the section leader behind me couldn't do anything any more. Hey, I thought, Last Competition has its benefits: the clari section leader can't chew me out anymore. Feeling so encouraged, I paid attention again as the section leaders met in the middle of the circle to tune, signaling us it was safe to break into clumps and talk. A quiet babble had started up the second the first figure of authority broke ranks, and I joined my flute friends in a heated discussion of whether it would rain. I was for, since our LynneBrooke luck promised bad weather; and I was soon proved right, as the ground began to show telltale spots. Few and pretty far between, they didn't worry us unduly. Our section leader came around, tuning us for the last time. I played my customary B natural instead of the B flat, and she expectantly cringed. Gotta follow the tradition, even if I did set it up myself. Daphne impatiently took a breath, and I played my B flat as she played hers. For once, I was in tune; I took it for a good omen.
The sprinkles stopped. Life was good.

We split into little sectionals, again. This time, our section leaders didn't go over anything, they just told us how much they'd miss us. Third time, I got all teary.

"When will all this sad stuff stop?" I asked Jennie. She was the most like me out of everyone there, probably, since Marching hadn't seemed to get such a strong grip on Yedda's busy life.
"Next year?" Jennie offered. I thought about it, and agreed. "You seem to love marching so much… though most of us will just calm down after a week or so."
A week? A week? How could they forget about it so soon? I felt in my heart that I'd still tense up in May if I heard the music. I'm still proving myself right every time I play the song, whether it's a perfect recording or the one from Napa.
"You OK?" Yedda asked. OK? You kidding me? But I nodded.
"Yup. Ooh look, we're doing a run-through." We meandered over to our spots in the circle, despite the hollers of our BD.

"Hurry up! Come on, we haven't got all day. Mark time with horn manuals," he explained shortly, looking somewhat anxious. "Don't forget the new manual after the boxes." I nodded mentally, praying I wouldn't knock my teeth out on the fast snap. They obviously didn't think much of our lips or teeth. We're supposed to snap, play, snap, play, snap and that's impossible, I thought. We don't have time to set our embouchures. Not fair. Still, I went along with the show, cringing in all the right spots. It didn't rain at all. We praised the Rain Bob, that he had finally taken pity on our poor band. Last year, they had said, it had rained too, but never two years in a row.
I hoped that would hold.

Somebody pushed past me, breaking my reverie. We were supposed to form into the block, I realized. We were going to march out for the last time. I gulped, remembering all the other times we'd marched out. I remembered the guy in front of me continually screwing up, marching on the wrong foot and out of beat. How does he do that, I wondered. I couldn't get offstep or offbeat anymore, even if I tried: band had hammered it into my very soul. I even walked instep with my friends at school.

"Dang… where's my spot?" I muttered, searching frantically around for Offstep Guy, and seeing only Shako after Shako, flute after flute. Finally I spotted Jennie, who was behind me. Grateful for her shortness that stood out at least a little, I centered her hat, and waited patiently while she fixed mine. Checking my gauntlets one last time (argh… they'll never be perfect!) I enfolded my flute in a parade rest, ready for attention.

"Squad atten hut!" The DM surveyed us one last time, gave us one last look of hope, and a few final words.

"You go out there and win this. You're the best band here. Mark time HUT!"

I silently began marking time while the front people marched off. I was ready to dispute both the DM's statements: 1) he was the best, not us and 2) Lee was here. Lee had slaughtered us at the first competition, and I was sure they'd do so here, too. Offstep Guy began marching out, and I followed, cautiously guiding to the sophomores around me. Blame them if I was off. I noticed it was sprinkling again, and remembered the leaden clouds. It better stop fast, I mused, or we'd be dead. So many people had fallen down in the practice; they had been almost proud of their muddiness, but pride wouldn't fix what the judges would see. And think about the guard, with sodden flags.

It rained a bit harder.

We marched past the Visuals guy, making eye contact and receiving a short pep glance, and a nod. The band continued to snake out into the darkness, out of the brightly lit tennis courts that had been our practice area into the street. There were two or three streetlights on, but they were all far off. I could see a couple pools of light glowing somewhere ahead, but I kept my eyes on Offbeat Guy's hat. Stay focused. Calm. Remember the show.

It rained a bit more.

We soon got to the pools of light, which had spread and dimly lit a few parked cars. Leigh's guard was coming out, squinting in the sprinkling rain, smiling giddily at us.

"Don't worry, we did really badly. You will be way better than us."
"Yeah, don't worry."
"Hey, good luck!"
"You're Lynbrook, right?"

Hyper little guardies, I thought. With your two perky little buns and shiny uniforms, with gauzy flags and Hershey's flags, with the cage and the wonderful visuals. With the away band camp and grueling practices. How could we ever beat you?

We marked time under the flickering orange streetlight for a dampeningly long time. The rain didn't cease; no, it persevered, and increased in volume. Some car swished by, splashing through the newly formed puddles that were no more than a thin sheet of water. The rain was illuminated in its headlights, yellow specks, falling, falling, always being replaced by more. I saw the dark spots forming on Offbeat Guy's shoulders, and on many more shoulders around me. The plumes, bogged down and soggy, drooped sadly while the silver flecks shuddered in the light wind. Those little bits of foil repel water, I decided. I wish our uniforms did too. We continued marking time. I now began worrying about the pads on my flute, and set about figuring out how to close all the keys. That amused me for a while, as another car whooshed by. The rain had fed the fattened puddles, and I saw droplets fly off past the headlights, the golden specks moving up as well as down- for they were moving down faster now, and more, too.

Someone up ahead must have given a command, for the tap changed. The mark time seemed more focused; the show seemed so much more real. We set off towards the field, remembering where the judges sat, trying to imagine just how badly Lee could have done. They led us around the stands to a little grassy area above the field. Our drumline had stood here in the morning; now the band waited in its entirety.

We stood silently at parade rest, as the rain cascaded down upon us. Backs to the field, we listened to the band finish up their show as we reflected upon our awful luck. The tradition had been broken: it had rained twice in a row upon us. Would it rain next year? And this was our last show; what a sendoff. None of the freshmen had ever marched in rain; come to think of it, neither had the sophomores. How were we going to do it? Could we win?

Blessing the heavy wool that kept me dry, I shivered still. Could we?