((I have no idea what those symbols were. For some reason, I couldn't get
rid of them no matter what, no matter how many times I rewrote that
chapter. I'm glad you guys managed to make sense of that chapter through
all the weird symbols. I have no idea how they got there or how to get rid
of them. Sorry about that!
Glad you all like this story and want me to continue. I'd better write as much as I can before marching band season starts again, once it does, don't be expecting lots of updates. My evil colorguard instructor will keep us after school every day for practice, knowing her))
Middle school. Back then, to my elementary school self, the thought of "Middle school" sent shivers of horror down my spine. Lockers, long hallways, moving around for every class, being in a school full of lots of different people I've never met before, and not having the same people in each class. I was most definitely scared. A lot of my friends were looking forward to the freedom that middle school gave you. That part was okay. . . the fact that you'd have different people in each class appealed towards me. It meant if one of my friends wasn't in my first class, she might be in another class.
But no matter what, I was still afraid of entering middle school. Deathly afraid.
It was now my first day of middle school. My mom had put me in this pretty little dress and combed my hair all up so I looked nice. Though I didn't know how long that would last, since now I had to wait at the bus stop and heard horror stories about the bus stop. I was mortally afraid I'd miss the bus and be late to my first day of middle school. And that would be scary.
My mom had to all but shove me out the door and drag me down the street when the time came. I was clutching my oboe case with white knuckles, for I had band sixth period. My teacher was a "Mr. Jameson", I had no idea who he was. But the oboe seemed to be the only comfort I had as I headed down to that bus stop, and into that cold, unfeeling world that was middle school.
As it turned out, I was not late to middle school. I got on the bus and sat alone, too afraid to sit next to anyone and feeling very much like a first year at Hogwarts. The first five periods went by, and they weren't that bad. My best friend was in two classes with me and I was very happy for that. I didn't get that lost because of orientation a few days prior to this, and when I was late the teacher just looked at me sympathetically, understanding I was a lost and scared sixth grader. Though the sound of the bell ringing while I was still in the hallway only sent more thrills of terror.
Now, finally, came sixth period. I greatly looked forward to hopefully losing myself in the music, which would get my mind off how scared and confused I was. I was hoping, that just for forty minutes, the middle school fear would be forgotten.
As I entered the band room, I looked around. It was so different from my elementary school band room. This one was larger, and amazingly cluttered. There were chairs strewn everywhere, candy wrappers and empty water bottles littered the floor, posters were hanging on the walls, some hanging off, and people were everywhere. And these people weren't sitting in their assigned chair, waiting for orders-they were strewn and draped over chairs (some over more than one chair) and lounging as carelessly as if it was the middle of the summer.
They were also shouting. Calling and yelling to each other from across the room, throwing things, the ones whom I recognized as "the populars" were whispering and giggling about some unknown secret, and the boys were making rowdy catcalls and acting like jerks.
And I was the only one in the entire band room with my instrument.
I entered very slowly, looking around to make sure that I didn't get hit in the head by a piece of balled up paper or run into by a boy running to catch it. I sat by my best friend over in the corner, she was looking just as frightened as I was. She didn't have her instrument, but that was because it was a trumpet and very clumsy.
I looked to the front of the room to see where the band director was. He was, instead of sitting primly on the seat with a baton like Mrs. B, was leaning back in the chair grinning. He was a lot younger than Mrs. B. His hair was spiked in the typical style of that time, and he had this grin on his face that said, "I don't care about what's going on here-you boys can all act like jerks, I don't mind!"
Me and my friend exchanged looks. This was nothing like band I knew before, and it was only the first day.
Finally, about fifteen minutes later, the band director sat up. "Hey, people of the band room," He said lazily. "Come on, shut up for now." Everyone looked up, only listening to him with half their attention.
"Alright. This year in band we're going to be playing all sorts of music. We're mostly going to play marches though, because I'm in the HIGH SCHOOL MARCHING BAND! You all should join it, it's the best! Now, sit down and I'm going to pass out the things for you to fill out what kind of instrument you play. Hand them in today, or tomorrow, whatever." He shrugged and got the papers, passing them out.
I blinked, staring up at the front in bewilderment. Marching band? I hadn't signed up for marching band, I had signed up to be in BAND! And why wasn't this guy trying to keep everyone under control? Mrs. B always used to. She'd never tolerate behavior like this.
A person in front of me threw a few papers at me. They flew all around, showering me and my best friend as we tried to make order of it. We finally took two papers, and then the people around us started shouting, "Yo! Why ain't you passin' the papers? Come on, man, don't be stupid!" I turned around and gave them the fiercest glare I could.
I filled out the sheet, trying hard to convey my seriousness of music in. There wasn't a lot of room to, most of the questions were involving our schedule. I sighed and handed it in at the end of the period, having to shove through many rowdy kids to get it to the band director. He took it from me and looked down at me, trying to feign interest, it seemed.
"What's your name?" he asked, taking my sheet and throwing it in a box over his shoulder.
"Kathryn," I answered obediently.
"Instrument?"
"Oboe."
He looked at me when I said that. I mean, he actually focused on my face and seemed to see me when I said that. "Oboe, huh?" He said. "You're the first I've had in like. . . like. . . years." He said finally.
"I see." I replied, still standing in front of him.
He shrugged. "Whatever."
Just then, the bell rang. I ran (shoved my way) back to where me and my best friend was, taking my book bag and my oboe. And, for the first time in my life, I was happy to get out of band class.
* * *
I went back to band the next day, and every day after that, week after week. When we started playing, I held hope that we'd be playing good stuff, hard stuff, not the easy pieces in elementary school.
But my hope was soon deflated when Mr. Jameson handed out not classical pieces, like I hoped, but instead pieces like "Sesame Street" and "The Thunderer" in which I had exactly twenty measures that I played in the entire piece. I stared down at the piece of music, which I probably could have played when I started out two years ago. My face fell when I looked at the simple score, easy time signature, and key signature. Where were the hard pieces I had hoped for?
Not in this band.
I had thought that as time moved on, the band would become more music oriented than. . . well. . . ignorant. But Mr. Jameson didn't care, and what's more, the rest of the band didn't care. They were obviously there to have an easy period away from class. And Mr. Jameson could tell this, and evidently didn't want to work them too hard.
I sighed and took out my music, putting it on the music stand in front of me, when I heard a trumpet player call behind me,
"Hey, look at the oboe player!"
Almost immediately, six trumpets were crowded around me. All boys, all jerks.
"What do you want?" I asked, annoyed. They were boys, and the loud obnoxious kind. . . the kind I'd sooner smack with my math book than look at.
"You're an oboe player." One of them said.
"You just noticed," I replied sarcastically.
"You have a funny reed." Said another.
"And you don't have reeds." I replied, doing my best to ignore them. Perhaps if they were ignored, they would go away. Trumpet players in elementary school, I knew, would never be purposefully obnoxious like this.
"Yeah, well, can we have one of yours then?" Said a different one, his hand darting over my shoulder as if to grab the reed out of my oboe.
"Why?" I asked, lowering my oboe so the reed was out of the curious trumpeter's reach.
"'Cuz, we want one. They're weird."
"Well, then go and buy one." This was getting annoying.
"We don't want to."
"Too bad." I hunched over to hide the reed from their prying eyes.
"Well. . . we want one!" With that, one of the trumpet players shoved the music off my stand.
"Hey!" I shouted, and bent over to pick it up. Ugh, the music was strewn all over the floor. I held my oboe between my knees as I tried and got the music together.
At that point, a trumpet player leaped forward and snatched the oboe. "Hehe, lookit, I got the oboe!" He said, in that typical dull boy voice that made it sound like a slug could rival it in intelligence.
I stood up immediately then. Touching my music was fine, but NO ONE touches the oboe without my permission!
"Give that back, THIS INSTANT!" I shouted, lunging for the trumpet player with my oboe.
He laughed dully. "No!" He said, and snatched the reed-the good reed, mind you, it wasn't broken-out of the oboe. "Lookit, guys, I got one of them reeds!"
They all laughed. The one with my oboe threw the oboe back to me, and I caught it, just barely. "Give me my reed!" I ordered. They just laughed.
"Nah, I think we'll keep it." He said. Now this made me royally mad. I stood up on the chair and screeched,
"GIVE ME MY REED BACK!"
It had no affect. They just laughed, the flutists glanced back to see what was happening, and then turned away. Mr. Jameson? Didn't even look up.
"Mr. Jameson!" I called. He looked up this time. "He took my reed!" I pointed to the trumpet player with my reed. The trumpet player blinked.
"I dunno what she's talking about," He said. "I dun have her reed."
Mr. Jameson sighed. "He said he doesn't have it, Kathryn, just sit back down." And with that, he promptly turned away and ignored me. The trumpet player, with my good reed, walked away laughing with his buddies.
I sat down in my chair, clutching my oboe, my face burning with anger and humiliation. They had stolen my reed, flat out stolen it, and Mr. Jameson had let them get away with it. Why? Because they were trumpet players, and he ~loved~ trumpet players. I held my head down, and a few tears dropped into my lap. How could he do this? How could they do this? I had done nothing to them-nothing!
When the bell rang that day, and I left the band room, I left it fast. I left it thinking I never wanted to return again, ever.
Ever.
* * *
Months passed, and things didn't improve. Now I hated the trumpet players ((a/n: And I still do. . .this incident started my hatred for trumpets, and it continues through to this day)) and even the stuck up snotty popular flutists. I hated Mr. Jameson who continued not giving a crap the entire year, not caring about anything. And the time came where I even hated band.
Why? I thought one day. Why do I hate band so much, when I used to love it? Where was my love for the music? It was so strong in me, and now it was extinguished to a weak and dying flame. What had threw the water on that fire, that burning musical passion I had? Was it Mr. Jameson, who didn't care from the day he listlessly handed out the music to the days where he just cancelled band altogether? Was it the day the trumpets stole my reed, and went completely unnoticed? Was it the day that I realized I wasn't going to get any piece of music where I'd actually ~play~?
Whatever it was, my music was gone. That sense of music I had was gone, vanished. Suddenly I no longer wanted to be a musician, in fact, I no longer cared about music anymore. When the end of the year came and the time for us to make our schedules, I dropped band. I didn't want to take band next year. After all, what was the point of band? We never did anything. I never played.
And most of all. . .I no longer cared about playing.
It was that year, my first year in middle school, that I lost my music, lost my dream, and lost my ambition in a shadow of carelessness started by Mr. Jameson. It would be years until I got it back again.
((That's all for now, chaps. . .more to come, when I get around to writing it, I'm so lazy))
Glad you all like this story and want me to continue. I'd better write as much as I can before marching band season starts again, once it does, don't be expecting lots of updates. My evil colorguard instructor will keep us after school every day for practice, knowing her))
Middle school. Back then, to my elementary school self, the thought of "Middle school" sent shivers of horror down my spine. Lockers, long hallways, moving around for every class, being in a school full of lots of different people I've never met before, and not having the same people in each class. I was most definitely scared. A lot of my friends were looking forward to the freedom that middle school gave you. That part was okay. . . the fact that you'd have different people in each class appealed towards me. It meant if one of my friends wasn't in my first class, she might be in another class.
But no matter what, I was still afraid of entering middle school. Deathly afraid.
It was now my first day of middle school. My mom had put me in this pretty little dress and combed my hair all up so I looked nice. Though I didn't know how long that would last, since now I had to wait at the bus stop and heard horror stories about the bus stop. I was mortally afraid I'd miss the bus and be late to my first day of middle school. And that would be scary.
My mom had to all but shove me out the door and drag me down the street when the time came. I was clutching my oboe case with white knuckles, for I had band sixth period. My teacher was a "Mr. Jameson", I had no idea who he was. But the oboe seemed to be the only comfort I had as I headed down to that bus stop, and into that cold, unfeeling world that was middle school.
As it turned out, I was not late to middle school. I got on the bus and sat alone, too afraid to sit next to anyone and feeling very much like a first year at Hogwarts. The first five periods went by, and they weren't that bad. My best friend was in two classes with me and I was very happy for that. I didn't get that lost because of orientation a few days prior to this, and when I was late the teacher just looked at me sympathetically, understanding I was a lost and scared sixth grader. Though the sound of the bell ringing while I was still in the hallway only sent more thrills of terror.
Now, finally, came sixth period. I greatly looked forward to hopefully losing myself in the music, which would get my mind off how scared and confused I was. I was hoping, that just for forty minutes, the middle school fear would be forgotten.
As I entered the band room, I looked around. It was so different from my elementary school band room. This one was larger, and amazingly cluttered. There were chairs strewn everywhere, candy wrappers and empty water bottles littered the floor, posters were hanging on the walls, some hanging off, and people were everywhere. And these people weren't sitting in their assigned chair, waiting for orders-they were strewn and draped over chairs (some over more than one chair) and lounging as carelessly as if it was the middle of the summer.
They were also shouting. Calling and yelling to each other from across the room, throwing things, the ones whom I recognized as "the populars" were whispering and giggling about some unknown secret, and the boys were making rowdy catcalls and acting like jerks.
And I was the only one in the entire band room with my instrument.
I entered very slowly, looking around to make sure that I didn't get hit in the head by a piece of balled up paper or run into by a boy running to catch it. I sat by my best friend over in the corner, she was looking just as frightened as I was. She didn't have her instrument, but that was because it was a trumpet and very clumsy.
I looked to the front of the room to see where the band director was. He was, instead of sitting primly on the seat with a baton like Mrs. B, was leaning back in the chair grinning. He was a lot younger than Mrs. B. His hair was spiked in the typical style of that time, and he had this grin on his face that said, "I don't care about what's going on here-you boys can all act like jerks, I don't mind!"
Me and my friend exchanged looks. This was nothing like band I knew before, and it was only the first day.
Finally, about fifteen minutes later, the band director sat up. "Hey, people of the band room," He said lazily. "Come on, shut up for now." Everyone looked up, only listening to him with half their attention.
"Alright. This year in band we're going to be playing all sorts of music. We're mostly going to play marches though, because I'm in the HIGH SCHOOL MARCHING BAND! You all should join it, it's the best! Now, sit down and I'm going to pass out the things for you to fill out what kind of instrument you play. Hand them in today, or tomorrow, whatever." He shrugged and got the papers, passing them out.
I blinked, staring up at the front in bewilderment. Marching band? I hadn't signed up for marching band, I had signed up to be in BAND! And why wasn't this guy trying to keep everyone under control? Mrs. B always used to. She'd never tolerate behavior like this.
A person in front of me threw a few papers at me. They flew all around, showering me and my best friend as we tried to make order of it. We finally took two papers, and then the people around us started shouting, "Yo! Why ain't you passin' the papers? Come on, man, don't be stupid!" I turned around and gave them the fiercest glare I could.
I filled out the sheet, trying hard to convey my seriousness of music in. There wasn't a lot of room to, most of the questions were involving our schedule. I sighed and handed it in at the end of the period, having to shove through many rowdy kids to get it to the band director. He took it from me and looked down at me, trying to feign interest, it seemed.
"What's your name?" he asked, taking my sheet and throwing it in a box over his shoulder.
"Kathryn," I answered obediently.
"Instrument?"
"Oboe."
He looked at me when I said that. I mean, he actually focused on my face and seemed to see me when I said that. "Oboe, huh?" He said. "You're the first I've had in like. . . like. . . years." He said finally.
"I see." I replied, still standing in front of him.
He shrugged. "Whatever."
Just then, the bell rang. I ran (shoved my way) back to where me and my best friend was, taking my book bag and my oboe. And, for the first time in my life, I was happy to get out of band class.
* * *
I went back to band the next day, and every day after that, week after week. When we started playing, I held hope that we'd be playing good stuff, hard stuff, not the easy pieces in elementary school.
But my hope was soon deflated when Mr. Jameson handed out not classical pieces, like I hoped, but instead pieces like "Sesame Street" and "The Thunderer" in which I had exactly twenty measures that I played in the entire piece. I stared down at the piece of music, which I probably could have played when I started out two years ago. My face fell when I looked at the simple score, easy time signature, and key signature. Where were the hard pieces I had hoped for?
Not in this band.
I had thought that as time moved on, the band would become more music oriented than. . . well. . . ignorant. But Mr. Jameson didn't care, and what's more, the rest of the band didn't care. They were obviously there to have an easy period away from class. And Mr. Jameson could tell this, and evidently didn't want to work them too hard.
I sighed and took out my music, putting it on the music stand in front of me, when I heard a trumpet player call behind me,
"Hey, look at the oboe player!"
Almost immediately, six trumpets were crowded around me. All boys, all jerks.
"What do you want?" I asked, annoyed. They were boys, and the loud obnoxious kind. . . the kind I'd sooner smack with my math book than look at.
"You're an oboe player." One of them said.
"You just noticed," I replied sarcastically.
"You have a funny reed." Said another.
"And you don't have reeds." I replied, doing my best to ignore them. Perhaps if they were ignored, they would go away. Trumpet players in elementary school, I knew, would never be purposefully obnoxious like this.
"Yeah, well, can we have one of yours then?" Said a different one, his hand darting over my shoulder as if to grab the reed out of my oboe.
"Why?" I asked, lowering my oboe so the reed was out of the curious trumpeter's reach.
"'Cuz, we want one. They're weird."
"Well, then go and buy one." This was getting annoying.
"We don't want to."
"Too bad." I hunched over to hide the reed from their prying eyes.
"Well. . . we want one!" With that, one of the trumpet players shoved the music off my stand.
"Hey!" I shouted, and bent over to pick it up. Ugh, the music was strewn all over the floor. I held my oboe between my knees as I tried and got the music together.
At that point, a trumpet player leaped forward and snatched the oboe. "Hehe, lookit, I got the oboe!" He said, in that typical dull boy voice that made it sound like a slug could rival it in intelligence.
I stood up immediately then. Touching my music was fine, but NO ONE touches the oboe without my permission!
"Give that back, THIS INSTANT!" I shouted, lunging for the trumpet player with my oboe.
He laughed dully. "No!" He said, and snatched the reed-the good reed, mind you, it wasn't broken-out of the oboe. "Lookit, guys, I got one of them reeds!"
They all laughed. The one with my oboe threw the oboe back to me, and I caught it, just barely. "Give me my reed!" I ordered. They just laughed.
"Nah, I think we'll keep it." He said. Now this made me royally mad. I stood up on the chair and screeched,
"GIVE ME MY REED BACK!"
It had no affect. They just laughed, the flutists glanced back to see what was happening, and then turned away. Mr. Jameson? Didn't even look up.
"Mr. Jameson!" I called. He looked up this time. "He took my reed!" I pointed to the trumpet player with my reed. The trumpet player blinked.
"I dunno what she's talking about," He said. "I dun have her reed."
Mr. Jameson sighed. "He said he doesn't have it, Kathryn, just sit back down." And with that, he promptly turned away and ignored me. The trumpet player, with my good reed, walked away laughing with his buddies.
I sat down in my chair, clutching my oboe, my face burning with anger and humiliation. They had stolen my reed, flat out stolen it, and Mr. Jameson had let them get away with it. Why? Because they were trumpet players, and he ~loved~ trumpet players. I held my head down, and a few tears dropped into my lap. How could he do this? How could they do this? I had done nothing to them-nothing!
When the bell rang that day, and I left the band room, I left it fast. I left it thinking I never wanted to return again, ever.
Ever.
* * *
Months passed, and things didn't improve. Now I hated the trumpet players ((a/n: And I still do. . .this incident started my hatred for trumpets, and it continues through to this day)) and even the stuck up snotty popular flutists. I hated Mr. Jameson who continued not giving a crap the entire year, not caring about anything. And the time came where I even hated band.
Why? I thought one day. Why do I hate band so much, when I used to love it? Where was my love for the music? It was so strong in me, and now it was extinguished to a weak and dying flame. What had threw the water on that fire, that burning musical passion I had? Was it Mr. Jameson, who didn't care from the day he listlessly handed out the music to the days where he just cancelled band altogether? Was it the day the trumpets stole my reed, and went completely unnoticed? Was it the day that I realized I wasn't going to get any piece of music where I'd actually ~play~?
Whatever it was, my music was gone. That sense of music I had was gone, vanished. Suddenly I no longer wanted to be a musician, in fact, I no longer cared about music anymore. When the end of the year came and the time for us to make our schedules, I dropped band. I didn't want to take band next year. After all, what was the point of band? We never did anything. I never played.
And most of all. . .I no longer cared about playing.
It was that year, my first year in middle school, that I lost my music, lost my dream, and lost my ambition in a shadow of carelessness started by Mr. Jameson. It would be years until I got it back again.
((That's all for now, chaps. . .more to come, when I get around to writing it, I'm so lazy))
