Two weeks before school started, the members of the Parkside High School Marching Band filed into the freshly clean and well lit band hall at eight o'clock in the morning. The award-losing cast seemed to be pretty much the same with a few new fresh and curious faces. There was Troy Slater, the hot-shot trumpet player (a staple member for any band) who always looked like he stepped out of a magazine ad. He was a senior this year, so his reign was in full swing. The drum majors were Mike Dawson and Luke Rogers, two guys who meant well but didn't do much. The drumline still had Ben Rogers (a cousin to Luke) goofing off on bass with Kevin Kroger on center snare. My section leader was Kristie Villain, one of the most popular girls in school. Kristie was nice fifty-five minutes out of the day, but when the bell rang, she put away her clarinet and her general intelligence. Natalie and Nate Norman—mellophone twins—were back, which I did not like at all. They were bratty, spoiled, and always showed off how great they were. If it weren't for guys like Jake Lawson and Harvey Mortemore on trombone and tuba always cracking jokes, I simply wouldn't survive. Of course there was Hannah, my best friend and aspiring flautist.
Mr. Tiller, the assistant director, stepped onto Mr. Hammons' podium and clapped his hands. We all stopped chattering and messing with our horns to see him instead of our mindless leader. This was strange—Mr. Hammons always greeted us first. Of course, there had been lots of rumors that he wasn't coming back.
"Welcome back, students," Mr. Tiller stuttered. "It's nice to see so many faces have returned after a long summer."
"Obviously not long enough for you, Tiller," Troy shouted from the back. Everyone laughed at the poor pale man. He couldn't help he looked like a turtle.
"Thank you, Troy," Mr. Tiller glared. "I have some bad news concerning our head director. It appears he's resigned." The response was a mix of moans, questions, and cheers. I turned to Hannah and sighed.
"Great, now we don't even have someone to at least pretend he's directing us," I groaned.
"Hey, maybe we'll get some young cute grad student," Hannah mused. "They do that, you know, student teach."
"When a grad student start checking out sophomores in high school, we'll start requesting student teachers," I answered. We were going to get someone who didn't know what the heck they were doing. Tiller was waving his hands, wanting us to quiet.
"Now, kids," he said, "don't be discouraged. Our new head director is really gifted. His name is Gustav Alexander Vandirhoffen—Mr. Vandirhoffen to you, and he has worked with many different bands like ours." There was a slight pause of silence before everyone burst out laughing. I had to admit I too was rolling on the carpeted floor; I mean come on, Gustav Alexander Vandirhoffen? He sounded like a German accordion player. Mr. Tiller had to be kidding. Any minute now, Mr. Hammons would step out in his tacky striped tie and black slacks and say this was all some sort of stupid joke. Instead, the doors leading outside burst open, and the hot sunlight poured in.
A middle-aged man stepped into the building with the gusto of a circus clown; his dark brown hair was completely messy, and his black-rimmed glasses were crooked on his nose. He wore a maroon T-shirt with blue plaid shorts and tennis shoes. He had a mellophone in one hand and a suitcase in the other. We all stared like deer in headlights.
"Thanks for the introduction, Ernie!" the man shouted with a big grin. Now we were terrified. "Good morning, future Beethovens and Bon Jovis! My name is Mr. V!" He strode across the front of the room and practically shoved Tiller off the step. I had to chuckle at that. "I am quite excited to work with you young geniuses," he said, staring at us with wild eyes. "I see a band that will go far to many places."
"You walked into the wrong building, buddy," Jake snickered, and everyone followed suit.
"Wrong, young Master of the Slide!" Everyone kept on chuckling out of nervous confusion. Who was this guy? "I have found the exact place! Come in, Elijah!" Someone else was coming, I guess. Some of us turned to the doorway, and those who did were treated with one of the most beautiful boys on the planet.
Imagine if you could a dark blonde eighteen-year-old god with incredible blue eyes and a big sweet smile with two perfect arms on either side of a tank top holding a trumpet and a water bottle. Every girl in the room collectively gasped; this was new meat and the dogs were hungry. He was a work of art; there was no other way to put it. He adjusted the baseball cap sitting backwards on his head and stopped. "That is the hottest boy that has ever walked through that door," Hannah said in a low whisper.
"Where in the world did he come from, and why is he holding a trumpet?" I whimpered, wondering if this was another cruel joke. There was no way he could be in band—our band.
"This is my son, students, and your newest mate," Mr. V proudly introduced. "Elijah, take a seat at the end of the trumpet line."
"What part do you play?" Troy immediately asked before Elijah had even crossed the room. I guess it was a little too obvious that the girls were watching him like loyal puppies, and Troy was used to running the kennel.
"Third," Elijah said with a grin. Can a boy have a cute voice? Elijah did.
"Third?" Troy repeated with disdain. "Are you that bad?"
"Elijah always plays third," Mr. V interrupted with his obnoxiously loud tone. "That is his part." Elijah took a seat and gave a brief nod to his new classmates before Mr. V stole his audience back. "Now, if you will please play a concert G!" Everyone moaned and stood to their feet with their horns. I looked around the room at the different instruments; the kids at Parkside all had very nice horns. I myself had just gotten a new one and was eager to see how it played. Mr. V lifted his hands as if he were directing a symphony of one hundred and we all took a weak breath sporadically. The sound coming out was pretty good—for us. Mr. V cut us off, and we all wondered what this nut was going to do next. He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. After a few moments of weird humming, he thrust his hand into the air.
"Outside!" he shouted.
"Outside?" we answered back. We didn't practice outside—ever. It was hot. We would get sweaty. Our horns would get hot and sweaty.
"Take the drums outside?" Ben whimpered.
"It's hot outside!"
"My hair will frizz!"
"People will see us!"
"I'll sweat!"
"Outside, right away," Mr. V repeated with a strange authority. We stared at him for a few more moments before slowly walking to the door. When the door opened, the brightness of the outside hit us like some sort of heat storm. Already things were bad.
