We didn't play music outside. At evening rehearsals, we would learn a few sets for a lame and short show, but going outside for music rehearsal was insane. We stood with our eyes squinted and fanning ourselves as Mr. V put us into a semi-circle. That was new as well.

"You," Mr. V said, pointing directly at me. I froze. "What is your name?"

"Allie," I blurted. "Allie Farlane."

"Arrange your fellow second clarinets behind the firsts." I nodded. Everyone slowly lined up beside me.

"This is so weird," Kevin, another clarinet groaned.

"Alright, my music masters, now we can properly play a concert G."

"Why?" someone whined. "It's too hot!"

"We must be outdoors in order to fill all of this fine air. There was simply not enough air indoors."

"That's a crock," Troy mumbled.

"It's very true," Mr. V replied seriously. "What is your name, young man?"

"Troy Slater," he answered. "I'm the section leader."

"Our bravest, no doubt," Mr. V replied, and a few kids laughed. He was probably being sarcastic. "Play for us a concert G." Troy shrugged his shoulders and lifted his silver trumpet that blinded half of us in the sun. He threw together a posture and produced a half-hearted note. "Wrong," Mr. V immediately identified.

"That was a G," Troy defended.

"It was a lazy G," Mr. V retorted. He lifted his mellophone and played—but it wasn't exactly a note. It wasn't even a partial. It was some sort of deflated moaning snort that sounded like a dying cow. A lot of people laughed at that.

"What was that?" Troy shouted.

"I don't play mellophone—I play saxophone," Mr. V explained. "The point is, I played with confidence, and that's very important."

"That was sick," Nate said, disgusted. "We are NOT sounding like that."

"Now Mr. Slater, play a confident concert G." Troy tried again. "Louder!" Troy played a bit stronger. "LOUDER!" Mr. V jumped. Troy scowled, determined to make him eat his words. He sucked in a barrel of air and blasted a bright G that made a few people perk up. It sounded…good. "Everyone must play with that confidence. Perhaps not at that volume, but confidence is essential."

Two hours later, we were sick of Mr. V's little hints. This game of standing outside was getting old. We were hot, tired, sweaty, and ready to quit band for good. We would do anything Mr. V said without arguing just so he would let us take a water break. We practiced scales—concerts B flat, E flat, and F. We played rhythms and fundamental exercises that we practiced in the sixth grade. Mr. V picked up our names very quickly. It was hard paying attention to his strange requests while still checking out his super hot son, who was, by the way, a fantastic trumpet player—as good as Troy if not better. Hannah and I wondered why he was on third part. Mr. V didn't let Troy play loud enough to cover the whole section, like he usually did. He made the third parts play by themselves and asked the first chair players not to play. The rest of the players—like me on second clarinet—weren't that bad, too. It was fun to actually hear ourselves. Mr. V called that confidence, and apparently everyone needed some. We had just heard the second trombones play a clean set of eighth notes after the sixth try when Mr. V nodded and motioned for us to come and sit down. We sighed with relief and obeyed.

"Very good, very good," he congratulated with a smile. "We have already improved immensely." Kristie shot up her hand. "Yes, Miss Clarinet Ambassador?" We all thought his little titles were really, really weird.

"I know it's your first day," she began in her sweetest voice, "and you're probably figuring us all out, as we are you." A few people grumbled. "But usually Mr. Hammons didn't pay so much attention to detail. I mean, the first parts take care of that. And we definitely don't practice outside."

"Definitely," Fiona Marlow, the first flute seconded.

"I see," Mr. V said, pacing in front of us while we caught our breath. "There will be lots of changes, but I promise they will be for the better. I understand you all have not placed in the finals at the Regional Marching Band Fair in a while."

"Placed in finals? We get last place every single year," Luke sadly said.

"How would you like that to change, Master Commander?" Mr. V grinned.

"Don't get our hopes up," Mike begged. "We're awful."

"You are not awful," Mr. V snapped. We all leaned back a bit; that was harsh. "You are all fantastic students. You are full of potential and potential potential and the possibility of potential potential." That didn't make any sense at all. "All you need is instruction, and you will make the finals at regionals." A quiet freshman raised her hand. "Yes?" he asked.

"Can we really make regionals?" she asked quietly.

"We can." His answer was so sharp and confident, everyone began to whisper. Mr. Hammons didn't care. He never talked about getting better or contest or anything, and now this guy was saying we'd make finals, that is be one of the top ten best bands in our district. "It's easy," he chuckled. A few more students laughed. "You have to trust me."

"Yeah, we'll trust you all the way," Harvey sarcastically moaned.

"Then we'll be at regionals. Who's with me?" Nobody moved or said anything. "No one? No one wants to be one of the best?"

"Well, I do," Luke said hesitantly.

"Me too," Mike agreed.

"Me too, duh," Troy said. One by one, we all agreed. Mr. V smiled, satisfied.

"We have six hours a day for two weeks, my young scholars. Two hours will be spent on marching fundamentals. Two hours will be spent on learning drill. Two hours will be spent on music, and you must do everything I say." That sounded extreme, but we all believed him. He was crazy enough to work, and I guess we were too. We cheered in response and it was a done deal. "Inside then!" he shouted, and we hurried in as best we could, being so tired. As we all shuffled to the door, Troy and the rest of the trumpets cut in front of us clarinets.

"This guy's a total nut," Troy was saying to one of his friends. "We're in for a big let down."

"You sounded so much better, dude," the other guy, John I think, said. "I mean, we sound better already."

"So what? We wanted to get inside. It'll be over once school starts." Troy was such a downer. I was about to turn and say something to Hannah about it when Elijah knocked into my shoulder. I think I just about screamed.

"Sorry," he smiled in apology. I immediately grinned back and tried not to giggle like an idiot.

"It's OK," I gushed. "I mean, I should have been looking at you. I mean out for you." Oh God stop talking, Allie. He smiled a bit wider and let me step in front of him. I thought I was done embarrassing myself when I heard him ask my name.

"Huh?" I said, looking over my shoulder. He was still behind me.

"I'm Elijah."

"Allie. Welcome to Parkside."

"Thanks," he said, lingering by me as I wandered toward the side of the room. This guy knew I was blushing like mad—he's one sadistic puppy. "You're the first person that's said anything to me yet," he added. I blinked.'

"Oh, well, consider me your first friend." He beamed and nodded.

"Sure thing." I turned and tried not to run to Hannah, feeling very proud of myself. I don't care if Mr. V asked us to run around naked covered in chocolate syrup—his son was totally worth it.