Disclaimer: I (TtigaChey) do not own any marching band, high school or otherwise, nor do I own the music for the Phantom of the Opera show. I do, however, own the random shapes mentioned in reference to formations and I simply made up the drill numbers. I own all the characters, some of whom are based on real people, and I have obtained permission to use their likeness. All other resemblances to existing beings or whereabouts is strictly coincidental unless blatantly obvious.
Learning the Tradition – Part One
"Are you sure you don't want me to go with you?" Mom asked, handing me a check.
"Mom! I'll look like I'm…like…" I trailed off, searching for the right word. Immature came to mind, as well as baby, dependant, and loser. "Something I don't want to look like!" I finally spat out, frustrated with Mom for thinking I needed a mother to walk me into the school. Plus this wasn't the day for me to stammer my way through a conversation.
"I'm just saying you don't need to go in alone. You're a freshman; you're new. I'm sure I wouldn't be the only parent in there."
I rolled my eyes and groaned. "The last thing I need is my own mother doing the whole 'observant parent' thing today. Just…dinner's at four and you can watch us on Friday. I'll be fine," I added when she got that look on her face like she was going to follow me in.
"All right." Her tone went up at the end, implying she thought she was right, something I hated.
I shoved the check in my pocket and jumped out of the car. Gathering my backpack, case, and folder from the backseat, I turned to face the high school as Mom drove off. I was near the stadium entrance and parking lot, crowded with dented Fords, rusted station wagons, and the occasional Bug. Most kids I could see headed for a little alcove behind the stadium. Despite my assurances I felt pretty much the way Mom had implied. I bit my lip as my stomach flipped and my heart beat a little faster. Not one for confrontations, I edged forward toward the alcove at the slowest rate I could manage without looking like I was avoiding the alcove.
A minute later I found myself passing through an open double doorway in the far right wall. I breathed a sigh of relief at what I saw inside the large room—or rather what I didn't see: people. I knew it was best to arrive early. There were three or four students and a parent or two that I could see, standing around the half circle arrangement of armless chairs, but it was mostly empty, the best scenario for entering a room.
While it was a small victory, it immediately turned into a problem when I tried to decide where to sit down. Without students in those armless chairs I couldn't guarantee that the chair I chose would be my permanent home for the next ten weeks. I crossed the room quickly, keeping my head down and clutching my folders to my chest, and settled for sitting on a low table pushed against the wall the furthest from the door. I dropped my stuff on the floor under the table and proceeded to study in depth and with complete concentration a plaque on the wall off to my right.
From my little table I could see the whole room clearly. A marker board ran along the wall to my right ending in an entertainment system. Probably a tape deck and CD player, I guessed, a VCR maybe, too. A TV hung on the wall above it and a microphone stand stood alongside the shelves. Two large radiators framed the marker board. And a circular hand clock which I had seen walking in, and which I knew was on the wall above the board, was hidden by the TV.
"Excuse me," a nearby parent waved to get my attention, "are you here to register?"
"Yeah," I answered. A nervous smile tugged at my mouth involuntarily.
She pointed down a connecting hall. "Down there."
I left my stuff under the table and walked through the short hallway and out another set of double doors. Out in the main hallway was another low table, decorated with flyers and binders. Two women sat behind it, shuffling through the binders and handing flyers to a set of parents. I waited in line until they were through.
The same smile on my face, I approached the table and handed one of the women my mom's check.
"Name, please?" she said.
"Cheryl M'Culloch."
She scanned through the page in her binder that was already open before flipping a page. "I'm not seeing you." She gave a high chuckle. "There's so many this year. What instrument?"
"Trumpet," I told her. "Right there." I pointed to my name in the middle of the list of other trumpet names.
"There you are," she announced, and highlighted my name, then handed me a flyer, which ended up being a schedule for the week. "First time at band camp?"
My smile stayed on my face. "Yeah." I returned to the table in the band room.
The room filled up quickly with loud students, most who apparently never stayed in touch with each other over the summer, because they formed rowdy groups laughing, retelling summertime adventures, and basically goofing around. Luckily my little table was out of the way and I was in a good position to survey the whole room and grow accustomed to the crowd.
"Cheryl!" a voice called out.
I spotted Emma walking past the board waving as well as she could with her elbows. Her hands were full.
My plastered smile was replaced with a big grin. "Hey!"
She dropped her stuff as I had done to mine and joined me on the table.
"Did you register already?" I asked her.
"My mom's doing it. So what's up?"
I shrugged. "Not much. I've been here a while just waiting."
"Do you know anything? Where're supposed to sit?"
Again I shrugged. No one had seemed to organize into sections yet, and those who were sitting didn't have any instruments out.
This didn't last long, however, as nine o'clock rolled around and the director, Mr. Burrell, came in and seated everyone. My little table had been a good spot after all since he pointed to the end of the third row on my side as the trumpet section. I didn't even need to move my stuff. Emma grabbed the end chair and I sat next to her.
The director stood on the podium at the front of the half circle and started talking about something or other. I was more focused on seeing who the other trumpeters were. Throughout his speech I casually leaned forward a couple of times to glance down the row, looking at faces. I recognized two more trumpeters in my own grade, and probably six or seven others, all older than me. I couldn't tell if the last one was a trumpeter or not. The guy to his left held a trombone, but the guy to his right held a trumpet.
While I pondered his instrument, parent helpers passed out single sheets and packets and a couple other paper items, which I promptly filed away in my folder. Using the rustling of papers and whispering, which usually follows when things are passed out, as a cover, I unzipped my backpack and pulled out a book. I trusted Emma entirely to warn me of something important, whether it be a parent strolling by or the wandering eye of the director straying too long in my direction.
I doubted the director would say anything I had not heard already. At the recommendation of my junior high band teacher I signed up for marching band this year. My mom hadn't taken the news well. Though she never said anything, I knew my being in band was expensive for her. My trumpet was secondhand, and even that didn't come cheap. Every year since I started band in fourth grade presented more expenditures for her. Valve oil, music books, mutes, the repairs on my trumpet when it had taken an unexpected tumble down a stair case, and now band camp. Eighty bucks for teachers, lunch, and a uniform shirt was an unexpected announcement at the meeting for incoming freshmen last Wednesday.
Mom insisted on going with me, despite my intention of going with Emma and her mom. For me, not knowing anything about marching bands got me through the meeting, even through the twenty-some questions my mom asked. After the meeting and when we were back at home, Mom studied every single sheet that was handed out. Once she was clear on everything she felt it was her duty to 'clarify' things for me, as if I hadn't listened eagerly at every word the director said.
Emma gave me a nudge and I looked up quickly, stuffing my book under my leg.
"We're going to sectionals now," she said, laughing at my actions.
Using the clever technique of slowly organizing our backpacks and cases on and under our chairs, we watched the experienced trumpeters pull out shiny instruments and folders, grab a music stand, and head out a back door of the band room, opposite the marker board. Doing the same, Emma and I followed them across the hall into a cafeteria. Here, atop two long lunch benches, the trumpeters sat, with feet on chairs, warming up and organizing folders on the stands.
Choosing an outside edge of the first table, Emma and I set up and blew air through our trumpets, a silent way of warming up, sort of a preliminary warm up, or a warm up for warming up. I could explain it in more technical terms, of course, except I don't think there's a technical term for feeling out the other trumpeters. I focused my eyes on my stand while I listened to the hums of long tones, flow of scales, and a piercing high note competition which was going on at the other table.
I heard Emma test a low note quietly beside me. A quick glance told me she had been fingering through her music while I had been warming up silently. Not one for practicing during the summer, she must have been up all night studying the notes and rhythms, and was fingering them, maybe for the first time ever. I smiled into the mouthpiece. I loved getting new music and practically memorized the whole show back in May, when we first got the music.
The door to the cafeteria opened and in stepped a serious faced woman with a trumpet case in hand. "Good morning," she stated in a stiff way. "To those of you who are new, I am Mrs. Stanton. Welcome to marching band." She looked at her watch and pointed to specific areas of the tables. "Firsts here, seconds here, and thirds here. You have five minutes of personal warm up time, and then we'll warm up together." She proceeded to organize her things on a third table and walk out the door.
Emma and I had different parts so I gave her a little pout and moved to the other end of the table, where the firsts were gathered. Three trumpeters were already there; firsts probably sat there every year. I bit my lip and sat off to the side. I started warming up silently again, only this time I opened my folder and took out my music. No harm could come from fingering through the songs again. I kept my bell on my lap, though, since no one else was playing. I didn't want to be the only one with a trumpet up.
A trumpeter from the group of firsts singled herself out and walked over to me. She had long black hair, thick and coarse, and an angular face. "Hello, I'm Alyssa. Which one are you?"
I looked up with my plastered smile to see her look down at a sheet of paper. "Cheryl," I said slowly.
She sat down next to me and showed me her list. It was all the names of the trumpeters, organized by grade. "I just wanted to put faces to names," she explained in a kind voice. "I'm the section leader, so you can come to me with any problems or questions. I'm playing first, with Carter and Sara." She pointed the two other firsts out. Sara gave me a wave and a greeting; Carter smiled and nodded.
"Hi," I said. I wasn't really sure what else to say.
"What part are you playing, Cheryl?" Alyssa asked, her hand poised over her list.
"First."
She hesitated before writing a one next to my name. I saw her glance at my music, checking the little number above the first measure. "So you are," she mumbled. After notating my part she asked if I had any questions about the music.
Shaking my head, I waved my hand dismissively, hopefully making it seem like I hadn't played it yet. She nodded and moved on to the next freshman.
"How do you like it so far?" Sara asked me, scooting a little my way, brushing back a few strands of long blond bangs from her forehead.
I shrugged. "Nothing's happened yet."
"Yeah, ask her again tonight," Carter told Sara.
"Are you a senior?" I asked, acting on a suspicion.
"Yep," he replied. "We're all seniors," he added, meaning the first trumpeters.
And obviously I wasn't a senior. I fought the urge to ask whether it was odd for a freshman to be put on first part.
"Are you in any other bands?" Sara asked.
My smile had faded, only to be replaced with confusion. "Concert band?" I suggested after a minute.
She gave me a reassuring smile. "Then you must not be. I meant along with marching band. Sometimes someone will do two bands a semester. Like Carter is in the Ensemble and Alyssa is in Orchestra."
"Ensemble?" I asked. I knew the orchestra and concert band were alternatives if I didn't want to be in marching band, but there hadn't been any other band listed.
"The Brass Ensemble," Carter clarified. "It's a big band kind of thing. A lesson and audition only kind of band, so you probably haven't heard of it yet."
"Hmm," I responded, not sure if he was bragging or just informing.
The door opened again and the room instantly quieted as Mrs. Stanton walked back in. Picking up her trumpet, she lead us through some basic scales and lip slurs and reviewed, for those who knew, and taught, for those who didn't know, an all-band warm up tune. It wasn't hard, though she conducted it super slow, apparently thinking we couldn't pick it up that fast. After she was convinced we knew the tune by heart she tuned us. I bit my lip again as she started with the thirds. I hadn't played a note all day, just silent blowing. I also wasn't looking forward to having my first note played alone in front of all these trumpeters to be a tuning C.
Just before she got to me I rolled on some chapstick. Though I've been warned by every band teacher I've had that chapstick would ruin the inside of my trumpet, I can't stop myself from playing with it on. I thought I played better with it. Sure enough, as I played my solo note slightly sharp for all to hear I felt my lips slide to my normal embouchure. Instead of removing the mouthpiece to reposition my lips, the chapstick allowed me to adjust while playing. And it tasted better than just spit.
Then came magic time. It was time to play the first song. I sat up a little straighter, feeling more confident since I had practiced all summer.
"Your show this season is Phantom of the Opera," Mrs. Stanton, sounding as if we were hearing this news for the first time. "It is a well-known Broadway musical, a compelling book, and all-around quality music. It is your job to preserve the integrity of the music. It will be easy for any audience to hear mistakes. That is how well the music is known."
She raised her hands to start us off. I was so excited I nearly started early. I couldn't wait to hear how it sounded with the whole section…
Her hands came down.
Baaah! Buh-buh-buh-buh Baaah! The sound filled my ears to the point of pain. I was so startled by the sound I forgot to play entirely. I came in during the third measure. Unlike my previous bands, with the brittle, mostly sharp, bright trumpet sound, this trumpet sound was full, resounding, with a deep rich tone. I could distinctly hear each of the three parts, which was amazing to me, since in other bands first dominated every song and third seemed to play silently.
We reached the end of the "Overture" opening and were stopped by a closed fist from Mrs. Stanton. Even though I was impressed with the passage, she wasn't. She ran through the passage with the firsts, then seconds, and then thirds. I felt that all eyes were on me as the firsts played. Again I wondered about a freshman on first.
At last we moved on to the second part, a passage of "Think of Me." This was of interest to me, because there was a trumpet solo near the end. When I first saw it I thought it odd that there were solos in marching band music. How could the audience hear the soloist if the marching band was moving around?
But Mrs. Stanton skipped over the solo, saying nothing but that we were skipping over it today. Disappointed, I played half-heartedly until sectionals were over. I joined up with Emma as we walked back to the band room for full band rehearsal.
"They're good," was her first observation, once we were seated back in the trumpet section. Since she was second part, I sat in the fourth chair in from the end, so we could sit together.
"I know!" I whispered, afraid of being overheard. "I can't wait to hear the whole band. Have you talked to anyone?"
"A little," she replied. "Jordon's second too." I nodded. Jordon was in our grade. "Lindsey is a sophomore, I think. She didn't talk to us much. I don't think she likes being put with freshmen."
I told her about my fellow firsts. "Did you meet Alyssa?"
"Yep. You know that solo in the first song? Lindsey said it's Alyssa's solo."
"Really?"
"Unofficially, of course, since auditions aren't held until Thursday, and since a fair audition would take it away from her if someone else was good enough. But Lindsey says Alyssa's the best."
I began to think there were some issues between Lindsey and Alyssa. Not ready to dive into problems with upperclassmen, I studied Emma's music intently. It was common for me to become bored with my own music, and I often memorized other parts to play during rehearsals. No one seemed to notice or care, though it confused me a few times during some playing tests.
"Hey, guys," a girl said behind us. We turned to see Stephanie, another trumpeter in our grade. "How's it been?"
I shrugged while Emma summed up her summer, ending with her impression of the trumpet section so far. I knew Stephanie from elementary school, but I didn't consider her a friend. I listened to her opinions of the section, though, and learned of the last of the trumpet section, sophomores Adam and Kim, and a junior, Megan. And I hadn't forgotten the unknown instrumentalist. He must play the trombone, since I hadn't seen him in the trumpet sectional.
Stephanie drifted away to other band friends and Emma and I returned to studying each other's music. We stayed that way until the rest of the sections returned to the band room and Mr. Burrell approached the podium. A quick announcement from him informed us of marching drills beginning after a fifteen minute break after full band rehearsal. I began to feel butterflies again, this time because so many students groaned at that remark. I looked forward to learning how to march.
As predicted the full band sounded as impressive as the trumpet section had, if not better. I felt a surge of energy shoot through me at the sound of the marching percussion instruments. Unlike concert drums, this group of drums seemed to sing. And there was so much bass! There were five sousaphones and a handful of baritones and a bass guitar. A bass guitar in a marching band?
I was a bit disappointed when no one played the solo in the first song, or in the second song. I had hoped to hear someone other than me play them. It seemed no one played the solo in front of the band until auditions.
Just before rehearsal ended more papers were passed out announced as drill charts, complete with our own field number. The band members were numbered from one to somewhere in the nineties and given a drill chart of their positions on the field during the show. For the rest of rehearsal we were given a crash course in reading our drill sheets to be continued after marching practice after the break.
I hadn't expected anything as difficult as the drill chart, so I took the fifteen minutes of break to study the sheet carefully with Emma. I wasn't any smarter after the fifteen minutes were up, and neither was she. Leaving our instruments on our chairs we headed out to the football field for marching drills.
We approached a huddle of trumpeters to see what was what. Alyssa, being section leader, had a binder of all the formations for the whole show. They looked interesting but it wasn't what had drawn the crowd. Alyssa was writing names next to the numbers on the first page.
"Good, you're here," she said to Emma and me. "What numbers are you?"
After we told her she started lining us up in a straight line, facing the stands. I was on the right end of the line. Emma was somewhere near the end of the left end.
"Okay, everyone," Alyssa called out, "this is your marching order. Freshmen, according to the number at the top of your drill chart this is your position in the trumpet line. I am on the far right end and Carter is on the far left end. This is how we'll sit in the band room and line up in block band. Get to know who's on either side of you."
She then wrapped us into a three by three block with Carter tailing the last line and positioned herself in the first line, where I was standing. For the next half hour the trumpets as a section worked to teach us freshmen how to march. We learned posture, horn angle, and various parts of the foot I never knew existed. We roll stepped and traversed forward, backward, diagonally, eight steps to five yards, and a couple other things in the end, which I think will forever be blocked from my memory by the pain in my lower back, shoulders, and arms.