Your New Family – Part One
I paced through the dark halls of the high school on my way to the band room, though conveniently I found reasons to be everywhere except the band room. What better time to find one's locker but when the halls are empty? There's no line at the drinking fountain, either. Come to think of it, there's no one around to watch me fight with a dollar bill in the vending machine either…
I spent the entire car ride back to the school thinking up every excuse I could for when, inevitably, I'd have to explain why I wasn't present when trumpets were asked to stay behind. I had already decided my luck was not so good as to let me leave a perfect impression for a whole day. Oh, if only I had stuck around and wandered around with Emma, we would have found them and all would be well…if only I had remembered what was said while it was being said. But alas, I was a freshman, doomed to suffer through any, if imaginable, pranks.
Like losing my instrument.
I turned around abruptly, almost tripping over my feet in my haste to get back to the band room. What was it that trombonist said about losing instruments? I faintly recalled locking my case, though that did nothing to relieve my newfound terror of not having an instrument when we set up to play the show.
As I rounded the final corner I glanced out all windows I passed, just to make sure we weren't meeting on the field, or somewhere else outside, right away. I paused outside the band room, catching my breath and peeking in through the narrow windows in the door. I easily spotted my chair and nothing seemed to have been moved or altered in any way. And even though there were only ten minutes until six o'clock, I saw only four students in the room, clustered behind a drum set. I opened the door and made for my seat.
When I had just approached my chair my eyes swept the room automatically, taking notice of a group of color guard members off to the right near my little table. The hallway part of the band room had hidden them from my sight before. They chatted noisily while unfolding flags and assembling poles. One girl motioned for another to throw her one for practice, and apparently she really needed the practice, for it sailed through her fingers and landed on the director's podium, nearly striking the hanging TV along the way.
My eyes followed the pole naturally, and saw an arm reach up with the pole to hand it back. Someone must have been lying on the floor for some reason or another.
It took me a second to process the arm I saw. Walking around the chairs, I called out, "Kayla?"
"Cheryl?" A head popped up just as I reached the podium. "Cheryl! Where have you been all day? We were supposed to meet at the spot this morning."
"I know, I forgot. I was so worked up this morning I almost forgot my folder, too." I sat against the wall, under the marker board, and propped my feet up on the podium.
Kayla flipped over to lie on her stomach, adjusting a book in front of her. "That girl nearly bonked me on the head…" she mumbled, so the nearby guards couldn't hear. "Did you see that?" she asked me.
"Yeah. What're you reading?"
She held up the book so I could read the title. "Dracula…interesting. Now there's a book you could really sink your teeth into."
"I knew it!" she said, rising to her knees. "I knew it! I've been waiting for one of you to say that since last week."
I laughed. "I figured 'hey, I'll bite and get it over with' so we can move on." I gave her a huge grin.
She narrowed her eyes and glared at me. She opened her mouth then shut it quickly. I knew she only had one response to my picking. She opened her mouth two more times before replying, "Oh, just bite me."
"You just couldn't stop yourself, could you?" I taunted her. "You walked right into that one!" I snickered at her indignant upturned face and crossed arms.
"I'm not speaking to you." She turned her back on me and held her open book in front of her face.
I smiled and tapped her shoe with my toe. "Chelsea told me you called."
She gave a gasp, followed by a final glare before turning to me fully. "Oh, yeah," she sang out, leaving her tone hanging. "I thought you were home already when I called. It was like almost four thirty."
I had expected her to tell me of her formulating plan, and the reminder of that afternoon made me shield my face as I hurriedly, in hushed tones, explained the delay in leaving the school.
Kayla listened seriously and raised her eyebrows when I asked her if she'd seen any trumpets after being released. "Nope, sorry. I went to the parking lot immediately after."
"Which parking lot?"
"The one at the front of the school. It's closer to our house."
I nodded, but did not reply. A flash of silver had caught my eye and I thought it might be a trumpet player walking to the door to go out to the field. It was a flute.
I sighed, though felt no relief. Eventually, they would be there.
"So, what I was thinking was this," Kayla started.
"Hey, Chelsea wants you to call her back and tell her your plan," I cut in quickly, before forgetting.
"I plan to," she replied.
"So that's your plan?"
She gave me another glare. "If you don't want to hear it…"
I opened my mouth to reply but instead gasped as I saw Emma enter the band room. "Hey, I've got to go. Fix my problem, you know." I jumped up and flagged Emma down as she headed to the section.
"Hey, Cheryl," she greeted me. "You didn't miss much, if that's what you want to know."
I sat and pulled out my trumpet while she did the same. "It is what I wanted to know, thanks, but I need to hear the details, too."
Emma sighed. "First of all, I actually wish I had left with you, because it really wasn't much of anything."
"Yes, but what wasn't much of anything?" I pressed.
"It was just a meeting about a meeting. That's all. But you do need to know that tomorrow the section will be staying here for dinner so we can work on stuff afterwards, before camp starts again."
"What meeting?" I asked. "Today's or tomorrow's?"
She gave me an exasperated look. "Tomorrow's. Fine. You want details? You left, I looked, and I never found them. I went out to leave and they were all in the stadium parking lot around someone's car. Well, not all of them. I think Lindsey wasn't there, and I didn't see that guy first part or the other guy."
"Uh, first part is Carter, and the other would be his brother. Come to think of it I can't remember his name either."
"It didn't really matter that they show anyway, since Alice said we'd be working on trumpet tradition stuff, you know, stuff the upperclassmen would already know."
"It's Alyssa," I corrected.
"I thought someone called her Alice."
I shrugged. "Maybe it's a nickname then. But her name is Alyssa."
She returned my shrug and started unscrewing her valves so she could oil them. "Well, that's all it was, just her telling us to stay in tomorrow. I think someone's ordering a pizza, or we can just bring something. It wasn't a serious band thing so Jake wouldn't say it while we were at attention and the teacher has nothing to do with it which is why we were told to stay a bit and why we can't learn it during camp time." Emma looked up from her valves and laughed. "I think I just repeated word for word everything you missed. I mean, that's how short it was."
"How thoughtful of you," I said.
"Hey, guys!" a voice called out over the buzz of the students, now filling about half the room. Jake stood by the door, waving to get everyone to look his way. "We're meeting on the field, so if you want to start heading out, now would be good," he said, directing pointed looks at the clock.
Emma and I followed everyone out to the field, where the other half of the band was already grouped. Mr. Burrell instructed us to leave our instruments on the track so we could review the first song.
The task seemed simple enough. We walked over to where the trumpets had gathered, coming close just in time to hear Carter say, "And it avoids all kinds of problems, too."
I felt a small wave of guilt and embarrassment pass over my face as yet again I missed something of importance.
"Like spit collecting in your mouthpiece, for instance," Kim explained.
"Or bugs," Megan added, making a sour expression.
There was no response to that, as I'm sure everyone silently contemplated the notion of snapping up a horn to your face and kissing a bug instead. I almost gagged at the thought.
"Well, if you've eaten anything raunchy for dinner then you won't have a problem," Kim said, rescuing us from further thought infestations. "Either way, the Trumpet Circle is here for protection."
Her tone was solemn and she grandly lowered herself curtsy-style to kneel on the track, holding out her trumpet perpendicular to her body. Slanting the instrument, she rested the bell gently on the track surface and held the lead pipe in her left hand.
One by one, the upperclassmen did the same, forming the general shape of a circle. Emma and I followed, along with Jordon and Stephanie, filling in the gaps between the upperclassmen. It wasn't until they started lowering their horns that I understood what they whole Circle of Protection was all about. Each mouthpiece rested on the valve casing of another trumpet, forming a pinwheel with eleven spokes. In this way all our trumpets rested on an incline from the bell to the mouthpiece so spit would drain down into the instrument.
It was ingenious, yet simple. And yet complicated, too. To pick up one trumpet meant picking them all up, and the same with putting them down. Complicated, but genius. I wondered who first thought it up.
Mr. Burrell called us to the first set right then, and we all raced back to the field, avoiding other instrument formations lying on the track. I was surprised at my failed memory of the drill we set only two hours ago. It seemed like days passed since that afternoon. I stood between Alyssa and Jordon, thankful I at least remembered the marching order.
With Mr. Burrell on the podium, Jake used a short, three-step podium to set up a CD player at the sideline on the fifty yard line.
"Okay, guys, before you march and play, he's going to play the recording for you to march to. I want you counting your moves out loud. Unlike how we practiced before dinner you'll be counting and marching in tempo. You got it set, Jake?" he asked, leaning over the podium rail.
"All set, Mr. Burrell," came the reply as Jake bent over the CD player, poised to hit the play button.
"Band, ten-hut!" Mr. Burrell's curt voice ordered.
I stood at attention, already feeling my body resisting the straightening of my spine and shoulders. Taking Alyssa's cue, I rolled my music and drill chart into a tube and held it as I would my trumpet. To my left side I noted Jordon was using a pencil as a makeshift trumpet.
"Band, horns up!" Mr. Burrell clapped his hands on his thighs and then slowly raised them to eye level, bringing our horns up as he did so. I kept my "bell" locked in his direction so I wouldn't miss the downbeat. Mr. Burrell nodded down to Jake, who then hit play.
Four drum clicks sounded, followed by four more with Mr. Burrell counting along with his conducting. Our opener played from the CD player as we stepped off.
"Stop!" Mr. Burrell cried out.
Jake silenced the player quickly.
"What's the first rule of marching?" the teacher asked us. Without waiting for an answer he continued, "You always step off on your…left foot. Let's do it again."
I only moved about an inch from where I started, so I spent the reset time moving my eyes to my next spot, and then to the next spot, and so on until I confused my brain into thinking the forty yard line was the thirty-five yard line. I seriously believed I stepped off on my left foot as was drilled into me that morning, but I took no chances and shifted my weight onto my right foot, so my left leg bent ever so slightly. From straight on no one would be able to notice.
Mr. Burrell called us to attention and then to horns up, nodding at Jake to play the CD again. This time he let us keep going after the first beat, at which point I forgot entirely where the third set was.
"11…12…13…" Mr. Burrell called out after a second or two, to remind us to count out loud, and we joined in randomly. I found it difficult to count, keep in step and finger along with the music all at the same time. "15…16…one!" he emphasized, indicating the mark of set two and the beginning of set three.
I hadn't expected to immediately go from two to three, as during practice earlier we marched to one set, halted, and waited for Mr. Burrell to count us off for the next one. I had a direction change when I stepped off to the third set and almost tripped when my left toe ran into my right heel. I held on to my balance and kept my step until I reached the yard line where I remembered I didn't move for four counts. We were stopped as I was about to step off to set four.
"Here you have a mark time four followed by a float twelve. You must mark time, no hold. Face the front and shoulders parallel to the sidelines. Go back and do it again."
This time I had to walk to get back to set one. I unrolled my drill chart and stared frantically at the numbers, begging them to make some sort of sense in the next six seconds.
"Need any help?" Alyssa asked me as I turned to face the front.
"No," I replied, "I'm just checking." I rolled the chart back up and fell into attention.
"Almost ran into you that time," Jordon whispered to me over the count off.
"And by avoiding me you got off step," I informed him tersely, trying to keep my focus where it belonged.
We both missed the downbeat.
"Left, left," Alyssa instructed quietly, but clear enough to hear over the CD player's shrill version of our opener being reverberated around the stadium, the vast openness of the field and lack of ceiling contributing to the loss of bass.
Somehow, by sheer coincidence maybe, we finished the song after only twenty minutes on the field. The afternoon's practice crept back to me set by set and I finally was able to concentrate on tempo and direction changes. As the band applauded and cheered when Mr. Burrell congratulated us for marching the entire song I forced my mind to march through the drill, actively trying to file it in a more permanent spot in my memory.
"Not bad for your first time from start to finish," Mr. Burrell commented. "But so much for the easy part. That's only half of your drill." He wordlessly turned from us and descended the podium. "You'll be needing these now," he said, sweeping his arms out to indicate the instruments on the track.
A chorus of random expressions erupted from the band. Most groaned about running the drill yet another time only with an added hardship. Some simply complained of tiredness and pain. And a few, myself included, though I was silent in my response, celebrated the thought of accomplishing the last step on the road to being a marching band.
With instruments in hand at full attention, and with slight adjustment to hold the music at eye level, we stood as fence posts in formation, awaiting the hands to descend into the downbeat.
Fence posts. We do resemble fence posts, I thought to myself absently. Straight and stiff, solid and unmoving. If fencing were strung between us posts you'd see our formation, which kind of looks like scroll work. Connecting the posts—dots, really. Connect the dots. Hey! It's just a game of connect the dots…a large-scale, massive, complicated game of connect the dots.
Jake brought our horns up while Mr. Burrell climbed the stadium stairs to the press box at the top. Instead of going into the press box he sat down on the top row of bleachers against the front wall of the box. He gave a go-ahead nod to Jake, who turned back to us, steadying his footing and readjusting his stance.
"Face front," Alyssa hissed under her breath.
I was momentarily confused as I jerked first in Alyssa's direction, realizing at the same time that I probably shouldn't be moving, and returned to Jake before finally turning to the stadium.
"There you go," she whispered quickly, as Jake's hands lifted, indicating the preparation of the downbeat and the time to breathe.
I tightened my hold on my valve casing.
The hands came down.
Play, right, left, right, five, six, F-E, E-flat-D, D-flat, two, three, four, one, two, rest, breathe, set two… My mind struggled with each element the whole time through the opener, and by the transition to "Think of Me" I discovered I was no longer playing.
I briefly slid into panic mode, thinking it was obvious nothing came out of my bell, thinking myself unable to learn anything, until my mind slid back to the field.
No one else was playing either.
In fact, up until the transition, I was one of a few who actually played.
A huge closed-fist gesture from Jake halted our marching and silenced our silence. I could hear Mr. Burrell laughing before he turned on the bullhorn.
"I can see this is too much to ask of you on the first day and on the first try," he said. We watched him stand and make his way down to the field. "I thought it was too early to do this, but now it seems like a good idea. Get into set one, guys." Once he stepped on the field he passed through the formation until he reached the line of marchers in the back.
Line by line he pulled groups of instruments to the back end of the field. "This is your show block," he told us once he arranged us how he wanted. "When I say line up or block band at the beginning of class, start of a show, parade, doesn't matter when, this is how I want you. Now, we'll obviously work on how to march onto the field and get into the opening set, but right now we're working on the music. You need to get used to your feet moving while playing."
And that was all it took. Four claps, a command, a roll off, and off we marched, around and around the track. It was even more gruesome than that afternoon. This wasn't a simple B flat scale, whole notes all the way up and down; this was eighth notes, off beats, stings, high notes, really high notes, Gs, As, the works. Eventually I lost track of how many miles we marched.
My embouchure started softening, just as soon as I got a handle on holding my trumpet up, while marching, while playing, changing four years of a certain breathing habit to be able to support a louder, stronger sound. I completely lost control of my lips when I slurred up to an E, a simple E, and my lips folded and I felt the familiar break between the open C and open E, the point where my embouchure needed to change in order to hit the higher notes. The break stopped me. My sound fizzled out my bell and I pulled my lips away from the mouthpiece. I could no longer buzz.
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