"Fredonia High School."
The words are like a spell cast across the field. One moment we're chattering freely, enjoying the rare, perfect weather for the marching festival down in Vin Dickson Stadium. The next, near complete silence has descended on our section. Fiddling with my package of crackers, it takes a moment for the words to sink in. Cee-Cee, however, is fast. Our name leaves the speakers and she's already gasped, grabbing for my hands and wrapping her fingers around mine, bowing her head in a prayer fashion. I mimic immediately, inhaling sharply before letting it out in a slow whoosh of air through my lips. "One," Cee-Cee whispers, finishing the announcement as we'd all like to hear.
Today was the Vin Dickson Marching Band Festival; a Saturday, November, warm in Texas weather. Abnormally, the day was not freezingly chilly like the invitational a month earlier, or blazing hot the year before that. (Our stratosphere liked to throw us curve balls on important band days such as this.) Forty-seven bands had come from near and far in the Texas panhandle to perform and compete in this festival, including us. We were among the last of the middle performers to go, had marched off, grumbled about how many ways it could have gone better, changed out of our uniforms in our crowded buses and threw the bags into the cargo hold thingy below, gotten blessed burgers and drinks to practically inhale from our band boosters, and headed to the stands to watch the rest of the marching bands finish up the festival. For hours, we sat, skiving packaged crackers off of Mr. Riley and Mr. Abbott, threatening to fall asleep where we sat if the proceedings didn't hurry up. At least we weren't in dire need of blankets, shivering half to death as we waited, or shriveling up into band grapes in the windless heat. (Another funny thing, we were notorious for our high winds that could blow for weeks without pause, but my freshman year when we did this there was 102 degree weather and not a breath of wind.) The day was nice, and I alternated between using Cee-Cee's shoulder beside me and Nadine's knee behind me as cushions for my head.
The other bands were good. A few were really bad, a few were just not interesting. Two bands were so big their starting formation covered the entire field. We laughed and watched and commented for the most part, until finally, the final band marched off. "We done?" some of our fellow band members asked, casting around for the answer (and some wiser ones looking to Riley). A good half hour later, and all the remaining bands were gathered in the stands, ready for the scores.
As timely as ever, the announcer came on and explained that the judges had calculated the final scores. They started with the 1A bands (Fredonia was 2A), and there were a good few in the category. We went on chattering, a little quieter now to accommodate the respectful policy on score announcement, waiting for our turn. I'd just stolen Jamal's cracker package to eat for myself, and the Tulip Hornet Band had just finished cheering for their one when our name filled the stadium.
Cee-Cee grabs my hand, I gasp, we pray for a one, you get the gist.
It would be later that I'd realize - had I looked up, I would've seen the other ninety-five of our band members holding their breaths, some with eyes closed and some with bowed heads as well. I would've seen the rest of the bleachers tense. Parents completely still. Mr. Riley's knuckles going white around the railing he held, the only indication that he was nervous. It would be later that I'd realize our wait for our score had been longer than any other band's.
But in the moment, I am too preoccupied with trying to overload the marching band god's prayer box with as many big prayer arrows I can. My heart is racing a mile a minute. The frozen fingers of anticipation, panic and fear have a hold around my rib cage, making breathing as difficult as our uniform jackets in the usual stifling heat. I try not to hope, wanting not to be gravely disappointed with whatever score we could get. We'd done good, but not stellar. It all depended on the judges now.
That terrible moment of suspended expectation, where the sounds and the bodies and the surroundings around you blend into one fuzzy entity that cannot capture your undivided attention; when your focus is so narrowly centered on one thing, time seems to speed by at the slowest pace you can imagine (yes, both, at the same time); the moment when your lungs are struggling for air and you swear you could have suffocated, when your heart is pounding in your ears at a racing speed and you swear you could have gone into cardiac arrest; the moment you look back on and try to define by speed, but can't pick and choose whether it was agonizingly slow or horrendously fast. The terrible moment that isn't quite terrible after all. You know the feeling. All band kids do. That's what grasped all ninety-five of us, what grasped the entire stadium, as we waited. And it was so thick and heavy it might not have been shattered, unfettered by anything at all.
Except it was shattered, when the announcer came back on and gave our score.
;/\/\/
I'm mean :D
First chapter tells the tale of how us band geeks feel right before marching on, and now this one deals with the feelings during the wait. I just couldn't get my mind and my fingers to cooperate on this one :/ I know exactly how it feels (I've been there, of course), but I struggled writing it down in a manner that I liked. So... I just decided to post it. I guess that's my problem, I was too focused on making it perfect that I just got fed up. Oh well.
(Lemme know how I did and if there's anything I can fix!)
Stay tuned for the next chapter; we'll find out what we made :)
Also, if you have any suggestions for me to write about that has to deal with the suspense for a band in marching season, don't be shy and let me know! I'm gonna run out of ideas, and I'd be glad to have help. We've all been here, after all.