I step into a hallway filled with people: skinny, short freshmen with parents asking a million questions; seniors twirling their cars keys around their fingers, tapping their feet impatiently, just wanting to get their stuff and get out. Dad leafed through the schedule and handbook, occasionally marking it. We haven't been in line very long when we get into the band room. At the far end of the room, four long racks of uniforms sit behind a couple of long tables where several Uniform Moms are fitting and signing out uniforms to kids. Against the back wall, beneath a large plywood banner painted to resemble Van Gogh's Starry Night, two boys in band shirts sign out shakos. Directly in front of us, behind a table sits who I assume are the band directors-a very thin, very tan guy in a Chelsea jersey and a large man in a sweater vest. They are collecting paperwork and handing out school-issued instruments to those in need of them.

"So you're the famous Myka Patterson," Chelsea Jersey Man says to me. "I'm Mr. Bradfield, head band director, and this," he turned to the larger man, "is our assistant director, Mr. Pakowski. Welcome to Oakville Band."

I smile, "Thanks very much."

"You can go pick up your hat and your uniform over yonder," Kowalksi directs me as he sets my mellophone upon the table.

Dad stays to ask them a few questions as I sneak over to the table where the boys are assigning shakos.

"Do you know what size you are?" the dark haired kid asks. "Or are you new?"

I narrow my eyes at him. "Medium."

Behind the table, the other boy stands up and sets a hatbox on the table. He looks up from the papers at me and says, "Myka."

"Chase," I acknowledge him.

The dark haired kid looks back and forth between us, confused, before shaking his head and giving up. Chase writes down my initials on a sticker and sticks it on the inside of the hat, then carefully writes my name on the box label. As he writes he says, "Oh, this is Tyler, by the way. Another one of our Drum Majors. Kylie is our third, but she's out of town."

I nod, "Sweet. Thanks."

"Um...so..." he begins, running a hand through his hair.

"Yeah?" I ask. Tyler busies himself by helping a freshman find the right size.

"Need any more help moving in?" He smiles awkwardly.

I laugh, "Sure. Stop by whenever. We'll probably be there."

"Okay, awesome." A bright smile spreads across his face. "I'll see you then."

I nod and turn to go, heat spreading across my cheeks as I hear Tyler whisper, "Dude, you like her."

"Shut up, man," Chase laughs and punches him in the shoulder.

A Uniform Mom asks me how tall I am, so I tell her. While she is pulling a few uniforms for me to try on, Dad catches up to me. "This is hardcore," he states simply.

I look at him inquisitively and nod once. The UM comes back. I slip my shoes off and pull the bibs up over my shorts. They're a little long and the waist falls wrong, so the UM shortens the straps. "How do those feel?" she asks.

"Now they're perfect," I observe, noticing the huge difference that the tiny adjustment made. "Is the hem okay?"

"The hem is fine. Try this jacket."

I slip my arms into the sleeves and turn for her to zip it for me. The collar was loose enough and the sleeves were fine. "Yeah, it's great." I throw my arms up and move around a little, making sure I can move in it. It fits like a glove. The Uniform Mom signs it out to me as I take it off and slip it into a garment bag. I sign the ledger, and Dad and I are on our way.