Notes From An Accidental Band Geek Read Free

my horn—and that’s the way I like it. Sitting around, gossiping about boys, checking out nail polish colors . . . all the stuff that the girls in my junior high did just didn’t interest me. Any time I spent with other kids was time away from my horn—and someone else, somewhere else, was using that time to get better than me.
    “Of course,” Jake answered for all of us, sealing our little group.
    It’s funny, but after we established that, I relaxed. Even though I didn’t intend on hanging out with anyone, it was nice to know that I could if I wanted. By the time we graduated junior high, I think most of the kids in my grade kind of forgot I existed unless I was holding my horn.
    The whole time we were talking, other kids were checking in and the returning students’ conversations buzzed in the background.
    A sharp whistle sounded over the din.
    “Report to sectionals!” the guy who started the whole clucking fiasco called. “Section leaders, take your groups for warm-ups. Ensemble begins in forty minutes!”
    We stood, papers rustling and hatboxes bumping our knees (I double-checked the latch on mine).
    “High brass!” a guy with a mess of dreadlocks pulled back in a ponytail shouted from the opposite corner of the room. “Outside!”
    Five freshmen, including Jake and me, were in the section. All of them carried trumpet cases. Also present? Punk. He carried a horn. Excuse me, a mellophone . Maybe I could finally get some answers about this stupid instrument.
    Our section leader guided us across the roasting blacktop.
    “Excuse me, Steve?” I left Jake and walked at the section leader’s elbow, juggling all of my marching gear.
    “Hey,” he said.
    “I play the French horn,” I explained patiently. “And I’m quite good at it. Why was I assigned a mellophone?”
    Steve cocked his head and grinned at me the way some people grin at small children or tiny dogs—all indulgent and patronizing. “Because French horn bells face the wrong way when you’re marching—so all your sound would be lost—and are awkward to carry. Mellos are loud. Think of them as the horn’s close cousin.” We stopped at the far end of the school parking lot, under the shade of a large oak tree.
    “But—” I tried.
    “Just try it out,” he said to me. Then, to the rest of the group, “Semicircle up, people. Trumpets to my right, mellos on the left.” Frustrated, I dropped my stuff at the foot of the tree with the other freshmen, and opened the mysterious mellophone case.
    Instead of the graceful curves of my French horn, what I saw was a trumpet on steroids: a dinged and dull forward-facing bell, trumpet-like valves that I’d need to play with my right hand, not left, and a lead pipe that would quite obviously not fit my horn mouthpiece. A “close cousin”? Try ugly cousin.
    Well, that did it. I couldn’t be in marching band. Forget Shining Birches’ “ensemble diversity”—this would be career-ending musical suicide.
    “Sorry,” I said. “But I can’t play this instrument.” I gestured with it.
    “What do you mean?” Steve came over. Everyone else just stared at me.
    “Um, I just can’t,” I said. “My mouthpiece won’t work.”
    Now, if you know anything about brass instruments, you know that a player’s mouthpiece is nearly part of their body. I can play any horn that you hand to me, as long as I have my own mouthpiece. And I could probably adjust to this crazy steroid-trumpet-mellophone, even playing right-handed, if I had my own mouthpiece. But having to change the shape of my face—my embouchure—to blow into a new instrument? No way. It’d be like learning all over again. And, scarily, it might mess up the sound I get from my own instrument. Kiss Shining Birches and a life of travel good-bye.
    “You need an adaptor,” the section leader said. “Didn’t they give you one at check-in?” I shook my head. Steve rolled his eyes. “Of course not.” Then, to one of the trumpet players,