Notes From An Accidental Band Geek Read Free Page A

“Yo, Shaka—run in and get a lead pipe adaptor for her horn so we can get going, okay?”
    The trumpet player rolled his eyes.
    “Steve, c’mon—we’re all the way across the parking lot. Let the chicken get it herself.”
    “Five laps if you don’t go now,” Steve barked. Shaka handed his trumpet to the kid next to him and went.
    I took my place at the end of the line and waited for his return, heart sinking. Next to me, Punk smirked.
    Chicken .
    Great.

3
    That first rehearsal? Easily the worst one in my entire life. Even though my section leader, Steve, and the other mellophone players tried to help, the fingerings for every note were different from those on my horn—and I was playing with my opposite hand. So even though I could blow into it once I had the mouthpiece adapter (and make a pretty kickin’ sound, I might add), actually playing ? Forget it.
    “You’re going to have to write the fingerings under the notes in your music until you get the hang of it,” Steve told me. “We all play horn and mellophone too—except for Punk—so you’ll learn.” Of course Punk only played mellophone. Weirdo.
    I’d never felt so frustrated behind a musical instrument before. Actually, forget frustration, this was downright betrayal! My confidence, my talent, my musicality, my me-ness , all of it deserted me. Even a simple scale was next to impossible—I’d gak every note or get it flat-out wrong. Punk tried to help, whispering the valve numbers to me before we hit each note: “One, three.” “Two, three.” “Open.” But even with that, I’d first try to do the fingering with my left hand, realize I was holding the valves with my right, depress them, and then we’d be on to the next step in the scale.
    And so on. Pain City.
    How was this torture ever going to help me get into Shining Birches? My aggravation level was sky high.
    “Well,” Steve said when we were done, “looks like you’re going to need a fingering chart.”
    “Right, genius,” I muttered, rolling the tension out of my shoulders.
    Who was this craptastic player? I felt like a stranger in my own skin. I’d get through today, then go home and quit. There had to be some other wind orchestra in the greater Boston area that had a practice schedule that would work for me. No way was I coming back here tomorrow.
    “Let’s run through a few basic commands before ensemble. I want high brass to be the example for the rest of the band. Freshmen, step out and watch the returning members.”
    I had no idea what he meant by commands, but I did what he said. At least it didn’t involve playing. Jake and I stood next to each other. He gave me a sympathetic smile. I scowled.
    “High brass, ah-ten- hut !” Steve yelled. I jumped.
    So did the upperclassmen. All of a sudden, they went from standing slouched and loose, horns dangling in one hand, relaxed, to a military-straight brigade. Each of them stood with their shoulders back, chin up, horns slightly away from their bodies, shiny bells pointed at the ground, mouthpieces just below chin height, both hands on the instrument.
    “Notice their feet,” Steve said. He stepped away from his post at the center of the arc and gestured at Shaka. “Toes forty-five degrees apart, heels together. Knees slightly bent. Not locked. Never lock your knees. And nothing will break their gaze.” All of the brass players stared straight ahead, barely blinking. Steve stepped forward and threw a fake punch at Punk’s face. Punk didn’t even flinch.
    Steve explained that this was the command used to bring the band together, to focus and start marching. We’d better get used to it, he said, because we’d be standing at attention a lot. “And it’ll cost us points in competition if you break form.”
    “Since when is making music about earning points?” I grumbled softly, still knotted inside from my failed attempt at the mellophone. This had nothing to do with the hours of practice I’d put in to achieve