Notes From An Accidental Band Geek Read Free Page B

expertise on my instrument—it had nothing to do with music. The commands were silly rules to a goofy game. Ensemble variety? I hated Shining Birches for putting me through this.
    “At ease.” At this command, the upperclassmen relaxed into the disjointed bunch that had been goofing around and laughing with one another.
    “Think the frosh can execute?” Steve asked them.
    “They’d better,” Punk responded. “High brass has a rep to maintain.”
    I caught Jake’s eye. He raised an eyebrow at me. It was a “this can’t be too hard, right?” look. I half shrugged. Standing still was easy. But just because it was easy didn’t mean I wanted to do it. I glanced longingly at my soft case, with my horn snuggled up inside. I was losing precious practice hours— sitting down practice hours, on the right instrument—to do this. I toyed with the idea of just walking away, but contrary to what had happened in the band room, making a scene isn’t my style.
    Steve put us in a line facing the returning members. Jake stood next to me and raised that eyebrow again. In spite of my crabby mood, I smiled.
    “Okay, when I call the command, you move on the next beat—just like it’s a piece of music. Make the move as a tight snap, as a group. Ready?”
    We nodded.
    “Ah-ten- hut !” Steve called.
    I snapped my heels together and stared straight ahead, clutching the mellophone with both hands. The instrument was getting a little heavy. Not as heavy as my horn, but I didn’t walk around or stand with my horn. I peered at Jake out of the corner of one eye.
    “Eyes forward!” Steve snapped. I jumped, and did what he said.
    Steve walked up and down in front of our line, making tsk-tsk noises. “You people need help,” he said. “Fix this,” he said, gesturing to the returning members.
    Punk came up behind me.
    “Your elbows aren’t right,” he said, and adjusted them so I was holding the now even heavier mellophone out from my body. He tweaked my feet, showing me how to position them so my toes pointed out a little, and pushed down on my shoulders.
    “There. Hold that.” He stepped away.
    After a few seconds, my lower back started to ache. Sitting down, playing, I have great posture. But when I stand? Mom’s always correcting me and says that I slouch.
    Steve taught us a few other commands, keeping us at attention between each one. Finally—
    “At ease.” Steve’s voice reached me from the end of the line. I relaxed, muscles aching slightly. Next to me, Jake shook his arms.
    “You’ll build up during the season,” Steve said, joining us. A whistle tweeted in the distance.
    “Almost time for ensemble,” Steve said. “And I expect you to make me proud. Chicken—don’t play. We’ll get you a chart.”
    I gasped. Never in my life had I been told not to play. To fake it. The shock was so overwhelming it overshadowed Steve calling me Chicken.
    “We have to do one more thing before we go,” Steve said. “Frosh, you need to learn the high brass chant. Upperclassmen, please do the honors.”
    A trumpet player stepped forward to start them off:
    “One-two-three-four!
    High brass makes you beg for more!
    Screaming Hellcats in your face!
    Blowin’ the roof off this place ! ”
    Then came a series of grunts, some cheering, and everyone waving their horns. Still stung from the admonishment not to play, I barely paid attention.
    “Get to ensemble! Run!” shouted Steve.
    Did I mention I only run if chased?

4
    Ensemble was just as torturous. For some reason—you’d think I would have figured it out by now—I expected to see chairs set up for practice.
    Uh, no.
    At least one hundred of us stood, in yet another arc, on the football field. The drummers were behind the instrumentalists, and in front, at the edge of the field, was the “pit” Sarah had mentioned when we were sitting in the band room: two xylophones, a pair of timpani drums, and some other percussion that I didn’t recognize. Off to the side, on