Notes From An Accidental Band Geek (12 page)

“You’re being disrespectful to
me
! ” I wailed. Today had been a crazy roller coaster of emotions and I was stretched as thin as a drumhead. Much to my chagrin, tears burst through and I started crying. I couldn’t help it.

“See? You’re tired. You need to go home. It’s only a marching band competition,” he said.

I gasped, heart in my mouth.

“Let’s go,” he said, as though he didn’t see how hurt I was.

“I am not tired!” I said through my tears. “I’m just—just—”

Just fed up with how you treat me.

Just wishing you would see me as a player ready for Shining Birches.

Just wondering how I ever thought we were so alike.

Just wondering why I ever wanted to be like you.

But I couldn’t bring myself to say any of that. I don’t even think I had the right words.

“Honey, let’s go.” My mom’s quiet voice cut through my fury like a hot knife through butter. All of my anger melted away, a puddle of disappointment left behind.

“Yeah, sure.”

“We’ll discuss your behavior at home, young lady,” my father said with one last stern look. They turned and started walking to the car.

I just stood there for a few seconds, allowing them to put some distance between us. Why was Steve driving me home from school such a big deal? Why did Dad act like this ensemble, and its achievements, didn’t matter or weren’t worth celebrating? Sure, it was a marching band—not Shining Birches or the BSO—but we’d just put on a kickin’ show!

Reluctantly, dragging my feet, I followed them through the parking lot maze. What if I didn’t go with my parents? What if I veered off, ran around and ducked into one of the buses to hide . . . until Mom and Dad realized I was missing and started thinking I’d been kidnapped. Then they’d tear the whole competition area apart. That’d be not so awesome.

All of this was my father’s fault. But, seriously, what had caused him to act all freaky and why hadn’t my mom stood up for me? I was so preoccupied with my thoughts, I stopped paying attention to my parents. When I glanced up, I couldn’t spot them at all. Maybe they’d reconsidered and left me behind? Although highly unlikely, the thought made me grin.

Then, from right in front of me, Dad’s long frame appeared.

“Elsie! There you are! I thought we lost you!”

His comment snapped me back from my daydream-y moment, and I instantly filled with humiliation-stoked rage.

“Of course you didn’t lose me,” I snapped. “Where am I going to go? Hang out with my friends? Not like I’ll have any after this.”

His hands, extended to take my hatbox and mellophone case, clenched into fists and he stuffed them in his pockets. Fine. I would carry my own stuff, no problem. I saw him take a deep breath and let it out slowly as he turned.

I purposely kept slightly behind him as we walked.

Okay, I didn’t walk. I stomped.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately, young lady,” he said through clenched teeth. We reached the car. Mom leaned against its side, waiting. She arched an eyebrow when she saw us, but she didn’t say anything.

“What’s gotten into
me
?” I cried as I tossed my mellophone case and hatbox into the trunk. “You just completely embarrassed me for no reason.
That’s
what’s gotten into me!”

I thumped into the backseat and pressed my body into the corner against the window.

“We didn’t intend to embarrass you, honey,” Mom said. “Your father and I thought that this would just be a simpler solution than having you ride the bus and then getting you at school.”

“Oh come on!” Her mild tone just made me more frustrated. “No one else gets taken home by their parents. We celebrate on the bus! You also said it was too dangerous for me to ride home with Steve. I heard you!” I squeezed the edge of the seat.

“You can celebrate your achievement on Monday,” Dad replied, sounding just as aggravating. “And, if I remember correctly, we had a conversation on the first day of school about rules, Elsie, and you have flagrantly violated them. Plus you were incredibly rude to me in front of those parents.”

I leaned forward, between them. “Steve is my section leader—that’s it!—and you know it. And I wouldn’t have been rude if you hadn’t said that stuff about me in the first place.” How had this happened? It was supposed to be my night to shine, and instead I was fighting tears, dragged home like a naughty toddler.

“We’re just watching out for you, Elsie,” Mom said. “I understand that you’re upset, but you have to put yourselves in our shoes too. It’s been a long day for
everyone
.” She gave my dad her “I disapprove of your behavior” face: raised eyebrows and a frown. We rode the rest of the way in silence, my anger glowing like hot coals, and when we got home I marched into the kitchen and turned to my parents.

“Despite what you think, I am
not
a child! Stop treating me like a baby ! ” Unable to control my tears, I raced up to my room and slammed the door.

Real mature, huh?

19

I sulked over the competition for about a week. We’d be in the middle of recapping the show and the awards ceremony when Hector or Sarah or Jake would mention something about what happened on the bus after—how Punk had led the group in a hilarious song, or how AJ had given this great post-competition speech—and this stabbing pain would attack my heart. I’d get quiet or walk away.

At home, my parents decided that my “explosive, disrespectful behavior” the night of the competition earned me limited computer time and no phone calls for a week. Some punishment—I practiced so much I barely had time for either. But the whole situation made me even more angry with my dad. He didn’t see value in marching band. He didn’t think I could get in to Shining Birches. He didn’t think I could handle anything. He didn’t believe in me.

I’d show him. I’d knock his socks off.

I started practicing like a fiend; any time that I wasn’t at school, doing homework, or rehearsing for marching band, my French horn was at my lips. My private teacher, Mr. Rinaldi, was impressed with my progress, but really harped on me to keep to a rigorous practice schedule. Since my dad kept odd hours, there were plenty of opportunities for practicing at home when he was also around—and I didn’t want that. So I had to plan my time carefully. All that work felt good. Sure, I didn’t have time to hang out with Jake or Steve or Hector and Sarah that much, but it was worth it. Or it would be. Sometimes being great means being lonely, I guess.

But spending so much time alone with my horn wasn’t as easy as it had been last year. I still loved playing, loved how I felt when the music flowed from the bell, but I was also aware of what I was missing—Sarah’s fashion babble, Hector’s goofy movie score questions, and Jake’s . . . well . . .
Jakeness
.

And, oh, yeah, then there was that little issue of telling my parents about the dance. With my “restrictions” still in place, I hadn’t wanted to mention anything about it, just in case they decided that removing the one social opportunity I had all semester would be a better punishment.

But the date was getting too close to put off the conversation any more, and one night after dinner I went for it.

“So,” I began, “HeHe High has an annual, uh, dance for Halloween. And I am planning to go with Sarah and . . . a few other band people,” I finished lamely, realizing that announcing I’d be attending with Jake and Hector wouldn’t win me any points. Let my parents figure that part out for themselves.

“When?” Mom asked. I told her the date, and she shook her head.

“Elsie, your father has a BSO performance that night. I was hoping we could all go as a family. We haven’t been this season because your schedule has been so busy.”

“We’re playing Tchaik
V
,” Dad added.

As much as I loved Tchaikovsky’s Fifth Symphony, I had made a promise to my friends—who I hadn’t seen in forever. And since the post-band competition blowup, I wanted nothing to do with my parents.

“I can’t,” I said.

“You need to communicate better, Elsie,” my mom snapped, losing her patience with me. Her back was against the stove, I was seated at the table, Dad leaning in the doorway.

“Well, so do you,” I retorted. “I’m in high school, remember ? There’s more to my life now than concerts and rehearsals!”

“We understand that,” my dad said, trying a softer approach, “but
you
have to understand that there’s more to this than scheduling. We won’t be home to pick you up or drop you off. And we don’t like you staying home alone.”

Still fuming, I considered what he said. “I can get a ride with someone else’s parents,” I said, not sure if I could, but knowing it was the only way to go to the dance. “You can drop me off at Sarah’s on the way and I can get ready there. Her mom will drive me. And the dance gets out after the concert, anyway, so you could pick me up on your way back.”

Mom and Dad shot looks at each other, exchanging telepathic parental signals.

“I’d have to speak with Sarah’s mother,” Mom said.

That was the cue that I’d won.

I nodded, suppressing a smile. “Of course.”

Dad scowled. “Along with missing Tchaikovsky, you’ll miss the chance to meet Richard Dinglesby.”

My heart tugged. Richard Dinglesby was the director of Shining Birches.

But what about the promise I made to my friends? I reminded myself. Our costume worked as a team, and I’d be letting them down if I went to the performance. Plus, the Shining Birches auditions were blind. Richard Dinglesby would have no idea whether or not we’d met when I was sitting behind a screen, playing my horn.

And, I realized, I kind of
wanted
to go to the dance. Like it was a reward for the extra-hard work I’d been putting in lately.

“Dad, this is important to me too,” I said.

The look on his face said: “Really? A dance is important ?”

My insides churned, but I wanted to stand my ground. I’d originally decided to go to the dance because it would upset my dad. I just hadn’t realized how much that would upset me.

20

That Saturday, before my private lesson, Mom brought me to Sarah’s house to work on our costumes. Before getting out of the car, she gave me a peck on the cheek. I was a little nervous about hanging out with Sarah outside of school, so I didn’t open the door right away. Instead, I fiddled with the straps on my book bag.

“You’ll be back to bring me to Mr. Rinaldi’s ?” I asked, searching for a reason to prolong the drop-off.

“Of course. As it is, I don’t like leaving you at someone’s house that we’ve never met.”

I didn’t know it was possible to feel both nervous and annoyed at the same time, but there you go. I was.

“Mom, seriously, I
did
go to junior high with her. If her family are ax murderers, I think we’d know.” I tried to keep my voice light. “Just be here at three, okay? If I’m not out, the police can start searching for my body.” Without waiting for her to respond, I opened the door and slipped from the car, nerves gone. I gave her a big cheesy smile and wave before turning to go up the steps. So annoying!

Of course, that’s when the anxiety kicked back in. I’d never been to Sarah’s house before, let alone hung out with boys—I’d strategically left their presence out when telling Mom that we’d be doing costume prep—and what if her parents
were
ax murderers?

Before I could worry about it too much, the front door opened. Sarah stood there, Hector peering over one shoulder, Jake—all floppy hair and warm smile—over the other.

“It’s about time!” she said. “Hector’s been pestering us with another music question.”

The three of them moved aside to let me in.

“My dad was watching this war movie from the seventies, and there’s a scene with helicopters—”

I cut him off. “And the background music goes ba-da-da daa-daa, ba-da-da daa-daa, ba-ba-da-da-da . . . right?”

Hector’s eyes widened. “How’d you know?”

“It’s Wagner. ‘Ride of the Valkyries.’ It’s one of the best horn pieces ever written. The Pops played it.”

“Someday he’s going to stump you,” Jake said.

“Not if the Pops has ever played it.” I grinned at him.

Sarah’s house was different from mine—it was about three times as big and looked brand-new. She led us into the kitchen, where a marble island was covered in snack options: soda, cookies, chips, and popcorn.

“Mom left this stuff out for us,” she said, scooping a bowl of popcorn up in her arms. “She’s upstairs, painting a piece of furniture or something. She’s on a decorating kick.” The boys stuck bottles of soda in their pockets and grabbed a small mountain of cookies while I pretended that this was normal for me too.

Sarah’s family room had big, soft, cream-colored couches and an oversized TV hanging from the wall. Art supplies were scattered across a large square coffee table, fluffy throw pillows scattered around it on the floor. Sarah sat on one.