Chapter 1

August 12

Marching band practice started this week and I’m officially in High School even though classes haven’t started yet. Monday and Tuesday, they had the freshmen and the new people off as a group while they taught us to march. It felt a little awkward at first. The mellophone (a marching version of the French Horn) was strange to me because, while it’s basically the same as a French Horn, it’s held more like a trumpet. Then there was the whole issue of marching and playing at the same time. I wasn’t the only one having trouble and the drill leaders for all our sections were nice about it while we learned. And we DID learn. Eventually.

After that, the whole band was together, trying to learn the formations and the music. The band director, Mr. J. as we call him, is a perfectionist and he keeps going over parts that we aren’t getting right. I’m dying out there. It’s a hundred degrees and I’ve been hauling this heavy mellophone around, trying to read my music with sweat in my eyes while trying to remember which way I’m supposed walking — forward, back or sideways. I must be doing OK, though. Mr. J. only yelled at our section twice this week, and only called my name out once.

The Euphoniums, though, seem dead set on screwing around. I knew all their names by the end of the third day because Mr. J. yelled at all of them one time or another.

I noticed something a little strange on that first Monday morning of Band Camp. After my dad checked me in, he stayed and helped Mrs. Kowalski, the booster club president. That part isn’t unusual in itself. My dad runs his own business from home and he must have had the time to be helpful. He’s just that way. He’s a nice guy.

What caught my attention was that Dad was still there talking to Mrs. Kowalski when we took our first water break. They were still there when we took our second water break. In fact, it was nearly lunchtime before Dad went home. I may only be 14, and I may not have had too much luck with the girls, but I know flirting when I see it. My dad and Mrs. K. were seriously flirting. It was like Ring Lardner wrote (hey, I’m a nerdy kid. I read a LOT.) “He gave her a look you could have poured on a waffle.” She was looking at him like she’d enjoy being that waffle.

I’ll have to watch that pair and see what happens.

August 19

It’s the second week of band camp. Mr. J added one more element to the band: The Pit. That’s a sideline percussion ensemble with xylophones and tympani and a bunch of other sometimes weird-looking percussion stuff I don’t know the names for. They’d actually been here all along, practicing on the stage in the auditorium while the rest of us were out on the field. The players in The Pit are either percussionists who didn’t join the drum line or kids who play double reed instruments. Apparently, nobody marches with oboes or bassoons. They had a lot of stuff to move on and off the practice field, and Mr. J. encouraged us all to Pitch in. Most of the kids didn’t, of course, and I wasn’t really in the mood to move heavy equipment myself. I packed up my mellophone and started trudging back to the band room with it.

When I got to the bottom of the ramp that leads off the practice field, there was a girl about halfway up it trying to move a cart with two kettle drums [tympani] on it. The cart must have been heavy because she was really struggling with it. She pulled hard, then her feet slipped and she landed on her butt. She let go of the handle and the cart started to roll back down the ramp. I hollered at the kids below to get out of the way, tossed my horn case off to the side and tried to wrestle the cart to a stop. A couple of other kids helped me get it under control without it hitting anything or anyone. I noticed that the girl was still sitting there where she’d slipped and that she was crying. I went over to her.