Confessions of a Teenage Band Geek Page 2

  There are two pictures on the page that stand out. One is of my future spouse, who looks downright intense playing the snare drum. The image is a beautiful color picture that captures his intense blue eyes perfectly. The other is of Glaring Girl, who looks equally involved playing some mallet instrument. Under her picture reads the caption, “Sophomore Laurel O’Neil plays the marimba.”

  Laurel. Hmm, somehow I expected her to have a name like Ruth or Peggy.

  My concentration is interrupted when the bell rings loudly. It is time for me to face the music!

  * * *

  CHAPTER TWO: Crabstepping 101

  Walking through the crowded halls, suddenly I am nervous, which is really weird considering this is usually the last emotion I ever feel on the subject of drumming. Of course, McDaniel might have something to do with my current state of emotion.

  Back in the band room, I wonder if His Royal Cuteness is even going to show. Maybe this scenario is all some elaborate prank they play on unsuspecting new kids. Suddenly, McDaniel appears in front of me and he’s not alone. There’s another cutie with him and they have a really weird looking drum with them. Actually, they have two identical weird looking drums. Peering closer, I see it’s got four, no, five, parts to it and is vaguely reminiscent of the tenor drums you would find on a drum set.

  Flashing me a brilliant smile, McDaniel says, “Julia, I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Me too,” I say purely for his benefit.

  He continues, “This is the quint lieutenant, Denny.”

  We shake hands. Denny’s hand dwarfs my own.

  And suddenly I’m confused. Asking nicely, I question, “I thought you said there was an open spot on tenors?”

  Denny looks at McDaniel and there is a slightly tense moment, but Denny sidesteps the question and answers, “‘Quint’ is slang for tenors.”

  “Okay, cool.” This response still does not clarify whether or not this meeting is actually an audition.

  Denny kneels down in front of the tenors, uh, quints, and motions for me to sit next to him. A ‘please’ would’ve been nice, but I lower myself to my knees. Before actually thinking through the following statement, I see the littlest tenor and blurt out, “Look at this cute wee drum!”

  I’ve been infatuated with drums for a long time, but I’ve never seen anything so cute as the tiny little tenor.

  Denny puts a hand to the bridge of his nose and under his breath I hear something vaguely like oh my God… but instead of responding to my random comment, he hands me a pair of mallet looking things and instructs, “Just do what I do.”

  The mallets feel weird in my hands, but strangely familiar. Denny starts slowly going through motions and plays a series of rudiments on different drumheads. Given their varying sizes and tuning, they make cool sounds together.

  “Your turn.”

  Instead of being intimidated by his notes, I remember I have the same skills and just need to put them together. Nodding, I repeat back exactly what he has just played. I know my rudiments and I definitely am not going to let some new guy show me up. In a quick attempt to impress McDaniel, at the end of the lick, I add on a little flourish I feel would make the part better.

  Finished, I see McDaniel and Denny staring at me as if I’m from another planet. I cross my arms and say, “Dudes, seriously, what’s up with the weird looks? You both know I played the part perfect.”

  Denny asks incredulously, “You’ve never played tenors before?”

  I shake my head dramatically, hoping McDaniel will appreciate my champagne blonde highlights.

  McDaniel looks at Denny and asks, “So, what do you think?”

  “She’s never marched.”

  “Anyone can learn how to march!”

  Atta boy, fight for your girlfriend!

  “For our Line and with our drill?”

  Uh, Denny? Whoever you are, couldn’t you at least give me a chance? Having enough of this talking like I’m not even around thing, I finally wave my hands and say, “Hello! I’m right here, why don’t you just ask me?”

  Even through I’m still not one hundred percent sure I even want to become a member of the Westlake marching band, I do want a fair chance. Sure, if all the guys look like Denny and McDaniel, then I’ll endure any amount of carrying heavy drums around, but if there’s going to be all this back talk and questioning of talent, then forget it. I can go back to playing my drum set on my own, thank you.

  McDaniel finally says, “Let’s take the tenors out to the parking lot and see if you can do a repeat performance while marching basic drill.”

  Denny and McDaniel go into the percussion room and grab a bizarre metal contraption. Denny lifts it over his head and I give him a strange look, to which he responds like I’m a five year old, “Carr-i-er.”

  I roll my eyes, but turn around and smile sweetly at McDaniel who is suddenly very close to me with a carrier all my own. He settles it over my head and my heart beats faster. Who knew today was going to turn out like this?

  “How does it feel?”

  Hum-uh-nuh. I’ll tell you how it feels! Is he naturally like this or is he actually flirting with me?

  I realize they are both looking for a response. Oops. I manage to respond, “Actually, for such a scary looking device, it isn’t cutting into me or anything.”

  Denny rolls his eyes and makes a move to the door, and McDaniel hefts the set of drums up on his shoulder, giving me an eyeful of his delicious biceps.

  I feel like a dork walking through the halls with nothing but a carrier on, but whatever. After a series of complicated turns and stairs, we finally get outside the school. I look over at McDaniel, who hasn’t broken a sweat while carrying the drums and figure, how heavy can they be? Then McDaniel heaves the quints off his incredibly broad shoulders and attaches them to my carrier. Not prepared for the shift in weight, I come very close to falling over on top of my crush. I paste a smile on my face and take a few unsteady steps. These things are heavy. I look down and see my legs and heels have been replaced by metal and plastic. Denny is watching my face, so I try not to show any strain, even though it feels like these drums easily weigh more than I do.

  Denny looks at me and asks cockily, “Not so easy, is it?”

  I straighten my shoulders, stand up and tell him with a ballsy voice all my own, “Not that you’re standing in two inch heels, buddy, but whatever, I can handle it.”

  Denny pulls his quints and they flip up, which looks infinitely more comfortable than the way they are on me. I do the same thing and behold, my legs reappear and there is some instant relief for my back.

  McDaniel places both quints back in the ‘ready’ position and lines up in front of us, “Okay, crash course in marching. For now, you need to know heel-ball-toe. Roll your feet as you walk. Think military precision and hitting your left foot on the ground while I tap out notes.”

  The instructions don’t sound that difficult. And, given my heels, I try my best. I’m so proud of myself as I’m walking – marching along to the quarter notes McDaniel taps out on Denny’s tenors.

  Denny, clearly unimpressed, says, “Okay, this kind of marching is great for parades and all, but on the field or the court the tenors have to move. Let’s try crabstepping.”

  I suddenly envision crab soccer from elementary school and wonder how it’s possible to march in that position.

  On my obvious confusion, Denny replies authoritatively, “Let me demonstrate. Crabstep, hut!”

  He then proceeds to side step a perfect horizontal line across the parking lot. He is gliding along so expertly, I barely notice as he seamlessly starts playing.

  McDaniel looks at me, and asks, “Think you can do that?”

  I step out confidently (or at least what appears confidently, since inside I am freaking out!) and start side-stepping, I mean, crab stepping. Feeling comfortable with the motion, I start playing, and I’m doing an okay job when one of my flirty heels suddenly decides to break. I trip over something I can�
�t see and pitch violently forward, drums and all. There is a truly horrible sound of metal meeting asphalt. There is suddenly a lot of pain coming from both my elbow and my knee. My shoes have somehow migrated across the pavement.

  Denny and McDaniel are both at my side in a matter of seconds. I’m trying my best not to cry, but tears of frustration form in the corners of my eyes. Looking down, we discover I’m kind of bleeding everywhere, which is so not the impression I wanted to make today.

  Suddenly, Denny goes all ER and starts managing the crisis. He scoops me up bridal style, gathers my shoes and tells McDaniel, “Bring the quints in. I’m going to get Julia taken care of, stat.”

  Okay, he didn’t really say ‘stat,’ but suddenly this is my ER fantasy, so whatever.

  As Denny rushes me down the hall, I get a good look at him. He’s got thick dark hair which he wears spiked up. I suddenly realize he’s got different colored eyes. How did I not notice that before? There is one brown and one blue. I wiggle my foot and realize I am entirely capable of walking, but, cooped up in Denny’s arms, I don’t really feel like sharing this information.

  “How are you feeling?” Denny’s voice rumbles in his chest.

  I try my best to sound weak and pitiful, “I’ve been better.”

  As we still have quite a distance to go, I try for small talk, asking the first question on my mind, “Do you think the quints are going to be okay?”

  And then cringe as I realize I’ve asked the single dumbest question ever. Why am I bringing up damaged instruments in front of the section leader? I’m extraordinarily surprised when Denny doesn’t dump me in the middle of the hallway. Instead he laughs and says, “Aaron took a spill with them last year and they survived. Plus, you’re a lot closer to the ground than he is.”

  I cross my arms grumpily and say, “Thanks a lot.”

  Denny shrugs, which brings me closer to his broad chest and says, “It’s a statement of fact. Don’t get mad about it.”

  Finally, we’re back in the band room, which is deserted. If it wasn’t for the fact I had just bled all over him, I might even consider this moment with Denny a semi-romantic one. I’m thinking he might also be thinking this, but then completely doubt myself. After all, wasn’t he just yelling at me?

  “Let me get the first aid kit.”

  He gently sits me down, and gets out the antiseptic. As he starts pulling some other medicine and bandages out, I am struck by how even though my favorite pair of jeans now have a giant hole (as well as blood and pavement) in them, that fact really isn’t bothering me too much.

  “This might hurt a little. You’re going to have to be brave.”

  Even though he’s talking to me like I’m a five-year old, I don’t mind. Truth be told, I have tried to be brave, but the sting of the cotton ball soaked with hydrogen peroxide is too much. I let out a stream of expletives that would do a sailor proud. The threatening tears from the parking lot tumble over, smudging my mascara and creating an even more disturbing image. I count myself lucky there is not a mirror in this room.

  Denny looks at me and starts laughing hysterically. This is how McDaniel finds us. Mr. Captain of the drumline looks irritated, which completely diminishes his original hotness. Then again, if I was forced to carry two really heavy instruments, I might not be the world’s nicest person either. Denny turns around and sees the look on his Captain’s face and stops laughing. I feel weirdly caught between them.

  McDaniel, muscles rippling, puts down the quints and asks, “So, is she in?”

  I’m really wondering why my future spouse doesn’t care more about my current situation, but whatever. Both McDaniel and I look at Denny, who is considering the question. He takes a deep breath and answers, “Unless Wade says otherwise, she’ll do. Quint 4.”

  From his tone of voice, I get this scenario has probably never happened before. I reply stoically, “I won’t let you down.”

  The weird thing is, I really mean it. Even though this instrument has injured me – for the eight seconds I was playing, I absolutely loved the experience!

  The strange tension is broken when a girl joins us. She’s wearing a cute skirt and tank top which I have admired at Anthropologie. I’m thinking, cool, potential new friend who I can borrow clothes from, when she goes and latches onto McDaniel’s arm.

  * * *

  CHAPTER THREE: Atypical Situations

  I don’t like this girl standing in front of us. Although, I have to give her some credit, Anthropolgie Skirt Girl is obviously no dummy. She’s quickly picked up on the fact I am completely crushing on her boyfriend. ASG squints her eyes coldly at me and I resist the urge to stick out my tongue at her.

  Denny seems to have also figured out the mood in the room has changed as well. In a transformation worthy of a superhero, he morphs from cute and flirty to growly and stern.

  “Who’s this?” My arch-enemy asks.

  Suddenly I see how she’s viewing me. Realizing I’m kind of a pitiful mess on the floor, this is probably the worst first impression I will ever give someone. There is absolutely nothing intimidating about me, nor anything that says I am even a remote threat to her relationship with McDaniel. I’m just some gross new girl bleeding all over the floor of the band room.

  McDaniel answers her question, “Let me have the honor of introducing the newest member of the Westlake drumline, Julia McCoy.”

  “I thought auditions were weeks ago,” ASG challenges.

  McDreamy, I mean McDaniel, responds, “Only three quints were quality enough at tryouts, so technically we had another spot.”

  At this point I feel like I should probably add to the conversation, rather than sit helplessly on the ground. I ask bluntly, “And who are you?”

  “I am Kimberly.” She says it with such authority I wonder if I’m supposed to know or care who or what a ‘Kimberly’ is.

  Apparently, this is obvious on my face because Denny provides the missing details, “Kimberly is one of our drum majors.”

  Drum major? Does that put her in charge of our section? I thought McDaniel was our captain. I’m confused.

  Denny sighs deeply and begins speaking in his Julia-is-a-five-year-old tone, “The drum major is one of the people who leads the entire marching band. She’s like a conductor.”

  Well, this drum set playing gal has never had to watch a conductor, band director, or orchestra leader. Behind my drums I set my own tempos. Plus, does this Kimberly even play an instrument? What right does she have to go around conducting everyone? Who made her Queen of the Band?

  I guess everyone at Westlake can read my mind, because Kimberly adds, “I’m also first chair trumpet during the concert season.”

  All the things these people are saying make no sense. What is a first chair? What is the concert season? How does everyone know about this stuff and I have no clue?

  I guess McDaniel decides we’ve all had enough of each other for now and announces, “Julia, you’ll obviously need to go over the fundamentals of marching before we start sectionals. I will expect Denny and you to work out some sort of practice schedule.”

  The wheels in my head come crashing to a halt and I begin to realize I may be in over my head. I pictured this summer filled with lazy days by the pool flirting with cute lifeguards, maybe a fun summer job, and definitely finding a new band. I guess I thought wrong. These guys mean business.

  Denny looks at me and asks, “How about tomorrow afternoon?”

  I mutter sarcastically, “I’ll have to check my busy social schedule, you know, since I moved here 8 seconds ago.”

  Denny, McDaniel, and Kimberly share a look that basically says, ‘this girl is going to be trouble and I hope we don’t regret this decision.’ Whatever. I’m okay with who I am, and I’m not about to start apologizing. I gather my bag, shrug and ask, “What time?”

  “Two-thirty, no heels, no flip flops.”

  I think of my pink Chuck Taylors and nod, “See you then.”

  I walk out of the band room,
through the halls of my new high school and just as I’m about to leave, I see a bulletin board. I pause and review a very important sign, reading “Battle of the Bands.” Pulling out my Hello Kitty notepad, I jot down the directions. Who knows? Hopefully, I’ll find a new band while I’m there. Life is more fun with band practices and gigs to look forward to.

  Tucking my notepad away and pulling out my iPod, I walk back home, listening to Jared in Shorts songs on the way. I try not to get nostalgic and sad, but it’s tough. Back at my new house, I feel weirdly inspired. I think back about the conversation in the band room and know I have a bit of research ahead of me, so I log onto the computer, type in ‘marching band’ and a whole bunch of websites appear. For the better part of three hours, I read as much as I can – apparently, there is a whole new world awaiting me.

  At dinner, my parents are predictably inquisitive about my afternoon. My mom asks, “Is there anything you’re going to get involved in?”

  Fortunately, my parents aren’t too bad when it comes to the insane pressure of ‘what you do in high school ultimately affects the rest of your life.’ However, I know, as their only child, they don’t want to raise a total slacker. I twirl pasta around my fork and answer, “I’ll be taking mostly honors courses and…I guess I might be joining the marching band.”

  My parents immediately smile across the table at each other. It’s actually the kind of reaction that makes me feel really good inside. I’m sure they had some reservations about moving and somehow hearing I’m actually getting involved in something must make them feel better.

  Dad asks, “So, when will you know for sure if you’re joining?”

  “I kind of auditioned this afternoon for the drumline and I made it.”

  Mom actually squeals, “Honey! Why didn’t you say anything? This calls for a celebration!”

  Dad leans over and squeezes my hand, “We’ll go out this weekend. Pick any restaurant you’d like.”