So, since a lot of people think that the band does nothing and is composed of nerds, delinquents, sexual deviants, and slackers, I thought I would tell a tale of a couple of band kids. Also contrary to popular belief, band kids do not always act the same as each other or get along. Now that we have that in mind, I am now proud to present Tales from the Band.
I glared at the offending piece of music sitting on the stand in front of me. It did nothing but continue to sit there. It seemed to be mocking me. I had no idea how I could find it so terrifying, but this tiny piece of paper caused my stomach to knot and made me want to vomit.
I cringed when I heard my name called. I glanced back over to the people waiting with me. Stefnie smiled at me, told me that I would do fine, and sent me up.
As I walked up the stairs, the stench of the wrestling room causing my stomach to do even more exciting flips, I took one last look around. The weights, mats, and other wrestling materials were shoved off to the side next to the huge doors that appeared made for vehicles while chairs, stands, and percussion instruments littered the middle of the floor. I grinned as I thought how much it looked like the actual band room. It was now our little mess.
The sound of a door opening thrust me out of my thoughts as I looked up the rest of the stairs and watched the player before me walk out. She smiled nervously, wished me luck, and continued down the stairs. I swallowed and said a quick prayer that I would perform well. At the last moment, I added a little request that the band room remodeling be finished before next year.
I clutched my clarinet to my chest and forced my legs to keep me moving through the door. I glanced around the long room quickly, but did not register anything but the table, stand, and chair containing the rather large man in front of me. I inhaled deeply and moved forward.
He looked up as I approached him and smiled. After I refused the chance to tune, I stared at the stand. The music glared menacingly back at me. I gazed at it for a moment and began to play, pretending that the music actually mattered to me.
As the final note rang out, I stopped and felt my knees begin to give out. I gasped slightly and gently grabbed the table to steady myself. I allowed the teacher to take the clarinet from my shaking hands and place it on the table.
When I had composed myself, he congratulated me and said I had done a wonderful job. I thanked him, delicately took my clarinet, and rushed out of the room. I reached the bottom of the stairs and collapsed onto a chair. I tried to put my clarinet away, but failed horribly. Stefnie noticed and came over to help. I had performed. Now, I was to await nervously with everyone else.
Almost two weeks later, a crowd formed around the band teacher's office door in the band room. It was obvious that the list of new marching band members was now up. Stefnie and I looked at each other nervously before walking up to the ominous sheet of paper together. Holding our breath, we glanced at it. There, under the word "Clarinet," were our names. We almost screamed as we hugged each other and cried slightly in relief.
The hard part was over. We were in the Big Red Marching Machine. Unfortunately, we soon found out that the try-out was the easiest part of joining the marching band.