Notes From An Accidental Band Geek by Erin Dionne

every time he entered my field of vision all I could focus on was Punk, gangly legs flapping as he loped by. Thankfully, it didn’t take him long to run the five laps, and soon he was back in his spot next to me. Of course, as soon as he started jogging in my direction, I realized that having him in line was worse than watching him run. I felt so awkward, I couldn’t say anything. I tried to whisper “I’m sorry,” to him, but the words stuck in my throat. I kept my eyes on the ground, or locked on AJ, worrying that Punk was mad, stressed that I’d get caught even though Punk took the blame for me, and just feeling like an idiot. Stinking it up on the field didn’t help my mood either.
    Finally, on our eighth attempt, the marching clicked.
    “Eureka!” AJ shouted from his podium. “Why was that so hard?”
    A few people muttered answers, but I don’t think AJ would have liked what they had to say.
    “Grab your instruments. Break into sectionals. Work on ‘America.’ We’ll come back for ensemble in thirty minutes,” AJ bellowed.
    Immediately we scattered to the sidelines to retrieve our instruments. I dodged the trombones, which were laid out to spell HI! We’d positioned our mellophones bells out, mouthpieces in, making a horn-flower. Of course, I’d stuck mine next to Punk’s. He glanced at me.
    “Why’d you do that?” I whispered. After being all bottled up while marching, my words came out more angry-sounding than I’d intended. A hurt expression briefly crossed Punk’s face.
    “Told you. He looked like an idiot. He used to be a horn player and now he’s all drum-major-y. It’s good for him,” he said.
    “That’s not what I meant.”
    Punk shrugged.
    Steve gave Punk a long look when we lined up for sectionals, and then turned to me.
    “I don’t know what’s going on here, mellos,” he snapped, “but I hate having our section singled out. Ten push-ups. Now! ”
    I’d heard that the section leaders sometimes made their sections do push-ups if they got in trouble, but I’d never actually seen it. For a second, anger flared through me. How dare he? I didn’t want to put my hands on the filthy ground and exercise.
    Then I remembered: No one would be doing push-ups if I hadn’t laughed in the first place. Great.
    I put down my horn and dropped with the rest of my section. Together, we counted off each push-up—led by Punk—while the trumpets just watched.
    Ignoring the layers of grime that coated the parking lot, I collapsed—along with everyone else—after the last one.
    “Get up!” Steve called. “We’ve got work to do!”
    I forced myself to stand and grab my mellophone—which no longer felt heavy, even after doing push-ups. Was marching band making me stronger? Jake, at the end of the trumpet line, gave me a big smile, then stuck his tongue out. I blushed.
    As Steve counted off and I raised my instrument, a series of tiny realizations pattered through me like raindrops :
    Playing mellophone was getting easier.
Even though I did stupid things, these people liked me.
Without trying, I was making friends.
And then came one big realization:
I was starting to like marching band.

10
    Three weeks into the school year was our first major marching band performance.
    Homecoming.
    I stood outside of the band room, watching students stream into our football “stadium” (a few rows of bleachers and a parent-staffed snack shack) for the pregame pep rally. We’d march in with the cheerleaders, play a few of our stands tunes (pop songs and crowd-pleasers) while the cheerleaders danced, then take our spot in the bleachers until halftime.
    “You ready, Chicken?” Steve tapped me on the shoulder and I turned. “Time to suit up.”
    “Totally,” I said, but my mouth was a little dry. Just nerves—I get hit with them every time I perform. I’m used to it now. My dad gets dry mouth too. He says it’s a family trait. Just one more thing we have in common.
    Inside the band room, Sarah