waved me over. “I snagged a spot where we can change,” she said, pointing to the alcove where our little group met on the first day of band camp. “The boys evidently are getting evicted.” She pointed, and I saw Jake, Punk, Hector, and the rest filing out the door with their uniform bags. “I think they’re changing in the gym. Bye, guys!” As she gave them a silly, finger-waggling wave, I got the urge to sneeze.
I am not a dainty sneezer. As I let loose into the crook of my elbow with, as my mom calls it, a roaring “nasal explosion,” everyone in a fifteen-foot radius paused to stare at me. Sarah took a step back.
“Epic,” the piccolo player behind me murmured. I blushed.
“Let’s get our stuff,” I said, and my audience went back to what it was doing.
We went downstairs to where the uniforms were stored. A band mom handed me a hanger cloaked by a bright orange zippered plastic garment bag.
Back in our alcove, I unzipped the bag and laid out the parts of my uniform: black polyester suspender pants (sporting a HeHe High orange stripe) with a waist that was chest height, mirror-like black shoes, a military-style orange-and-black jacket with shiny silver buttons displaying the HeHe High Hellcats crest on the front. Sarah and I surveyed the landscape of synthetic fashion failure.
“How do we even do this?” she said. “I’m not sure I can squeeze into this.” Her color guard outfit was a shiny silver spandex unitard and short blue skirt.
“Yeah, right,” I groused. “You, who are about as skinny as your flagpole, will look awesome in that. I have no hope.”
I had on a pair of black nylon running pants, and I followed Steve’s advice to invest in a pair of form-fitting bike shorts, which I wore underneath. I kicked off my sneakers, whipped the nylon pants off, and stepped into the uniform pants, pulling up the bib-like front as high as it would go—which was somewhere near my armpits. Sarah doubled over laughing.
“They’re pants that double as a bra!”
She was right.
“Very funny. Without your skirt, you look like a roll of aluminum foil,” I said, and grinned.
Fully dressed, I felt like I should stand straight and not breathe. Which, considering the first rule of marching band—if it’s not comfortable, you’re doing it right—meant that I probably looked pretty good. I twirled in front of Sarah, who was adjusting her skirt.
“So, how do I look?”
“Oh, simply stunning,” she said. “But sadly, you’re not the only one wearing that outfit today.” I gasped in mock horror, but before I could say anything, AJ’s whistle sounded.
“No hats today!” he yelled as the boys returned to the band room. “Two of our sax players forgot theirs, and will be giving us a stirring rendition of ‘This Old Man,’ reggae-style, before we take the field. Hellcats baseball caps, everyone!”
“Yikes,” Sarah said.
“Glad it’s not me this time!” I responded. We packed up our street clothes and she left to meet the color guard while I got my instrument out and found my section.
AJ, as always, was true to his word. Before we left the band room, the two sax players—both boys, one freshman, the other a sophomore—did a Bob Marley–inspired “This Old Mon,” complete with hilarious dance moves. Thankfully, AJ stopped them after “he played five.”
“Let’s go!” he called.
We lined up in our marching formation and the drummers tapped quarter notes to lead us through the parking lot and to the football field. Although I’d practiced there dozens of times, filled with people and decorated with banners, it looked like a completely different place. A thrill ran through me.
We formed an arc on the field and ran through some of our stands music—“Build Me Up Buttercup” and “Shipping Up to Boston” were two of the songs—while the cheerleaders danced. The band even hammed it up, throwing in a few spins and horn swings that we’d been practicing in sectionals.
I am not a dainty sneezer. As I let loose into the crook of my elbow with, as my mom calls it, a roaring “nasal explosion,” everyone in a fifteen-foot radius paused to stare at me. Sarah took a step back.
“Epic,” the piccolo player behind me murmured. I blushed.
“Let’s get our stuff,” I said, and my audience went back to what it was doing.
We went downstairs to where the uniforms were stored. A band mom handed me a hanger cloaked by a bright orange zippered plastic garment bag.
Back in our alcove, I unzipped the bag and laid out the parts of my uniform: black polyester suspender pants (sporting a HeHe High orange stripe) with a waist that was chest height, mirror-like black shoes, a military-style orange-and-black jacket with shiny silver buttons displaying the HeHe High Hellcats crest on the front. Sarah and I surveyed the landscape of synthetic fashion failure.
“How do we even do this?” she said. “I’m not sure I can squeeze into this.” Her color guard outfit was a shiny silver spandex unitard and short blue skirt.
“Yeah, right,” I groused. “You, who are about as skinny as your flagpole, will look awesome in that. I have no hope.”
I had on a pair of black nylon running pants, and I followed Steve’s advice to invest in a pair of form-fitting bike shorts, which I wore underneath. I kicked off my sneakers, whipped the nylon pants off, and stepped into the uniform pants, pulling up the bib-like front as high as it would go—which was somewhere near my armpits. Sarah doubled over laughing.
“They’re pants that double as a bra!”
She was right.
“Very funny. Without your skirt, you look like a roll of aluminum foil,” I said, and grinned.
Fully dressed, I felt like I should stand straight and not breathe. Which, considering the first rule of marching band—if it’s not comfortable, you’re doing it right—meant that I probably looked pretty good. I twirled in front of Sarah, who was adjusting her skirt.
“So, how do I look?”
“Oh, simply stunning,” she said. “But sadly, you’re not the only one wearing that outfit today.” I gasped in mock horror, but before I could say anything, AJ’s whistle sounded.
“No hats today!” he yelled as the boys returned to the band room. “Two of our sax players forgot theirs, and will be giving us a stirring rendition of ‘This Old Man,’ reggae-style, before we take the field. Hellcats baseball caps, everyone!”
“Yikes,” Sarah said.
“Glad it’s not me this time!” I responded. We packed up our street clothes and she left to meet the color guard while I got my instrument out and found my section.
AJ, as always, was true to his word. Before we left the band room, the two sax players—both boys, one freshman, the other a sophomore—did a Bob Marley–inspired “This Old Mon,” complete with hilarious dance moves. Thankfully, AJ stopped them after “he played five.”
“Let’s go!” he called.
We lined up in our marching formation and the drummers tapped quarter notes to lead us through the parking lot and to the football field. Although I’d practiced there dozens of times, filled with people and decorated with banners, it looked like a completely different place. A thrill ran through me.
We formed an arc on the field and ran through some of our stands music—“Build Me Up Buttercup” and “Shipping Up to Boston” were two of the songs—while the cheerleaders danced. The band even hammed it up, throwing in a few spins and horn swings that we’d been practicing in sectionals.
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