The now-familiar power of the group surrounded me, but there was a new sensation . . . what was the word? Elation . Like, total, heart-skipping happy funness. I was into it, the rest of the band was into it, the crowd was into it . . . the whole thing was a blast.
Once the football team came on the field we climbed into the bleachers, where, big surprise, we had to stand for the entire game. AJ would write music selections on a whiteboard as the game progressed—different songs for when we had the ball or when the other team did. Next to me, Punk and Steve shouted at or cheered for the players, depending on what was going on. I’ve never watched a football game in my life, so I had no idea what was happening. Pretty soon, though, I’d figured out that our near-constant playing of “The Imperial March”—our music for when the team was on defense—was bad news. The score and crowd size at halftime reinforced that.
When we took the field, the previously packed bleachers were dotted with spectators. Our team’s poor performance gave lots of kids good reason to go home to get ready for the night’s homecoming dance early, I guess. Still, I got a little electric shock as the football announcer introduced us over the PA system, and my heart beat extra-hard as we stepped off into the show.
By the end of the game, I’m pretty sure only the band, cheerleaders, and players’ families were left in the stands, and I was grateful that my parents hadn’t been able to make it. A 56–0 blowout is pretty painful to witness, and even if you have no clue about how to play football, you know that scoring against yourself shouldn’t happen once, let alone twice . The band’s job is to stay supportive of the team, though—at least, that’s what AJ kept telling us—and so we had to cheer and clap for them at the end of the game like they’d won.
Our march back to the band room was more like a trudge.
“One down, seven to go,” muttered Steve as we packed up our horns. “Hellcats football is necessary for our existence, but the competition in a couple of weeks is where it’s at.”
I nodded like I knew what he was talking about.
“You going to the dance tonight?” he asked, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye.
“What? Why ?” I said, completely caught off guard and embarrassed for some reason. “Uh, no,” I stammered. “I’ve got uh, other plans.” Me, go to homecoming? No way. Once people had started talking about it at lunch I never even considered it. “I’ll be at Symphony Hall,” I added. “The BSO is playing Tchaikovsky.”
“Of course,” Steve said, nodding solemnly. “How could I forget?” He picked up his uniform bag, leaving me to puzzle over the exchange.
Why did he care whether or not I went to homecoming?
11
One afternoon a couple of weeks later, Sarah met me at my locker before lunch. Since homecoming, she and I had been talking more . . . and I hadn’t spent one lunch period eating in the band room.
“So, what are you going as?” she asked, rewrapping a purple scarf around her neck.
“That’s pretty,” I said, fingering the light fabric. She’d started this funky accessory thing recently—wearing cool clunky jewelry, or a gauzy scarf, or carrying an oversized purse—and reading a lot of fashion magazines. It kind of made me wish I were more into that stuff, but I didn’t have the time to devote to it. “What do you mean, going as?”
She pointed to a sign on the wall. “Hel- lo ! I know you’ve been out of it, Elsie, but seriously. It’s a dance.”
Oh. The sign was for a Halloween costume ball.
I shrugged. “Hadn’t really thought about going.”
“What?! Come on, Chickie. Really?”
“I have practicing to do,” I muttered, my standard response to everything. Why waste a Friday night at a dance ? I could have a date with Brahms, instead.
“You practice too much,” she said, and slammed my locker for me. “Seriously. You are in high school, and
Once the football team came on the field we climbed into the bleachers, where, big surprise, we had to stand for the entire game. AJ would write music selections on a whiteboard as the game progressed—different songs for when we had the ball or when the other team did. Next to me, Punk and Steve shouted at or cheered for the players, depending on what was going on. I’ve never watched a football game in my life, so I had no idea what was happening. Pretty soon, though, I’d figured out that our near-constant playing of “The Imperial March”—our music for when the team was on defense—was bad news. The score and crowd size at halftime reinforced that.
When we took the field, the previously packed bleachers were dotted with spectators. Our team’s poor performance gave lots of kids good reason to go home to get ready for the night’s homecoming dance early, I guess. Still, I got a little electric shock as the football announcer introduced us over the PA system, and my heart beat extra-hard as we stepped off into the show.
By the end of the game, I’m pretty sure only the band, cheerleaders, and players’ families were left in the stands, and I was grateful that my parents hadn’t been able to make it. A 56–0 blowout is pretty painful to witness, and even if you have no clue about how to play football, you know that scoring against yourself shouldn’t happen once, let alone twice . The band’s job is to stay supportive of the team, though—at least, that’s what AJ kept telling us—and so we had to cheer and clap for them at the end of the game like they’d won.
Our march back to the band room was more like a trudge.
“One down, seven to go,” muttered Steve as we packed up our horns. “Hellcats football is necessary for our existence, but the competition in a couple of weeks is where it’s at.”
I nodded like I knew what he was talking about.
“You going to the dance tonight?” he asked, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye.
“What? Why ?” I said, completely caught off guard and embarrassed for some reason. “Uh, no,” I stammered. “I’ve got uh, other plans.” Me, go to homecoming? No way. Once people had started talking about it at lunch I never even considered it. “I’ll be at Symphony Hall,” I added. “The BSO is playing Tchaikovsky.”
“Of course,” Steve said, nodding solemnly. “How could I forget?” He picked up his uniform bag, leaving me to puzzle over the exchange.
Why did he care whether or not I went to homecoming?
11
One afternoon a couple of weeks later, Sarah met me at my locker before lunch. Since homecoming, she and I had been talking more . . . and I hadn’t spent one lunch period eating in the band room.
“So, what are you going as?” she asked, rewrapping a purple scarf around her neck.
“That’s pretty,” I said, fingering the light fabric. She’d started this funky accessory thing recently—wearing cool clunky jewelry, or a gauzy scarf, or carrying an oversized purse—and reading a lot of fashion magazines. It kind of made me wish I were more into that stuff, but I didn’t have the time to devote to it. “What do you mean, going as?”
She pointed to a sign on the wall. “Hel- lo ! I know you’ve been out of it, Elsie, but seriously. It’s a dance.”
Oh. The sign was for a Halloween costume ball.
I shrugged. “Hadn’t really thought about going.”
“What?! Come on, Chickie. Really?”
“I have practicing to do,” I muttered, my standard response to everything. Why waste a Friday night at a dance ? I could have a date with Brahms, instead.
“You practice too much,” she said, and slammed my locker for me. “Seriously. You are in high school, and
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