Just Rigby - A Marching Band Story

Late to Camp

***

I woke up late this morning, so I am in a rush to get to camp. Dad is already at work and I guess I forgot to set my alarm. I dash out the door.

My school is about eight minutes away with no traffic. But today at 7:42, it seems like everyone is out and about and I'm catching every single red light on the way there.

My old Camry gets me there as quick as it can. The paint is fading and the dome light doesn't work. The driver side inside door handle fell off a few months ago. My dad ordered a replacement from Amazon. The color is close, but it doesn't match. At least I don't have to reach outside my window to open my door anymore. But she's my baby. And I love her.

I pull into the parking lot at the practice field and I can see that everybody is already gathered on the field for sectional warm-ups.

Ugh. I'm so late.

I'm expecting push-ups. Lots of push-ups. I'm guessing Taura will be waiting for me ready to dish out the pain. I guess I deserve it this time, though. Being late is not acceptable. Mr. Z always says, "Early is on time, on time is late, and late is unacceptable!" I think it's a quote or something. In band, it's true, though. It's a way of life.

The only open parking spot is on the opposite end of the parking lot. I park and shut off the engine. As I open the door, I hear the noise of over one hundred musicians noodling on their instruments.

It's 7:53. Twenty-three minutes late.

I'm grabbing my stuff - my flip folder that has all my stand music in it, my towel and water bottle - and scrambling out of the car. I shut the door and run about three steps before I realize I don't have my trumpet.

Smooth. You MIGHT need your horn, Rigs.

I turn around and grope around in my belt bag for my keys. It's not yet strapped around my waist so it swings awkwardly as I fumble around for the keys.

Lip balm...no. Valve oil...no. Keys? Yes, keys...Got 'em.

I open the trunk and pull out my trumpet case. It's well worn. My mom used this old trumpet during her whole high school and college career in band. She saved her own money for several years in middle school to buy this trumpet before she went into 9th grade. It's seen a lot over the years!

I should probably take the case with me and get my trumpet out on the field like everyone else, but I'd rather just grab my horn and go.

C'mon, c'mon. Go. Go.

The left latch sticks sometimes, so you have to wiggle it just right to get it open. It comes open with a pop. I grab my mouthpiece, put it in my trumpet and close the trunk. For a split second, I have this weird feeling about leaving my case, but I don't have time for that this morning. I sprint across the parking lot hoping that I'm not missing anything important.

As I step onto the grass of the practice field, the band has already broken into sectionals. The clarinets are over to the left and behind them the flutes and piccolos set up in their circle. We have 2 piccolos in our band. Everyone teases them because they have a hard time playing in tune with the rest of the band, but generally speaking, our piccs are REALLY good.

The trombones are making a human pyramid at the back of the field. I honestly don't know why. But hey, does anyone ever really understand what goes on in the trombone section?

The percussion section is in the far right end zone. Each subsection of the drumline is grouped by drums but they are all in one big semi-circle. The basses are all in a line from largest to smallest. The four tenors are on the other side. The snares are in the middle. The whole semi-circle is facing the lead snare who is their section leader. The cymbals are off to one side practicing their visuals. They'll spin and flash their cymbals to emphasize different parts of the drum rhythms and it takes a lot of practice to get them all in sync.

The saxophones are over by the mellophones. They are two separate sections, but most of the time, their music is very similar so they tend to gravitate towards each other. I'm not even sure if it's intentional or not.

Chewie and the sousaphones are lined up on the 50-yard line practicing their dance moves. In our band, the sousas get a little special treatment, sometimes when we hit a formation where the whole band is in motion, the sousas will get to just stand there and rock back and forth. When they are all synchronized it actually looks really cool.

Chewie is the smallest person in his section. But he more than makes up for it with his sense of humor. He's really funny. Not only does he make me laugh, but if there's a group of people laughing, he's usually the one making everyone laugh.

He's wearing a blue tank top that says, "This Is My Band Camp Tank Top" in big bold white letters. It's funny because it's so literal. He found it on one of the marching band Facebook pages he follows. Every day he sends me a funny meme or two that he sees on the page. They're clever, sometimes stupid, but always funny.

Chewie has even started making his own memes. He says his specialty is combining band jokes with movie quotes. Sometimes he really nails it. Most of the time he has to explain them to me.

"So good of you to join us this morning, Miss Raines." Mr Z motions to me without looking up. He is looking at a clipboard with sheet after sheet of half time show drill that will be taught to the band today.

"I am so, so sorry, Mr. Zimmer." I'm so embarrassed. "I got here as quick as I could. It won't happen again."

I'm staring at my feet and fidgeting with my trumpet valves. I don't look at most people directly in the eyes when I'm talking to them. And definitely not in a situation like this. Mr. Z chuckles, though, and I look up.

"I like you, Miss Raines. Let's not make a habit out of this, mkay?" He still hasn't looked up from his clipboard, but he's got a friendly smirk on his face. "I'll let it slide this time, but I don't think your section leader is too happy right now."

He's right. Taura is waiting for me to join the trumpet section. She's standing with her hands on her hips. She isn't happy. She's got kind of a hit-with-a-water-bottle-embarrassed-by-the-outcast-who-is-also-late-to-camp thing going on with her face. She turns to start the trumpets on their warm-ups.

This is it. I'm going to die a horrible push-up induced death and be buried on the 50-yard line. I'll never be heard from again.

Directly in between where I am standing here next to the front ensemble and where the trumpets have gathered is a group of about twenty color guard. That presents a dilemma. I can either walk around them or through them. Maybe if I walk right through the middle of the whirlwind of spinning flags and rifles being tossed into the air I'll catch one to the head and be knocked unconscious. I decide to take my chances with the guard.

Yeah, that would be nice. I can hear it now. "Breaking News: Rigby Raines was knocked out in a freak rifle tossing incident in which she also successfully avoided confrontation with her nemesis, the self-proclaimed band queen, Taura Jacobs. More details at eleven. Let's go on scene to our roving reporter Brian for a fun story about kittens."

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