Tritone

Chapter 5: Sforzando

The week flies by with no actual recollection of it. By the time I know it, it's Friday and another football game is here. This time, it's a home game, and I feel psyched for it. How could I not?
Before rehearsal, I throw my things into my locker and pack a gym bag with the items I need for the game: money, flip folder, and a blanket. I shove the door closed, and it barely stays; the girl who shares a locker with me left her bag at the bottom, but--despite the fact that it leaves me little room--I don't mind.
I take a seat in the band room, students filing in and out as I prepare myself. My horn sits in the otherwise empty seat next to me.
I read through my districts audition pieces, my voice barely audible as I sing my piece. However, Jessica walks in the room, and I immediately shut my mouth. Jasmine follows not too far behind. They talk about their favorite music, laughing over how much they want to see one particular band on tour in South Korea, which isn't happening. Even I know that they won't be allowed to travel across the world.
Jessica smirks at me while she isn't speaking,then walks into the cage room to assemble her instrument.
I pick up my horn and warm up with scales. Beginning on F and working my way around the entire circle of fifths, I finish every scale before the two of them even enter the band room with their instruments. However, I overhear Jessica as she whispers to Jasmine,"You know, I'm going to make it to Districts and Elise isn't. She honestly sucks."
I get up within a moment and stroll out of the room, attempting to keep a calm appearance. I put away my horn and swap for my mellophone, looking around the room. I'm surrounded by people.
"I have to get out of here," I whisper to myself and scramble out of the room. A kid nearly crashes into me and doesn't apologize before I attempt to get away from them.
I sit in my section, plopping down as my head begins to spin. I didn't sleep too well last night. I grab the stand for balance, nearly flopping onto the floor with the excessive weight on its weak face.
An alto sax player, whom everyone calls Alex, sits next to me.
Now, I normally would accept the friendly gesture, despite the fact that conversing with Alex makes me want to lock myself in a room and become a recluse until I die a slow death. However, the room begins to close. The stand in front of me becomes space taken that needs to be open. The kid next to me becomes occupied air that I struggle to breathe. I silently scan the room for a way out without running into anyone.
"Helloooooo," he sings as he leans towards me. Or at least it seems like he's leaning. "Have you watched Naruto Shippuden?"
I deliberately turn my head towards him, then--fighting back tears--I snap, "Does now look like a good time to ask that?"
"Sorry," he squeaks, then sits next to me, staring at me with seemingly beady eyes. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," I mumble on impulse. He'd never understand what I have to say. How many people out there could honestly relent when one simply has to... go.
They never understand unless you have a reason they experience. It's very simple to describe the fear of germs; everyone knows how terrible it is to get sick. They have all felt chills and have all had their fair share of revisiting their last meal.
However, how does someone like me describe the need to run away from everyone when improperly approached? To shy away from physical contact when even a poke is unwarranted? To need pure, absolute silence whenever fear presents itself? To need space in order to be comfortable? How does someone understand the need to avoid people simply to not lose it?
"Well... Do you want to watch Naruto sometime? I have it-" Ashe yaps on, I leap up and attempt to stumble away. He then squeaks,"Wait, Elise, where are you going?"
I don't answer him, but I notice Morgan snap at him from behind me, "Alex, what did you say to her?"
"Nothing," he defends himself. I could just picture him raising his hands in the air with his word.
Alex isn't well-received by the other members of the band. Truth be told,he isn't very well-received by me either. He isn't quite the greatest friend on the planet. However, I tried not to mind him, or at least not to snap at him like the others do. When I hear the way others speak to him, I truly feel bad for him. Honestly, I do.
Right now, though, my concern for what they all have to say has worn thin.
Ilya strolls into the band room, his trumpet in his right hand and music in other, and notices me. He waves his flipfolder at me with a smile. I just look away and attempt to find a way out of here. However, people are all over; anywhere I run won't be to any avail.
The director, then, happens to see me in such a panic. He looks over and asks, "Kistner, what's the matter?"
"I-It's nothing," I stammer, "I just need to be alone."
"Well,can you get through one rep of the show?"
"I..." I stop,measuring up the outcomes of my responses. Eventually, I mumble, "I guess so."
He slaps my shoulder, almost as if I'm a triumphant teammate, and smiles, "Alright. Get ready to go outside in a few."
I nod, and he strolls away. I sigh and turn around to return to the band room, where ninety obnoxious teenagers scream over each other to converse. Not my cup of tea right now.
I life up my horn and sit in the seat I saved with it. Avery-a freshman in my section-waves hello. I collect enough composure to wave back.
"Are you okay?" she questions, "You look really pale."
"I'm fine," I lie.
"Are you sure? I'll talk to a chaperone if you need me to."
"I'm fine."

We line outside at six PM on the sidewalk, dressed in uniform and ready to rumble. I grab a plume from the container on the sidewalk,sticking it into its place in the front of my shako. Avery approaches me and asks if I have a "two" to march up next to me. I glance down the line, seeing Ilya in line already with another trumpet, so I inform that I indeed don't have one. They stand to my right and we go to the ready. Our heads are down and we're quietly waiting for our step off.
The director looks around and encourages, "Have a good show, guys. Let's go." Then, he claps his hands, shouting with it "Band ten hut!"
We all snap to attention, a few people still talking as we do so. The drum cadence begins, the bass drums pounding like the beat of my own heart, and I step off. The lines progress to the stadium, the banner carriers leading them down the road. We enter the back gate, the woman at the table wishing us a good show, and we halt as we enter partway into the stadium.
"Fallout and get into your four lines," shouts the director. We scramble around and line up into the appropriate place. Mine is first column,second row, just behind a senior.
I sigh and crack my neck,watching as the football team warms up. The fifty yard line seems so far from here on the sideline, but I ignore it and go to the ready,waiting for the players on the field to finish their warm-ups.
I suddenly begin to shake as the nerves begin to get to me. Everything from earlier, paired with my own fear, seems to drown me like the stadium lights.
However, this is band. I am a performer first and foremost. Everything else doesn't matter; it can't matter.
The teams run off of the field, the visiting players rushing past us and out the back gate. We're called to attention, and the cadence begins again.
From the moment I step off at the goal line, everything else fades. The only thing that matters right now is that I march exactly seventy-six steps to the appropriate yard line.
We halt once we appropriately split the forty-five and fifty yard lines, marking time until the cadence stops. Then, we hurry to our sets.
The drum major calls us to attention, and the announcer calls out the same speech as every game. I, surprisingly,never get sick of it.
However, a nagging thought in the back of my mind doesn't fade as I play through the show. Something tells me that a note will go sour and create a painful discord, and everyone will notice it when it stands out.