-Sophomore-

Band camp is 8am-8pm, 5 days a week, the entire month of August.

The show this year is Four Square Meals: a suite with four-movements based on breakfast, lunch, dinner, and dessert. It all has something to do with the human condition…

I think…

Anyway, it’s early in the day and everyone in the band room is warming up while I quadruple-check the gong-cart. The drumline kids practice their rudiments, their muffled shots setting an off-kilter rhythm for the keys’ triplet scales. The trumpets take up their own corner of the band room and appear to be competing to see who could squeak out the shrillest high note. Mr. McDowell is in his office, chatting over Dunkin’ with the other instructors. His office is tucked into the front corner of the band room, right next to the double doors leading out into the empty halls of MHS.

I have all my music memorized already. It’s not hard to remember when to hit a gong or flip a rain-stick. To be honest, I was never really worried about my music, or the show, or any of it. My thoughts were entirely occupied by something- well- someone else.

Goddammit, just go over there and say hi.

The color guard are filing in and out of the band closet, gathering up their flags, rifles, and uniforms. Troy and Sylvia are in there with them trying on the prototypes of the new color guard uniform.

What’s the worst that could happen?

When Troy emerges from the closet, he preens to the delight of his audience. The male color guard uniform is sleeveless with black wristbands and slacks. There are swaths of blue, gold, and purple across the chest.

He could reject me and gossip about me to the rest of the band… Then everyone would know…

That’s the worst that could happen.

I try not to make a beeline directly across the band room. I stop here and there. I take a look at the rudiment’s chart. I’m trying my best to muster up a little bit of courage on the way over. Troy and Sylvia are currently cheek-to-cheek just outside the instrument closet, looking at something on Sylvia’s phone.

“I have this, like, gold eyeliner at home.”

“Yes!”

“We can do that. We can do dark purple eyeshadow, black mascara.”

“Yes! Yes! Yes!”

I’m two or three steps away now, but neither of them look up at me.

“Let me show the girls and see what they think.”

Sylvia leaves and Troy looks up and makes eye contact with me.

Holy shit! This is happening!

Troy’s eyes are wide, like he’s just seen a ghost.

“Hi!” I say.

“Hi,” he says.

Troy’s hair is dyed platinum blonde and wavy with sea-salt spray. At their roots, though, I can see his hair is the same color hair as mine.

A few of the color guard walk past us and Troy turns his head, desperate for Sylvia to return and save him from my pitiful attempts at conversation.

“The uniforms this year look fantastic,” I say.

Troy turns back to me and nods his head. “These are just the prototypes. They’re not finished yet.”

I nod and look down at my feet. “You know, I don’t know if you know this, I moved here from Connecticut last fall. I didn’t know anyone, so I joined marching band to make friends… I thought I could learn an instrument, but… now they’ve got me in the pit. And- I don’t know- I like it in the pit, but… maybe next year-”

“So, you want to join the color guard now?”

“I- I didn’t really know anything about marching band before I joined-”

“You realize it’s already three weeks into band camp, right?”

“Of course! I was just thinking about it for next year, maybe. I didn’t even realize-”

Troy’s disgust kills a small part of me.

“Okay,” he says, hands on his hips. “We’re not out there running around doing nothing. Being a member of the color guard is hard work. It’s harder than playing the saxophone, or the flute, or the trumpet. It’s a hell of a lot harder than hitting a gong!”

“No, that’s not what I meant!”

“We won best auxiliary at ACCs last year!”

“I didn’t mean it like that! I just thought- I just wanted some advice for next year, to- like- prepare myself.”

Troy takes his hands off his hips and crosses his arms. With a flick of his eyes, he looks me up and down.

“My advice? You need to lose weight.”

I swallow. This conversation had already proven my worst-case scenario wildly optimistic. “I-”

“How much do you weigh?”

“Umm… 140, 145?”

Troy shakes his head. “How tall are you? I’m 5’9’ and you’re shorter than me. I’m 120 pounds, so you should at least be around there by next year.”

I can’t think of what to say next. Then, Sylvia joins us from out of nowhere.

“Troy, can you help me…”

She notices me standing there. “Oh, hi! You play percussion in the pit, yeah?”

I nod, and I realize that I’m sweating.

“Are you and Troy- like- friends or anything?”

“No,” we both answer her.

Sylvia looks at me with curious eyes.

“I was just-” I start to stammer, swallowing my words and trying again. “I was just asking what Troy thought about me-”

Sylvia’s hands go straight for the sides of her face. “Oh my god, are you thinking about joining color guard? You totally should, you should go talk to Mr. McDowell about it right now!”

Before I can object- and before Troy can object- Sylvia turns me around and gives me a not-so-gentle shove toward Mr. McDowell’s office.