Sylvia’s the one who convinced me to join marching band in the first place. It’s not a long story, and “convince” isn’t the right verb.

Here’s what happened:

My mom and I moved to Delaware at the end of my freshman year. The move was motivated by a combination of three factors:

1. A job offer my Mom received to teach Animal Nutrition at UD.

2. My parent’s recent divorce

3. No sales tax

A few weeks after the move, I’d been having trouble adjusting and making new friends. On a Friday after dismissal, I’m walking toward the band room on my way to leave the building. When I turn down the hall through the arts department, it just so happens that Sylvia, in a grey hoody with blocky, blue lettering, emerges from the band room at the same time as I’m passing by. I notice the big letters on the hoody: “MIDDLETOWN HIGH SCHOOL MARCHING BAND,” then I look up and make direct eye contact with her; she’s stopped in place and looking right at me.

“You’re joining marching band this year, right?”

“Um? Sure?!”

That’s the whole, entire story, no exaggeration.

Sylvia and I hadn’t spoken since, though.

Just outside Mr. McDowell’s office, I lean to my right and peer between the blinds into his office. The other instructors are gone, and Mr. McDowell is sitting there, back to the window, door closed.

I knock.

Without moving his head, I hear Mr. McDowell call me in.

I turn the silver door-handle slow and poke my head in, the way I would if I were late to class.

Mr. McDowell stops typing and turns around in his swivel chair.

“What can I do for you?” He asks. “Come in, come in!”

I pass into his tiny office, only opening the door wide enough for my body to slip through.

What am I doing? I’m so fucking stupid.

“How’s everything coming along in the pit?”

“Good, good.”

“Your music memorized?”

“Yes, all of it.”

“Awesome!”

My head is spinning. For a second, I forget how I got here. Then, I remember.

“Mr. McDowell, I actually wanted to talk with you about joining the color guard next year.” My own words don’t sound right to me, like I’m babbling nonsense.

“You want to play trumpet next year.”

Is that what I said? I don’t actually know what I want or if I’m making any sense right now, so I stutter and stammer for a while.

“Let me show you something.” Mr. McDowell stands up from his swivel chair and opens the door out to the rest of the band room. He gestures at all the awards lined up around the room, woodgrain plaques with gilded metals the size of dinner plates. Printed on each of the plaques is the lauded section, the year, and our school’s name.

Mr. McDowell points to a plaque at the far end of the band room, an award from last year: “BEST IN SHOW AUXILIARY – 2015 – MIDDLETOWN HIGH SCHOOL”

“Last year, our auxiliary won best in show at ACCs, and this year, we’ve gained a dozen color guard members. We didn’t have enough flags and rifles to go around, we had to buy more. You see what I’m getting at here?”

“We don’t need more color guard.”

“I just think you should take the time to consider your talents, and how you can best use those talents to serve the rest of the band. That’s all.” Mr. McDowell returns to his swivel chair. “Let me ask you something. Know how many of our seniors this year play trumpet?”

“Not really.”

“Half,” Mr. McDowell says to me, answering his own question. “Jake, Malcolm, Ken, Cody, Noah, Stephen, Miles, and Pat. Know what I think? I think you should take trumpet lessons this season, hone your skills in jazz band this spring, and by next summer, you’ll be an essential member of this band.”

“I-”

“What do you think?”

“I-”

“We have a deal?”

“…Sure.”

“Great. Talk to Ken, he’ll get you started with a trumpet and some lessons.”

“Shouldn’t I talk to Miles? Isn’t he the section leader?”

Mr. McDowell swivels back around to his computer. “Talk to Ken, he’ll help you out. And hurry, we’re heading out in ten.”

I do what he says.

Being outgoing is exhausting.

“Ken?”

Ken jumps a little. I don’t think he noticed me.

“I’m sorry!” I say. “Mr. McDowell wanted me to talk to you about learning the trumpet for next year?”

To Ken’s credit, he only looks a little befuddled. “You are learning trumpet?”

I nod, unsure.

A big, bright smile lights up Ken’s face. “Very cool! Follow me.” 

I follow Ken into the band closet.

Sylvia and Troy spot me with Ken. Sylvia rolls her eyes and shakes her head. I can’t hear what Troy is saying to her, but he definitely looks relieved.

“You have a trumpet teacher?” Ken kneels in front of me, clicking open little cases. Most of the trumpets Ken shows me are dinged up, or just plain ugly. “You like this one?”

He pushes over a case much like all the others with a silver trumpet inside. I examine the weathered valves. There are blemishes along the bell.

“You have a trumpet teacher?” He asks me again.

“A teacher? No. No, not yet.”

Ken nods, closes the case, and stands up. He hands me my new instrument.

“What are you doing tonight?” He asks me.

I take the case from him, surprised by how light it feels.

“Tonight? Umm, nothing.”

“Ask your parents to come over to my house, I’ll teach you the basics. It’ll be fun.”

“Oh! Umm…”

“What’s your number?”

“My number?”

Ken already has his phone out.

“Three-oh… Three-oh-two…”

“Time to head out!”

Both of us come to attention at the sound of Mr. McDowell’s announcement.

“We’ve got the whole day ahead of us!”

That’s right, an entire 12-hour day…

I finish giving Ken my number and watch as he rejoins the trumpet section.

Trumpet players are kind of like the jocks of marching band. A few of them even play baseball and soccer in the spring. Nothing wrong with that, but Ken isn’t like the rest of them. He ran back under a threatening sky just to help me with the marimba, not because I needed the help, but because I was too lazy to pull it myself.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s Ken.

Hi!

It’s Ken!

You can go home with me after practice!