Notes From An Accidental Band Geek by Erin Dionne Page A

band moms grabbed people who had uniform problems. Jake nudged me and pointed to a big note on the whiteboard:
    DID YOU REMEMBER YOUR:
SHOES
HAT
INSTRUMENT
SOCKS?
    DON’T FORGET—ALL FACIAL JEWELRY AND EARRINGS MUST BE REMOVED FOR PARADE INSPECTION!
    Underneath that last part, someone added: THIS MEANS YOU, PUNK!
    I laughed. In spite of the activity and busyness, I finally started to relax. It’s here, I thought. My first competition. It felt different from the umpteen zillion concerts and shows I’d played in before, and I couldn’t wait to see what it was like when we got to the stadium. We’d be competing against six other bands, but thirty would be performing, total.
    “The buses are here!” I’m not sure where the shout originated, but soon others picked it up and it ricocheted around the room. Then the chant began:
    “Hua! Hua! One-two-three!
    Hellcats movin’—get ready!
    We bring it bad,
    We bring it loud,
    Screamin’ Hellcats . . .
    We are proud!”
    Our section leaders had told us the bus protocol and that the freshmen would have to load the equipment truck, supervised by the drum line.
    After sweating with Hector—who was wearing a gray Star Wars Cantina Band T-shirt to mark the occasion—as we maneuvered the boxed-up marimba (kind of like a big xylophone on wheels, only with pedals like a piano) onto a lift on the outside of the truck, we grabbed our stuff and waited at the front of the band room for Sarah and Jake. They came out a few seconds later, Sarah muttering something about having to load the number five bass drum (our largest) by herself.
    Jake led us onto the last bus in the line, where the four of us snagged the front two seats.
    This is nothing like orchestra, I thought. In the other ensembles in which I’d performed, the audience came to us. We didn’t have to lug all of our stuff—we just showed up in “concert dress” (either white top and black skirt or pants, or black dress) and ready to play. We hadn’t even started the performance part of the day and I’d already done more heavy lifting and organizing for marching band than I ever did in orchestra! But in marching band, we didn’t have to jockey for chair position . . . and there was more than applause at stake tonight: A big, shiny trophy was up for grabs.
    It’s funny—since I never played sports when I was a little kid (it was hard to get me to come out from behind a music stand, even in elementary school), and music was less about competing with others and more about me competing with myself to be the best player I could, I never thought much about winning and losing. But the idea that the musical group I was a part of would be judged against other bands ? Well, that sparked a new competitive streak in me. All I wanted was to win that trophy—to be part of the best group on the field and have everyone know it.
    Sarah slid into the seat next to me. She’d stayed lukewarm toward me since I’d flipped out over being Miss Piggy, so I hoped this was a good sign. She gestured to the history book propped on my knees and asked if I was going to do the reading.
    “If I can stay awake long enough,” I said. As if on cue, I yawned so big my jaw cracked. She giggled.
    “Chicken, cock-a-doodle-do!” someone called, and jostled my shoulder. The bus was mostly empty and Steve was peering into my seat. I glared at him. Where was Sarah? Why hadn’t she woken me up? Was she still mad at me after all?
    “Get your stuff and get suited up! We’re due in warm-ups in twenty minutes!” He leaped off the bus.
    I grabbed my backpack of supplies and pulled the mellophone case out of the overhead rack. When I stepped off the bus into the crisp October sunshine, my hands tingled with adrenaline. My first competition!
    The girls’ changing area was between buses one and two. A band mom handed me my uniform bag and I found Sarah, who’d spread her towel on a grassy patch. But once I saw her, I didn’t know if I should approach her or