Notes From An Accidental Band Geek by Erin Dionne Page B

not. What should I say about the bus? Why did I care?
    “Hey! Sleeping Chicken!” She waved and called me over. “You were so out of it that I couldn’t bring myself to wake you up.”
    I smiled, more relieved than I expected to be. She made room next to her stuff, and I spread my towel and got my uniform out. Around us, other girls from band and color guard were getting decked out in their polyester finest, giggling or complaining over each piece of band-tastic clothing.
    As we changed, Sarah chatted about a fashion design elective that she wanted to take in the spring. She didn’t leave me much time to respond—I wouldn’t have really known what to say anyway—so I just nodded and smiled as she prattled. Her enthusiasm reminded me of when Alisha talked about dance, which I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed. It was nice to listen to someone else so into their “thing,” even if it wasn’t music-related.
    It was nice to have someone else to listen to , too.
    AJ’s whistle tweeted over everyone’s chatter. Time to line up. Sarah headed off with the rest of the color guard. I grabbed my hat, stuck the chicken-plume in the slot in the center front of it, and raced to the warm-up area.
    In uniform, we were intimidating. Thanks to the cut of the jackets and pants, it was nearly impossible to distinguish who was male or female, let alone identify individuals. We stood in our warm-up arc, and the serious and focused expressions on everyone’s faces reminded me of how classical musicians look before a performance. Even Punk, who I almost didn’t recognize without the nuts and bolts in his face, seemed intense. AJ warmed us up, then gave us basic instructions about the inspection, parade, group photos, and the downtime before the field show performance. By the time he finished explaining everything, butterflies had taken up residence in my stomach.
    “Remember,” AJ cautioned, “at inspection everything counts! A speck of lint on your pants will get points knocked off. A crooked hat—we lose a point. Earrings? Nose rings? Deductions. Not standing at attention properly? Instrument dirty? Mega points off. And they identify you based on your spot, so I will know who you are!”
    I don’t think anyone heard the last part. As AJ was speaking, a band as big as an army marched by to a military-style drum cadence. Their red-and-black uniforms, black hats and plumes gave them a menacing appearance, and every Hellcat watched as they passed. Their straight-backed drum major led their parade block with force and intensity. Awed, I couldn’t pull my eyes away.
    “That’s the Marching Minutemen of Revolutionary High,” Steve whispered to me. “They always kick our butts in the parade category, but I think we have their number for field show this year.” Their line seemed never-ending.
    “They’ve been selected to march in this year’s Darcy’s department store Thanksgiving parade,” Steve went on.
    Okay, that was impressive. Like most people in America, I watched the parade on Thanksgiving morning while my parents got ready for the holiday. What an honor for this group!
    I flashed back to the first day of band camp, when I thought all of this stuff was ridiculous. And, on some level, I knew that it kind of still was—especially to a real musician. But seeing the Minutemen sparked my competitive streak. So what if they were way bigger than us? Or louder? Or going to perform on national TV in a matter of weeks? We were going to kick their butt. I had a goal bigger than just playing my best— winning . I wanted that trophy! My heart pounded with excitement. I caught Jake’s eye across the arc and gave him a smile. He grinned back, and I felt happy and light—like one of those parade balloons.
    We formed our parade block—basically a rectangle, five people per row, and about a third smaller than the Minutemen—and AJ brought us to attention. I stood between Punk, who was in the center, and Steve, who marched on