Marching season is out, but the competition is only heating up.
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Section leader applications for the next marching band season at Halston University are officially open, and percussionist Bay Rodriguez wants the role.
Bay's only competition is Ca...
verb. immediately smothering a cymbal by muffling it with a hand.
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PART OF THE HALSTON UNIVERSITY'S Music Department's yearly routine is to hold a recital for local high schools to bring their music students or prospective graduates. Halston wants to pique interest and secure new recruits among the high school seniors, which purportedly can be done with a series of trending songs that social media has appropriated for their memes.
Christian's high school is one of the attendants, and so is the Carsonville Academy, where I graduated from. There are three other schools from the wider Halston area, but I'm focusing on the contrast between the former two: a public school without a uniform, rowdy kids herded into the Choral Hall by frazzled, caffeinated teachers; and a private school with demure, polished children in crisp blue blazers, heavy black Oxfords, teachers like penitentiary staff.
Across the heads of the Halston Student Orchestra, I catch Quen's eye, who's sitting in the first flute chair, flick my eyes to the Academy crowd, and put a finger gun to my temple. He chuckles and nods, wordlessly gleaning my sentiment about our alma mater and agreeing.
Further in the crowd, I see Christian's pale face in the front of the audience. He's not a musical child, but he is enrolled in a music theory elective this semester. That class earned him a spot at this recital, and he wouldn't say no to a day off school. When he first found out he was coming to watch me play, he said (over a phone call): "Don't let anyone know we're related. Don't embarrass me, please, and just treat me like any other member of the audience."
Is this why parents reminisce about how loving their children used to be, and decry how distant they become as teenagers? Because, damn, it stings. However, now, perched at the drum kit, I feel the uncontrollable and embarrassing urge to wave and yell Christian's name and pull faces at him, and I kind of get his point. I'm an uncool sibling by virtue of being a sibling.
The HSO is performing first, and then Shane, Maria and I are going to get into our marching battery in preparation for the pep band's set. Keller steps up to her conductor's podium, baton rolling in circles to rouse the orchestra into a concert G for tuning. As we play through our selected pieces, I can't help but notice Christian sitting with his schoolmates. One of the boys sitting in the row behind leans in to whisper something in his ear, and it makes him flinch. Another slumps slightly lower in his seat so he can kick his dirty sneakers into Christian's calves. He glances at the teacher but she doesn't notice. The group of them laugh, Christian stoically sets his jaw and tries not to respond. Blood roars into my ears, blocking out all the sounds of the music. It's a marvel I can even register when my entries are, because I'm deafened by anger.
