𝓦𝓱𝓮𝓷 𝓦𝓸𝓻𝓭𝓼 𝓕𝓪𝓲𝓵, 𝓜𝓾𝓼𝓲𝓬 𝓢𝓹𝓮𝓪𝓴𝓼

First Encounters

          I walk to the entrance of my new school, carrying nothing but a water bottle and my phone. There's two weeks before school opens, and I quickly walk to the band room, where I meet the familiar faces I saw in March, when I was completing eighth grade. I showed up a little early.

          "Wait until nine; we have to perform in the auditorium real quick." A girl with curly hair and glasses assures me.

          I follow her and several other people- who also seem to be performing in the auditorium- to the entrance of the auditorium. There, I meet some other familiar faces. They scolded me for wearing Crocs instead of tennis shoes.

          I swore to never wear crocs to marching band again.

          A few minutes went by, and a boy shows up. He looks to be about my age- he seems rather quiet, and had gorgeous shoulder-length hair. Everybody greets him, and continues discussing plans for the quick performance. At last, they march onto the bottom of the auditorium's stage, and play a few songs, impressing all the adults that were there. Once the assembly was over, the adults flocked out of the room while I decided to hold the doors for them. Then rehearsal had begun.

          I had only decided to start coming to rehearsals in late July- mainly because I didn't want to go to any rehearsal, I wanted to enjoy my break. I quickly caught up fortunately.

          I met our drum tech: Mr. McNeil. He helped us with some marching techniques, made sure we understood our music, put us in sectionals, and overall was an amazing instructor that one week.

          I met our second drum tech: Mr. T. Everybody calls him Mr. T., and I don't remember his full name. He's best known for working with front ensemble rather than drumline.

          I finish setting up, and wait for everyone else to set up. As they do, I look around the room and observe my other members. A boy caught my eye; he looked much younger than the rest of us did, and I wondered who this kid could be. I didn't think much of it, since my thoughts were quickly driven away by the sound of Mr. McNeil's voice. We go over our sheet music and rehearse for a couple minutes, and I learned the basics of everything we needed to know. I got to know some of my members, and I got to know them pretty well.

          In eighth grade, I shadowed a girl in nineth grade, to see what an IB student went through in nineth grade. She had dropped me off in percussion band because I was in it in middle school. I was greeted by Mr. Sims- the old band director, and was told to sit. I sat in my chair and watched as everybody scrambled to play their instruments. Then, we noticed a specific person not being able to play a note on his timpani. Mr. Sims calls me up to see if I could play it. I walk up, embarrassment and nervousness showering over me, and all that goes away when I realize I successfully played the note. 

          "An eighth grader can play better than you," Mr. Sims spoke. "You're a senior in high school!" A smile crept onto my face, and I laughed.

          When I met my members again, they informed me that I have gone down in percussion history, all because I played three notes better than a senior.

          "You have a great reputation here." They said.

          I knew when I first met them I was going to like it here.

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