“I did,” he replied. “But I was on the bench most of fourth quarter, and Coach said I could come up here.”
“Fight song!” Mr. Dante called again, and Aaron lifted his trumpet.
“Any stuck valves?” I said teasingly. He laughed, making a show of pressing each one.
“Nope! All good.”
Grinning, I faced front again and realized Natasha and Gabby were watching me and giggling. Gabby gave me a little thumbs-up, and I pressed my lips together so I wouldn’t laugh.
Outside the stadium, Julia, Natasha, and I waited for Mr. Gordon to pick us up. My parents passed us in their car, waving out the windows. Rolling my eyes, I waved back.
“You guys are going to Spins, right?” Gabby joined us, holding a newly opened box of Red Hots.
“Yup! Are you?” I asked.
“Let’s see . . . pepperoni pizza, or my mom’s leftover cabbage soup?” Gabby tilted her head, pretending to consider it. “Yeah, I’m coming.”
We laughed, and then Natasha let out a little cry.
“Here comes Aaron,” she hissed, nudging me. “Ask him to come.”
“What? No!” I hissed back, toying with my turtle necklace. ( Julia and I had found a dolphin one online and ordered it for Natasha’s birthday so we could all match.)
“Come on, just do it!” Julia whispered. “A bunch of people are going; it’s not just us.”
“No. No way.”
“Holly,” Natasha whined. “Just do it. Do it do it do it—”
“Oh, for the love . . .” Rolling her eyes, Gabby poked Aaron in the arm with her saxophone as he passed us. “Hey, we’re going to Spins. Want to come?”
I wanted to disappear right on the spot. Not because Gabby invited him, but because Julia and Natasha were looking at me and giggling and my face was burning and oh my God it was all just so. Totally. Obvious.
But Aaron just grinned. “Sure! I’ll be there.”
Thankfully, Gabby waited until he was out of earshot before turning to me with a satisfied smirk. “You’re welcome,” she said, popping a few Red Hots into her mouth. I tried to look mad and failed, mostly because I couldn’t stop smiling like an idiot.
“There’s my dad!” Julia said, and I saw Mr. Gordon’s little blue Honda pull up to the curb. “Bye, Gabby!”
“See you in a few minutes!” Gabby waved as we ran toward the parking lot. Julia opened the trunk and we tossed our cases inside. Opening the back door, I slid into the middle seat, and Julia plopped down next to me. Natasha squeezed in on my other side and shut the door, and Mr. Gordon glanced at us in the rearview mirror.
“What, no one wants to sit up front with me?”
“Nope!” Julia said, laughing.
Mr. Gordon grinned at me. “Are you all right in the middle there? You’re looking kind of . . . squished.”
I shrieked as Julia and Natasha squeezed me in on either side. “I’m good!” I managed to gasp out between giggles.
He laughed. “If you say so.”
They were still trying to tickle me as we pulled out of the stadium parking lot and headed to Spins, but I didn’t mind being in the middle one bit.
Acknowledgments
First, a huge thank-you to my editor and fellow band geek, Jordan Hamessley—the only person in the publishing industry I’ve met who loves sharing stories about halftime shows, spit-valve mishaps, and which Texas marching band won state a decade ago as much as I do. And an equally huge thanks to Sarah Fabiny for taking a chance on me with this series.
To my agent and fellow musician, Sarah Davies, for years of constant support, advice, and encouragement. (I hate to publicly blow her cover, but she’s actually Superwoman.)
To art director and designer extraordinaires Giuseppe Castellano and Mallory Grigg for the mind-boggling amount of work they put into this series, and for letting me be involved in the incredible process. And to illustrator Genevieve Kote, whose work really is pitch-perfect.
To four of the most talented writers and supportive friends I’ve ever known—Amanda Hannah, Kate Hart, Kirsten Hubbard, and Kaitlin Ward—for the critiques, the encouragement, the snark, the random, the fursplosions, the pep talks, the inspiration, and on and on and on.
To my parents, John and Mary, and my sister, Heather—to say you’ve been supportive just doesn’t do it justice. Maybe it’s better to say thank you for not thinking I’m completely insane . . . or if you did think so, thank you for not saying it.
To Josh, for playing music with me, running around the world with me, and encouraging me when I decided to try telling stories for a living. And to Adi, for being the best lab assistant ever.
Lastly, to every band geek I taught, taught with, or was taught by—thank you. Also, the characters in this book are fictional and are not based on any of you. Mostly.
Be sure to pick up
Turn the page for a sneak peek!
Winning isn’t everything.
I tell myself that a lot. Sometimes I believe it, too.
Like with friendships—that’s a red light. Getting too competitive with a friend is a good way to make an enemy.
Then there’s stuff like band—yellow light. Proceed with caution. Winning is great, but it’s not the only thing that matters.
And then there’s video games, like Prophet Wars—major green light. It’s total galaxy-wide domination or go home.
The problem is, everything’s a green light for me, at least at first. It’s like an instinct. That’s why, when my band director decided to make our fund-raiser a competition, my first thought was that my bandmates were going down like an alien airship flying over my level-three jungle subterranean missile silo.
What? Maybe winning isn’t everything, but it’s still pretty awesome.
It was fourth period at Millican Middle School, which meant I was in the band hall for advanced band rehearsal. Last week, Mr. Dante had announced that we would be going to New Orleans for a band contest in March. And that meant four days of staying up late in hotel rooms, competing at a big band contest at an amusement park, and missing classes. To help pay for the trip, the band was going to hold a bake sale.
Mr. Dante pushed his glasses up his nose and looked around the band hall. “As some of you might know, our girls’ volleyball team is in the playoffs,” he said. “Three of their tournaments are going to be held in our gym, and Coach Reyes has agreed to allow us to sell concessions during the games. We’re going to split into teams—woodwind, brass, and percussion.” He held up a finger when Derrick Adler raised his hand from where he stood behind a xylophone.
“Don’t worry,” Mr. Dante said. “I’m aware that this isn’t an even match as far as how many students are on each team. That’s why I’m not judging this by the total amount of money you make. Instead, the winning section will be the one that averages the most money raised per student. The important thing here is that you work together as a team.”
On my right, Natasha Prynne raised her hand. “What does the winning section get?” she asked, and I couldn’t help but grin. Natasha was pretty much as competitive as me, which was why she sat next to me as first chair in our section. She was also one of my best friends. (See? I could handle not winning. Sometimes.)
“Glad you asked,” Mr. Dante said, smiling. “The section that wins will actually get two prizes. First, they’ll get to decide on the final design for the new T-shirts I’m going to order for our trip to New Orleans.”
Trevor Wells’s hand shot up. “You mean like we can pick any design at all?” he asked. I rolled my eyes. Knowing Trevor, he was probably picturing us in band T-shirts covered in wizards or dragons or something equally lame.
“Within reason,” Mr. Dante told him. “As for the other prize . . .” He cleared his throat. “At my last school, I had a tradition of dressing as Santa to conduct the advanced band at the winter conc
ert.”
“Santa?” Gabby Flores said in disbelief, then caught herself and raised her hand. Mr. Dante nodded at her. “Santa?” she repeated, and several kids giggled. “Are you serious? Why?”
“Because I’m a jolly person,” Mr. Dante said with a perfectly straight face. Now I was laughing, too.
Mr. Dante looked a little miffed. “Anyway, I thought maybe I could start a new tradition here at Millican. I’ll still dress as Santa at the winter concert, but the winning section can choose to alter or add to my costume however they’d like.” He paused. “Again, within reason.”
A voice behind me caused my stomach to flutter. “You mean, we could make you zombie Santa?” asked Aaron Cook, and several students laughed.
“That’s the idea,” Mr. Dante replied. “But—”
“Vampire Santa!” exclaimed Sophie Wheeler.
Gabby grinned. “Hippie Santa!”
My best friend, Julia Gordon, caught my eye from the clarinet section. “How about Mrs. Claus?” she called with a wicked grin, and everyone cracked up.
Mr. Dante held his hands up, but he was smiling, too. “Whatever the costume, it has to be approved by the band boosters. And speaking of,” he added, holding up a stack of papers, “I need you all to take these home to your parents. We’ll need a few of them to volunteer, both at the volleyball games and with any baking your section does.”
Natasha leaned closer to me as he passed out the papers. “Not good. I tried baking cookies once—we ended up feeding them to the neighbor’s dog,” she whispered, and I grinned.
“Hang on, I’ve got an idea.” After making sure Mr. Dante was still handing out papers, I leaned back and reached behind Brooke Dennis, tapping Owen Reynolds on the shoulder.
Owen was fourth-chair horn. His real talent was drawing. Well, that and Prophets. We hung out at his house every Thursday afternoon to blow up virtual aliens. Last week, his mom had made us these amazing cream-cheese brownies to celebrate that we finally got to level four.
“Do you think your mom could help us?” I asked softly. “Those brownies, maybe?”
Owen nodded. “I’ll ask her.”
Smiling, I turned back to Natasha. “Owen’s mom will help us. I know she’ll say yes.”
“Cool,” said Natasha. “Hey, how are you doing on the all-region music?”
Wrinkling my nose, I pulled Fugue in F Minor out of my folder and set it on my music stand. “Not bad. I’m still having trouble near the end, right here,” I said, pointing.
Natasha nodded. “Yeah, that part’s really hard. Want to work on it together sometime?”
Mr. Dante was getting back up on the podium, so I just nodded in response. All-region auditions were in a few weeks. Band students from all seven middle schools in the Oak Point School District could audition to be in one of the two all-region bands. In February, they’d get to miss an entire day of school to go to rehearsal with a guest conductor, and then they’d perform at a concert.
Two bands meant a total of eight French horn spots, and who knew how many horn players in the district would be auditioning. It would be tough to make it, but Natasha and I were going to try. Especially since Mr. Dante had decided that the all-region results would count as our next chair test.
Natasha grabbed her pencil and scrawled something on the bottom of my étude.
Tomorrow after school?
I gave her a thumbs-up.
While Mr. Dante tuned the flutes one at a time, I studied the étude, tapping my fingers. Natasha was an amazing horn player and a good friend, but all-region was a yellow light, and I was going to do my best to make it.
“I swear, Holly, I’m still having nightmares.”
I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing. Julia glared at me.
“I’m serious!” she cried. “You said it wouldn’t be that scary.”
“No, I said it wouldn’t be that gory,” I replied, grinning. Last weekend for Halloween, my brother Chad and I went to the Asylum—ranked the third-best haunted house in Austin. And since he was meeting a bunch of his friends there, I’d convinced him to let me bring Julia and Natasha, too.
Or maybe drag would be a better word.
“The worst part was the clowns,” Julia said, shuddering as we skirted around a group of eighth- grade girls and headed into C-hall.
“Really?” I asked. “I thought the scariest part was when we were crammed in that tiny room and the guy crawled across the ceiling.”
Julia stopped, her eyes round. “What?”
“You don’t remember?”
She started walking again, brow furrowed. “I remember the tiny room, and I remember the scratching noises. But I had my eyes closed.”
I smiled. “That’s probably a good thing.”
“Someone crawled across the ceiling? Over our heads?” I didn’t respond, and Julia groaned. “Never again, Holly. Seriously.”
A flyer on the wall right outside the computer lab caught my eye. “Hey, look!” I grabbed Julia’s arm and pointed.
“Oh yeah, the winter dance!” she exclaimed. “I totally forgot to tell you, I saw them putting up flyers in the gym today, too.”
“Really?” I gave her an innocent look as we headed to our computers. “During PE?”
Julia rolled her eyes, blushing. “Yes, during PE. And no, I didn’t talk to Seth.”
I pressed the power button on my computer, then swiveled my chair around to face Julia. “You should ask him to the dance.”
She snorted. “Yeah, right.”
“I’m serious!” I insisted. “He likes you, Julia. But he’s so shy, he’ll never ask.”
I didn’t know Seth Anderson really well. We had math together in sixth grade, but he hardly ever talked. All I knew about him was that he played cello in the orchestra and he couldn’t say hi to my best friend without stammering.
Julia shook her head as she typed in her password. “Probably. But that doesn’t make it any easier for me to ask him.”
“What’s so hard?” I said. “‘Hey, Seth, would you go to the winter dance with me?’ Done.”
Julia gave me a withering look. “Okay, if it’s so easy, why don’t you do it?”
I blinked. “Ask Seth to the dance for you? That’s—”
“No!” Julia interrupted, laughing. “I mean ask Aaron, you dork.”
Now it was my turn to blush. I’d had a crush on Aaron since the first day of seventh grade. Okay, fine, since last year. But it was still a huge accomplishment when I managed to talk to him without turning tomato red. That was his fault, though. Him and his dark brown eyes. And his smile with the creases like parentheses in his cheeks. And his—
“Hello?” Julia waved her hand in front of my face, giggling when I jumped. “So, yes or no?”
“Yes or no what?”
“You know what. Will you ask him?” She arched an eyebrow. “Since it’s so easy and all.”
Ugh. She was right—the thought of asking Aaron to the winter dance made me kind of nauseated.
But a tiny part of me was excited at the thought, too. I tapped my fingers on the arm of my chair.
“The dance isn’t till December,” I said, thinking out loud. “It’s too early to ask anyone.”
“True.”
“So how’s this,” I went on. “We make a pact.”
“Why do I get the feeling I’m not going to like this?” Julia closed her eyes like she was bracing herself.
“We wait till Thanksgiving break,” I said. “If Seth hasn’t asked you, you’ll ask him. Same with me and Aaron. Deal?”
Julia squinted at me with one eye. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Come on!” I said encouragingly. “Thanksgiving’s not for a month. Plenty of time to prepare.”
“You’ll really do it, though?” Julia asked. “If I ask
Seth to the dance, you’ll ask Aaron?”
I smiled, ignoring the butterflies flapping around my stomach. “Yeah, I’ll do it.”
“Okay.” Julia grinned at me. “It’s a deal.”
About the Author
Michelle Schusterman is a former band director and forever band geek, starting back in the sixth grade when she first picked up a pair of drumsticks. Now she writes books, screenplays, and music in New York City, where she lives with her husband (and bandmate) and their chocolate Lab (who is more of a vocalist).
I Heart Band Page 14