“I might, but…”
“Isn’t there any reward for that? Where’s the loyalty you’re always talking about?” I wonder if I’ve overplayed my hand or if my argument even works. Should I just go to the bus, collect my things, and write off the past six months as a ‘learning experience?’
“You want me to go against the Mick, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“You do realize he is the one who hires me every season, right? So technically, he’s the one who could get me fired? There aren’t a lot of awesome Instructor gigs out there, Julia. What I’ve done here has taken years of work.”
I didn’t think about Wade’s role like that. I guess I am asking for a lot, but there has to be some way I can get into uniform. Feeling the opportunity sliding away from me, I ask, “Could I just at least warm up with everyone? The Mick didn’t say anything about me not warming up.”
“Julia…”
Real tears glitter in my eyes, “Wade, please?”
He hesitates for the longest time, before finally answering, “Fine, I’ll talk to him and ask, but Julia, I have to say I’m really disappointed in you. Why didn’t you just tell me about your show?”
“Here’s the thing, Wade. First of all, my band is my thing. I don’t mind the whole group mentality in the Line, in fact, I think it’s necessary, but you knew when I joined this Line I was a set player. It’s the one thing I could keep to myself. Being in a band kept my sanity to be able to play whatever notes I wanted at whatever stick heights I felt like. To crash cymbals madly and not have anyone tell me not to. To do whatever visuals I feel like. To be an individual and add my own flair and imprint on the music. Plus, I already knew what your response would be if I told you about my gig. I knew that you would…”
Wade cuts me off, “…you think I would’ve done what the Mick did, and not let you play? That I would’ve made you choose one or the other?”
I shuffle my feet, and reply, “Basically, yeah.”
Wade kind of stares off for another long minute and finally says, “Is that really what you guys think of me?”
I’m not sure if this is a hypothetical question or not. Knowing my mouth usually gets me in trouble, I decide it’s best to see if Wade will answer the question himself. I guess it must be tough sometimes being an instructor. I know Wade would do anything for us – I don’t question that for a second, and we would do the same for him, but it’s not like he’s our friend or anything. I see how the other instructors are with their sections, and I have to admit that sometimes I wish we had a little more of that camaraderie.
Since neither of us has spoken, I guess it’s my turn to talk. I say noncommittally, “I mean, I can’t speak for everyone…”
“You know, maybe that’s my problem.”
Wade is admitting a problem. Wait a minute, has the universe imploded?
He continues, “I thought after we lost last year at PASIC, this season I would have to be even harder and even tougher with you guys. So, obviously, that’s what I did. But I think I’m starting to see that maybe that’s not the way I should instruct. Maybe there’s a better balance.”
I point out the obvious, “Listen, Wade, you didn’t lose at PASIC last year, you got second place! Any Line in the country would be super proud of that!”
“I guess.”
“I’ve seen the tapes. I think you’re worried about the wrong thing.”
“Maybe.”
“And while I agree you probably could have a little more balance in your instruction, did you ever think maybe that’s just how you do things? At the end of the day, we’d all rather be better percussionists because you were a little tougher on us.”
“You think?”
“I don’t know, Wade, put yourself in my shoes. If I tell you ‘yes,’ then you’ll probably keep on being the same, and not let me compete tonight. If I tell you ‘no,’ then I’m not really sure what you’re reaction will be. All I’m saying is yes, you could go a little easier on us, but don’t go questioning your whole instruction technique.”
There’s another beat, where we just stand there, watching people walk by. Not looking at me, Wade says, “I’m not promising anything, but I will go and talk to the Mick. Until then, do not talk about this to anyone.”
“I promise. Thank you, Wade.”
Trying to take a step back from things, I realize sometimes you can’t have your cake and eat it too. Performing last night with Beans and Cornbread was a sacrifice I had made – my choice – and I wouldn’t take it back for anything. I had made my decision at the expense, unfortunately, of marching, and would have to suck it up and deal with the consequences.
Denny tucks his arm around me and pulls me close, “How’d it go?”
“We’ll just have to see what happens.”
The afternoon flies by. I buy all sorts of fun souvenirs and eat tons of junk food, trying to keep my mind off of the subject of whether or not I’m going to perform tonight. Far too soon, it’s time for us to meet up with the rest of the band. I try and play it cool by avoiding Mr. Mickelson every time I see him. Finally, Wade appears and motions me over. Given his unreadable poker face, I have no idea what I’m in for. I’ve been trying to prepare myself for the fact I’m not going to be able to perform tonight. I thought I was okay with the situation, but now, seeing everyone in uniform, I’m slowly starting to unravel.
“Yes?” I try and keep the hope out of my voice.
“Because the word hasn’t gotten out about your picture or where you were last night, I convinced Mr. Mickelson you can do the warm up.”
I literally am in mid-motion to jump up and down, when Wade’s hand clamps on my shoulder and he growls, “Be cool – remember, no one needs to know.”
“Thank you!”
As I sprint to change into my uniform, Denny asks me, “So?”
“I can warm up.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“I know it is – but I have to respect their decision and hope they let me compete in the future.”
* * *
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: …There’s a Way, (Straight into a Judge)
As we gather for the warm up, it is difficult not to notice the various whispers from onlookers regarding Denny and his busted leg. It obviously looks weird that the section leader is using quint stands, kind of out of uniform and leaning to one side with crutches on the ground. And yet, I don’t think I have ever been more proud of him. I knew he had to be in pain, but you would never know it looking at him.
Since this warm up is all I am going to get, I try and take it all in. All other senses aside – it is really about the sounds. I hear the cleanest warm up and run through ever – our section sounds like one. From nearby, I can hear the band play through Champions, a chorale meant for tuning, but a medley which always brings chills down my arms. How am I going to be content watching this from the sidelines?
Apparently, the universe takes this exact moment to pay attention to my little plea. One minute we are warming up, then, unexpectedly while Wade was tunes my quints, he was leans over, and in a very low voice, tells me to walk down to the field with everyone else. Putting his drum key away and moving onto Stan, I wonder if I’ve heard something, or if I’ve worked myself into such an emotional frenzy I’ve actually willed what I wanted into existence.
As we walk over to where the rest of the Westlake marching Warriors are gathered, Wade comes up beside me and says, “Keep your head down out there, Julia, and make me proud.”
I can only nod. I knew Wade was potentially sacrificing a lot for me and was very touched by the gesture. Maybe I hadn’t given my Instructor enough credit. I decide if shit really hits the fan, I would convince Mr. Mickelson that it was all my idea and not my instructor’s to go on the field.
Denny leans in and asks quietly, “What was that about?”
Still a bit in shock, I reply, “He said I could play.”
Unfortunately, it’s time for my section leader and his busted kne
e to ride down with the Pit and their equipment to the field, but not before he whispers in my ear, “You’re going to do great.”
Joining the remainder of my section and the rest of the band, we collectively march and gather in the back of the field. It’s so weird not marching on our home field. Everything I take for granted – hash marks, the stands, placement of what I’m used to is gone. Suddenly, there’s a foreign crowd looking at us. Then I realize everyone watching is here to support us and I begin to look forward to our performance.
An intense McDaniel keeps time with notes on his snare, and we walk out onto the field. The instant reaction from the crowd is enough to send goosebumps down my arms – how could I have missed this? How cool is Wade for giving me a chance?
I try not to get nervous about how exactly we are going to adjust the entire show with Denny not being there, but suddenly, calmness comes over me. Stan sends me a supportive wink and it seems like there’s no real reason to worry. We’ve practiced so much I know our instincts will just kick in. Over the loudspeaker, an announcer’s voice lists the section leaders and instructors.
“Dress center dress!” Kimberley’s voice calls out.
We all make adjustments accordingly, and the opening set sharpens into focus.
The announcer’s booming voice asks, “Drum major, is your band ready to take the field for competition?”
We must be, because the next thing I know, the crowd is clapping for the drum major’s salute and the show has begun! The performance, to me, is a blur. Well, it’s blurry up until a particular point.
I hit a judge.
Like, seriously, I nail him.
The event happens right after the drum solo and to me, it is in slow motion. Kimberley has brought down her hands for the downbeat of the next song, and we, well, the Battery, at least, have to haul ass backwards. As we make the turn to go back field, starting with 5th bass and ending with me – the last quint, it is to my extreme horror I realize – way too late – there is a judge right behind me. Quincy and I (and all our momentum) slam into the poor judge – who goes down.
Hard.
Now, this wouldn’t have been as bad, had it not been for the fact that we were really close to the front of the field. I don’t think anyone missed it. Seriously, I couldn’t have timed my collision any better if I had a spotlight pointed on me.
Everyone in the stands takes a collective breath. Knowing I will be completely lost if I even pause for a second, I break my drumline grimace, quickly mouth the words ‘I’m sorry’ and back march as if my life depended on it to catch up with everyone. I’m not sure whether or not I should laugh or cry. In a single moment, I have broken my promise to Wade, probably gotten us disqualified, and made sure the Mick knew I was performing.
Somehow I make it through the rest of the show. The crowd is on their feet by the time we finish the closer. I want to be wrapped up in the joy of it, but it is really hard to do, knowing I was about to have my precious Quincy stripped from me, fail in Advanced Percussion, and probably be sued by the poor judge.
Wait a minute, how is the judge? In the shock and horror of what I had done, I hadn’t thought past much the whole me knocking him down. I hope he had been able to get up and out of the way after I sent him sprawling. After all, getting knocked over by tenors, then crushed by Sousaphones would be a terrible way to die.
Committed to our performance, no one talks until we were completely off the pitch – and then all pandemonium breaks out.
“That was awesome!”
“I’ve never seen anything like that before in my life!”
“You’re a legend.”
Even McDaniel is all smiles.
Wait, what?! I was actually getting props for knocking over a judge? What sort of place was this? Had I missed something?
For any who might have missed my moment of shame (glory?), Stan retells my story, “So, she’s doing the backwards spin and the guys face is like ‘aaahhh!’ and she’s all ‘oh crap’ and then he fell down. Dude, it was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen!”
Denny finally comes hobbling over to join us, and seeing my face, laughs heartily before explaining himself, “We never told you, did we?”
“Told me what?”
“It’s completely okay if you hit a judge on the field. Basically, they are supposed to be out of your way and non-existent, so don’t worry, it’s not like points off or anything.”
“Really? Well, someone could’ve told me that!”
“It honestly didn’t occur to me because the situation doesn’t happen all that often.” Noticing I am still completely distraught, he says, “If it happens again, all you have to do is yell, ‘Drill!’ and it usually gets the job done.”
Finally understanding what I’ve done will surround me in legend, I start to giggle and say, “It was pretty cool wasn’t it?”
“From the reaction in the stands, I’d have to agree. I can’t wait to see it on tape – or listen to his tape!”
I catch Mr. Mickelson looking for someone (most likely, me) and duck away, asking Denny, “Duh, I haven’t even asked you yet, how did you do up front?”
“It was a bit weird, because it felt like a complete solo – especially when you guys were backfield, but I think it all worked out. I’m really glad I got to play.”
I tuck my arm into his and say, “I’m glad you did too.”
We make our way to the equipment truck to unload our instruments and continue chatting about the show. Suddenly, I feel a hand on my shoulder. Releasing a deep breath, I know my time is up – the Mick has finally found me. My short marching career is going to be cut dramatically short. I turn around slowly, not surprised at all to see my band director.
“Julia, we need to talk.”
“I know.”
“Please find me after the awards ceremony.”
With that, he walks away. Again, I have to question if some sort of strange astrological event has aligned since my moving to the Westlake school district.
* * *
CHAPTER THIRTY: Adjudication
As Mr. Mickelson wanders off with one of the band parents, like a scene from a film, everyone clears away, and Wade stands in front of me, arms crossed. I gulp. Ironically, in the span of twenty minutes, we have gone from ‘make me proud’ to my complete and total failure of following that instruction. Like, I could not have ignored what he said more if I tried.
I open my mouth and immediately launch into an apology, “The thing is, I didn’t know he was going to be there, I mean, I just turned around and—”
“Julia…”
“—there he was, like right behind me, and I’m all ‘Dude, could you get out of my way?’ except I can’t talk because we’re in the middle of the show. But you—”
“Julia!”
“—should be so proud of me, because even though I was freaking out, I still made it through the show, I mean Denny wasn’t even—”
“JULIA!!!”
“Yes, sir?”
“If you would stop talking for approximately two seconds, I’d like to tell you a few things.”
“Yes?”
Wade puts an arm around my shoulders and we walk off to the side of the rest of the band, “What you don’t know is I’m not mad at you. I realize what happened on the field was both a case of circumstance and your ironic bad luck. In fact, I probably set you up for this whole thing by telling you to ‘make me proud.’”
“Really?”
He looks around a minute to see if anyone is listening in, satisfied that no one is, he continues, “The other thing you don’t know is that everyone in this band, well, all the management at least, hate the judge you hit. He’s the judge who stopped us from winning Sweepstakes a few years ago for an entire season.”
Now that sounds like an interesting story. My interest piqued, I ask, “What happened?”
Wade smiles to himself and explains, “Allegedly, the rumor has it going back to when the Mick and the judge were both in colleg
e they both liked the same girl. Well, that girl is actually now a very happy Mrs. Mickelson. When Mrs. M showed up at the competition, the judge went off the deep end a little bit, and decided he was going to take every opportunity to really stick it to the band.”
“Can he do that?”
“It’s not like we could prove it or anything. We just kept trying to make the show better and better, but each time he would ‘find’ something to take off points for.”
“So?”
“So, I have a feeling that this is a bit of karma coming back to said judge. When Mr. Mickelson and I saw him out on the field today, we got a bit worried. Of course, I’m sure he’s going to find some sort of obscure ruling about students coming in contact with a judge, but I wouldn’t be too concerned about what the Mick is going to do.”
Remembering the look on my band director’s face from earlier, I’m really not sure if I believe my instructor. Instead, I ask, “Are you going to do anything?”
Wade is quiet for longer than I feel is necessary, before finally answering, “I’ll let you in on a little secret. My rookie year in Crown, I hit a judge during one of our first performances – just like you did. I don’t even know how I managed to stay up. The next day, well, I think you’ll get everything coming to you tomorrow.”
“That’s all?”
“I think you’ve been through enough today, Julia. You played a great show, and that’s all I can really ask for.”
I am so shocked, I walk in silence next to my Instructor.
He pulls me in close for just a moment and says, “You could say ‘thank you, Wade.’”
“Th-thank you, Wade.”
“You’re welcome.”
With that, Wade walks over to talk to McDaniel while I slide in between the rest of my section, glad for their presence. Denny glances down at me to make sure everything is okay and I give him a quick thumbs up. We haven’t been sitting too long when an announcement comes over the loudspeakers, “Will representatives from the bands please take the field for awards?”
Confessions of a Teenage Band Geek Page 18