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Confessions of a Teenage Band Geek
A Novel
By Courtney Brandt
Copyright 2011 Courtney Brandt
Published on Smashwords
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All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE: For Whom the Bell Tolls
CHAPTER THREE: Atypical Situations
CHAPTER FOUR: Battle of the Bands
CHAPTER FIVE: Blondie Saves the Day
CHAPTER SIX: Stuck in the Middle
CHAPTER TEN: Another Kind of Punishment
CHAPTER ELEVEN: Changing Partners
CHAPTER TWELVE: All Good Things Come to an End
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: The Best Defense is…
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: Pep Rally Improv
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: What Wade Needs
CHAPTER NINETEEN: It’s a Snap!
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: Arrangements
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: A Productive Junior Skip Day
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: Beautiful Disaster
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: Everybody’s Gotta Learn Sometime
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: Let’s Get These Teen Hearts Beating Faster
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: Didn’t See That One Coming
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: Liberty Strike Force
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: Where There’s a Will…
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: …There’s a Way, (Straight into a Judge)
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: Back to School
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: School House Rocks
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE: A Pair of Queens
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PROLOGUE: We’re Moving?!
I can’t believe it. I sit in shock.
In front of me, the two people who brought me into this world, who are supposed to love and comfort me, stare back. In an instant, my whole life up until this point – 15 years and 9 months – changes forever.
“Julia, you can’t sit there and not say anything.”
“Can’t I? Because apparently you can do anything you want without consulting my opinion.”
My dad’s jaw tenses and he responds, “As convincing as your argument is, the decision is not open for discussion. You can finish the school year and then we’re moving.”
As much as I want to cry and throw things at the wall, I know these techniques won’t change my parents’ mind. Furthermore, I’m not stupid. I know the world is a different place and if there’s a good job out there or an opportunity for my parents, we will just have to move to where it is. I may be an only child, but I’m not a complete brat. Knowing my parents (which, up until five minutes ago, I thought I did) they had already sold our house and were just waiting for me, their precious daughter to finish the semester so they could move on. No amount of acting like a five-year old was going to help the situation.
Excusing myself, I get up and say politely, “Obviously, I have some calls to make.”
I’m sure some other better adjusted teenagers would be all, “when life gives you lemons…” but I wasn’t in a very lemonade kind of place. Leaving the room, I dash outside with my cell phone and begin calling the four most important people in my life: Roman, Petey, Dominic, and Kat. In other words, my band. I convince them all to meet at our closest Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf in half an hour. Being all of sweet fifteen, I don’t have the legal ability to drive yet, so Roman, my kind of boyfriend, offers to pick me up.
Approximately one hour later (this is Southern California, after all, where it is almost impossible to get anywhere in a half hour), we sit around the table. Kat the mysterious. Dominic the dense. Petey the goof. Roman, the semi-charming. We are Jared in Shorts, your average unsigned punky-emo SoCal band. I’m not really into labels, so I would say we have a lot of influences and leave it at that. My iPod is an eclectic mash of genres ranging from Ke$ha to Garth Brooks.
Kat is the first to recover from my news and asks dramatically, “You’re doing what?”
“Personally, I’m not doing per se, it’s my parents that are.”
Dominic asks, “And you’re sure you have to go?”
Roman sits next to me with a smoldering look. He and I have only started a relationship, and now things are about to be prematurely terminated. Someone with a high cuteness factor like Roman isn’t going to remain unattached for some girl living thousands of miles away, nor do I expect him to. Furthermore, I am far less interested in finding a new boyfriend than the devastation that is finding another band.
Petey, as bummed as I’ve ever heard him, replies, “Where are we going to find another drummer?”
Who cares about another drummer? Where was I going to find another band?
With the end of the school year and my social life as I know it a month away, I throw myself into soaking up as much of my current lifestyle as possible. I go to the beach. I consume my weight in In and Out burgers. I help Jared in Shorts try and find another drummer and am secretly pleased when they can’t find someone suitable.
We play one last gig – a graduation party. For a high school band, we’re pretty good. Although we’ve talked a lot about going to a studio and actually recording ourselves with professional equipment (instead of just messing around with Garage Band) without funds, our home mixed seven track CD entitled, “That Old World Flair” is all I have to take with me.
Keeping insanely busy and denial seem to be my default coping mechanisms to prepare for the move to the Southeast. I realize I should probably take more interest in where we’re going, but rather than accept the reality of my situation, I don’t ask my parents any questions. All I know is that we are relocating from Southern California to some suburb in Atlanta. Like, y’all, I’m a West Coast girl. Born and bred. I don’t do cold weather. I don’t do rain. I certainly don’t do humidity. I don’t even own that many pairs of closed toed shoes. Furthermore, in addition to nearly year round sunshine, I’ve seen enough celebrities to last a lifetime. Who am I going to see in Atlanta? Scarlet O’Hara? Ludacris? Paula Deen?
As we step on the tarmac at Bob Hope Burbank-Glendale-Pasadena Regional Airport (which is neither in Glendale nor Pasadena, but I digress), my highly observant mother pats my shoulder and says, “I’m sure they’ll have other bands in Georgia, Jules. You’ll see.”
Crossing my arms and adjusting my Dickies backpack, I answer, “Mom, you don’t just trip over people like Dom, Kat, Petey and Roman.”
We shuffle forward and she answers, “From what I’ve heard, you could always join the marching band. They have drums.”
Drums on the field are definitely not like a drum set. As great as my mom is trying to make things sound, I just never understood marching band. I am not going to judge who is socially gifted and who is not, but the whole regimented, lame music thing never really appealed to me.
“If it’s my only chance to keep drumming, then I’ll give it a try.”
Famous last words, Julia McCoy.
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CHAPTER ONE: For Whom the Bell Tolls
I look around my new room at the boxes and cartons and try to find the motivation to finish unpacking. So far, I have unsuccessfully accomplished anything remotely approaching organization in my room, but have completely set up my drum set (custom Pearl pink glitter with Paiste cymbals and a sweet double bass pedal) in the basement.
Trying not to text Kat for the zillionth time in the twenty-four hours since we’ve left, I swallow my homesick feelings. Rather than wallow in desperation, the only thing guaranteed to make me feel better is a good session on my set. Digging out my noise-canceling headphones, I head downstairs, plop myself down, and jam out, working up a sweat and generally zoning out. However, even after I finish, I immediately find myself back in the dumps. My funk is semi-broken when my mom comes down the stairs, a cold Diet Dr. Pepper (my favorite!) in hand, and asks, “Do you want to go by your new school tomorrow? We can get some of the paperwork out of the way.”
Interacting with people my own age actually sounds like a lot of fun, so I reply, “Sure, why not?”
The following day, we drive over to Westlake High School and I keep sweaty palms on my knees, trying not to fiddle with the radio stations and already missing KROQ. Was I wearing the right thing? What if East Coast meant something totally different than my beloved Left Coast? My ensemble today consists of my favorite pink rhinestone-studded tank top, a pair of dark skinny jeans and a black studded belt. Also, as I never wear closed toe shoes — my piggies have to breathe! — black platform wedges complete the outfit. I am not sure if I will interact with anyone, but want to be prepared.
It is nearing lunchtime when we finally get through all the transfer paperwork and I convince my Mom I am not only perfectly capable of walking home, but also communicating with the school counselor, Mrs. Hernandez, on my own. So far, Westlake – home of the Warriors, y’all – seems typical. The students here look mostly the same, except they are not related to someone in the entertainment industry. Here, they are descendents of insurance agents and progeny of dental hygienists.
Oh, crap, the nice counselor lady is talking to me.
“Miss McCoy, judging from your transcript, I think you’ll fit right in at Westlake.”
She looks to me for a response, but all I can think to do is nod with a generic smile on my face. Satisfied with this response, Mrs. Hernandez continues, “Are there any extracurricular activities you’re involved with? You know, college applications are right around the corner.”
The only thing I want to do is play in a band, my band, Jared in Shorts, but I don’t see that subject anywhere in the extra-curricular course offerings. Instead, I answer sweetly, “I’m sure I’ll find something.”
“Come on now,” she presses gently. “Certainly there’s nothing we can introduce you to? No clubs you were a part of at home?”
There is a tone in her voice that leads me to believe she actually wants to help me. Maybe this is the famous ‘Southern hospitality’ people are always talking about.
“Music,” I mumble, looking at my nails.
She instantly pounces, “That’s nice. Do you play an instrument?”
“Umm…drums,” I respond, hoping she will take the hint and be done with the twenty questions already. Usually when you’re a girl and you play drums, people look at you strangely and walk away slowly.
“Really?”
Did she hear my answer correctly? Did she somehow hear me say something else entirely? I am obviously giving her a strange look, because Mrs. Hernandez clarifies her question, “So, you really play the drums?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you’re in luck!”
How can it be lucky I play the drums? If you play the drums do they give you a scholarship or something? Because I would be all over that situation. My curiosity piqued, I ask, “Why am I in luck?”
“It just so happens we have an excellent drumline.”
I guess a drumline has to be pretty good if even the school counselor has heard of them. Then again, maybe that’s just how they do things here. I always thought this region of the world was stereotypically Varsity Blues and Friday Night Lights and everyone cared only about football, but maybe here drummers are the coolest people in the school.
“Really?” I ask skeptically.
Minutes later I’m standing in the band room, which smells vaguely of spit and sweat (double yech) and apparently waiting to speak with the band director. An older, kind of balding man in his late 40s comes out of an adjoining office and introduces himself, “Hi, I’m Mr. Mickelson.”
We shake hands. So far, so good.
“I hear you’re a drummer.”
“Drum set player,” I gently remind him.
“And you’re going to be a junior?”
“Yes.”
After a moment, Mr. Mickelson asks, “Do you want to audition?”
Is it just me or do I detect a slight challenge in his voice? My brain screeches to a halt. One second I’m all transcripts and schedules, and the next I’m auditioning for something? My confused face must say it all.
“Okay. Never mind, I thought you might be—”
“What do I need to do?” The words were out of my mouth before I even realize I’m saying them. I guess Mr. M must’ve struck a chord with my inner percussionist.
“We had auditions for the percussion section a few weeks ago, but why don’t you just play some on the set and we’ll see where you’re at?”
If there’s one thing I will always take the opportunity to do, it is play a drum set. Any time, any place, especially if that location is a high school. As I kick off my two-inch heels, get my Pro-Mark drum sticks (wrapped in matching pink and black) from my bag and settle behind the school’s kind of decent drum set, I realize since the first time I moved here – I am really and truly smiling.
The band director crosses his arms and says, “Just play whatever you’d like.”
I start and bust out this completely cool solo I’ve been kicking around. I am playing so loud I don’t realize a) the bell rings b) I’ve collected an audience c) they are predominantly male with the exception of d) a lone female who is e) glaring at me.
Mr. M has this small smile on his face, like he somehow expected this scenario to happen. I choke the ringing cymbal and look up, not backing down from the stares of the group. Mr. M nods to the collected group and says, “Julia McCoy, this is part of the Westlake drumline, including next year’s captain, Myron McDaniel.”
Myron? My brain screeches to a halt. I’ve transferred to a school where they name kids Myron?!
Myron, all six feet of super cuteness, comes forward. He smiles and I almost die, because he has one adorable dimple. Instead of getting embarrassed about his first name, he offers his hand and says, “Call me McDaniel.”
Oh, I’ll call you anything you want.
I flirtatiously answer, “Enchanted. I’m Julia McCoy.”
Mr. M explains, “Miss McCoy recently transferred to our school district and will be starting here in the fall. Do you think there might be a spot for her on the Line?”
I hear ‘Line’ is definitely capitalized. Odd.
Handsome McDaniel is obviously the guy in charge. After a long moment looking me over, he states, “We could add another tenor.”
I squint my eyes and try to picture my old marching band. Then, I think about my own tenor drums and how silly they would look on the field. Obviously, everyone else, including the Glaring Gal, thinks it’s funny as well, because they are all giving McDaniel skeptical looks.
Trying to be agreeable and non-committal, I answer, “That sounds good.”
“For a trial basis,” McDaniel adds. “I’ll see you after school today. I have to talk it over with Denny.”
Of course, Denny. Basically, anything McDaniel says at this point, I would agree to.
“Sure thing.”
“Just meet me here after the last bell.”
After texting my mom I’ll be at Westlake a bit longer, I go to the school library and start looking through the yearbooks. After finding the current one, I scan through in search of one Myron McDaniel and see he is a junior this year and photographs very well. In the glossary next to his name, there is a bunch of page numbers.
Figuring I should probably start learning about my future husband, I flip to the pages where McDaniel can be found. I quickly find what appears to be a photo of the entire marching band. As uniforms go, they didn’t look too bad – black pants and some sort of light blue jacket with a sharp looking design on top that actually does all sorts of slimming things for everyone in it. I mean, there are no fringed sleeves or super ugly hats or anything. Well, they do have these big glove things going on, but I am fairly certain percussionists don’t have to wear them.
Wait a minute. Was I actually considering joining the marching band? Did I drink something weird on the plane ride over here? What was going on with me? Shaking my head, I turn the page to find an entire spread on the Westlake drumline. At first glance, they are a rather unfriendly, intimidating group. As I scrutinize each picture individually, I finally find a bunch of images from the stands where everyone is smiling.
There are two pictures on the page that stand out. One is of my future spouse, who looks downright intense playing the snare drum. The image is a beautiful color picture that captures his intense blue eyes perfectly. The other is of Glaring Girl, who looks equally involved playing some mallet instrument. Under her picture reads the caption, “Sophomore Laurel O’Neil plays the marimba.”
Laurel. Hmm, somehow I expected her to have a name like Ruth or Peggy.
My concentration is interrupted when the bell rings loudly. It is time for me to face the music!
* * *
CHAPTER TWO: Crabstepping 101
Walking through the crowded halls, suddenly I am nervous, which is really weird considering this is usually the last emotion I ever feel on the subject of drumming. Of course, McDaniel might have something to do with my current state of emotion.
Back in the band room, I wonder if His Royal Cuteness is even going to show. Maybe this scenario is all some elaborate prank they play on unsuspecting new kids. Suddenly, McDaniel appears in front of me and he’s not alone. There’s another cutie with him and they have a really weird looking drum with them. Actually, they have two identical weird looking drums. Peering closer, I see it’s got four, no, five, parts to it and is vaguely reminiscent of the tenor drums you would find on a drum set.
Flashing me a brilliant smile, McDaniel says, “Julia, I’m glad you’re here.”
“Me too,” I say purely for his benefit.
He continues, “This is the quint lieutenant, Denny.”
We shake hands. Denny’s hand dwarfs my own.
And suddenly I’m confused. Asking nicely, I question, “I thought you said there was an open spot on tenors?”
Denny looks at McDaniel and there is a slightly tense moment, but Denny sidesteps the question and answers, “‘Quint’ is slang for tenors.”
“Okay, cool.” This response still does not clarify whether or not this meeting is actually an audition.
Denny kneels down in front of the tenors, uh, quints, and motions for me to sit next to him. A ‘please’ would’ve been nice, but I lower myself to my knees. Before actually thinking through the following statement, I see the littlest tenor and blurt out, “Look at this cute wee drum!”
I’ve been infatuated with drums for a long time, but I’ve never seen anything so cute as the tiny little tenor.
Denny puts a hand to the bridge of his nose and under his breath I hear something vaguely like oh my God… but instead of responding to my random comment, he hands me a pair of mallet looking things and instructs, “Just do what I do.”
The mallets feel weird in my hands, but strangely familiar. Denny starts slowly going through motions and plays a series of rudiments on different drumheads. Given their varying sizes and tuning, they make cool sounds together.
“Your turn.”
Instead of being intimidated by his notes, I remember I have the same skills and just need to put them together. Nodding, I repeat back exactly what he has just played. I know my rudiments and I definitely am not going to let some new guy show me up. In a quick attempt to impress McDaniel, at the end of the lick, I add on a little flourish I feel would make the part better.
Finished, I see McDaniel and Denny staring at me as if I’m from another planet. I cross my arms and say, “Dudes, seriously, what’s up with the weird looks? You both know I played the part perfect.”
Denny asks incredulously, “You’ve never played tenors before?”
I shake my head dramatically, hoping McDaniel will appreciate my champagne blonde highlights.
McDaniel looks at Denny and asks, “So, what do you think?”
“She’s never marched.”
“Anyone can learn how to march!”
Atta boy, fight for your girlfriend!
“For our Line and with our drill?”
Uh, Denny? Whoever you are, couldn’t you at least give me a chance? Having enough of this talking like I’m not even around thing, I finally wave my hands and say, “Hello! I’m right here, why don’t you just ask me?”
Even through I’m still not one hundred percent sure I even want to become a member of the Westlake marching band, I do want a fair chance. Sure, if all the guys look like Denny and McDaniel, then I’ll endure any amount of carrying heavy drums around, but if there’s going to be all this back talk and questioning of talent, then forget it. I can go back to playing my drum set on my own, thank you.
McDaniel finally says, “Let’s take the tenors out to the parking lot and see if you can do a repeat performance while marching basic drill.”
Denny and McDaniel go into the percussion room and grab a bizarre metal contraption. Denny lifts it over his head and I give him a strange look, to which he responds like I’m a five year old, “Carr-i-er.”
I roll my eyes, but turn around and smile sweetly at McDaniel who is suddenly very close to me with a carrier all my own. He settles it over my head and my heart beats faster. Who knew today was going to turn out like this?
“How does it feel?”
Hum-uh-nuh. I’ll tell you how it feels! Is he naturally like this or is he actually flirting with me?
I realize they are both looking for a response. Oops. I manage to respond, “Actually, for such a scary looking device, it isn’t cutting into me or anything.”
Denny rolls his eyes and makes a move to the door, and McDaniel hefts the set of drums up on his shoulder, giving me an eyeful of his delicious biceps.
I feel like a dork walking through the halls with nothing but a carrier on, but whatever. After a series of complicated turns and stairs, we finally get outside the school. I look over at McDaniel, who hasn’t broken a sweat while carrying the drums and figure, how heavy can they be? Then McDaniel heaves the quints off his incredibly broad shoulders and attaches them to my carrier. Not prepared for the shift in weight, I come very close to falling over on top of my crush. I paste a smile on my face and take a few unsteady steps. These things are heavy. I look down and see my legs and heels have been replaced by metal and plastic. Denny is watching my face, so I try not to show any strain, even though it feels like these drums easily weigh more than I do.
Denny looks at me and asks cockily, “Not so easy, is it?”
I straighten my shoulders, stand up and tell him with a ballsy voice all my own, “Not that you’re standing in two inch heels, buddy, but whatever, I can handle it.”
Denny pulls his quints and they flip up, which looks infinitely more comfortable than the way they are on me. I do the same thing and behold, my legs reappear and there is some instant relief for my back.
McDaniel places both quints back in the ‘ready’ position and lines up in front of us, “Okay, crash course in marching. For now, you need to know heel-ball-toe. Roll your feet as you walk. Think military precision and hitting your left foot on the ground while I tap out notes.”
The instructions don’t sound that difficult. And, given my heels, I try my best. I’m so proud of myself as I’m walking – marching along to the quarter notes McDaniel taps out on Denny’s tenors.
Denny, clearly unimpressed, says, “Okay, this kind of marching is great for parades and all, but on the field or the court the tenors have to move. Let’s try crabstepping.”
I suddenly envision crab soccer from elementary school and wonder how it’s possible to march in that position.
On my obvious confusion, Denny replies authoritatively, “Let me demonstrate. Crabstep, hut!”
He then proceeds to side step a perfect horizontal line across the parking lot. He is gliding along so expertly, I barely notice as he seamlessly starts playing.
McDaniel looks at me, and asks, “Think you can do that?”
I step out confidently (or at least what appears confidently, since inside I am freaking out!) and start side-stepping, I mean, crab stepping. Feeling comfortable with the motion, I start playing, and I’m doing an okay job when one of my flirty heels suddenly decides to break. I trip over something I can’t see and pitch violently forward, drums and all. There is a truly horrible sound of metal meeting asphalt. There is suddenly a lot of pain coming from both my elbow and my knee. My shoes have somehow migrated across the pavement.
Denny and McDaniel are both at my side in a matter of seconds. I’m trying my best not to cry, but tears of frustration form in the corners of my eyes. Looking down, we discover I’m kind of bleeding everywhere, which is so not the impression I wanted to make today.
Suddenly, Denny goes all ER and starts managing the crisis. He scoops me up bridal style, gathers my shoes and tells McDaniel, “Bring the quints in. I’m going to get Julia taken care of, stat.”
Okay, he didn’t really say ‘stat,’ but suddenly this is my ER fantasy, so whatever.
As Denny rushes me down the hall, I get a good look at him. He’s got thick dark hair which he wears spiked up. I suddenly realize he’s got different colored eyes. How did I not notice that before? There is one brown and one blue. I wiggle my foot and realize I am entirely capable of walking, but, cooped up in Denny’s arms, I don’t really feel like sharing this information.
“How are you feeling?” Denny’s voice rumbles in his chest.
I try my best to sound weak and pitiful, “I’ve been better.”
As we still have quite a distance to go, I try for small talk, asking the first question on my mind, “Do you think the quints are going to be okay?”
And then cringe as I realize I’ve asked the single dumbest question ever. Why am I bringing up damaged instruments in front of the section leader? I’m extraordinarily surprised when Denny doesn’t dump me in the middle of the hallway. Instead he laughs and says, “Aaron took a spill with them last year and they survived. Plus, you’re a lot closer to the ground than he is.”
I cross my arms grumpily and say, “Thanks a lot.”
Denny shrugs, which brings me closer to his broad chest and says, “It’s a statement of fact. Don’t get mad about it.”
Finally, we’re back in the band room, which is deserted. If it wasn’t for the fact I had just bled all over him, I might even consider this moment with Denny a semi-romantic one. I’m thinking he might also be thinking this, but then completely doubt myself. After all, wasn’t he just yelling at me?
“Let me get the first aid kit.”
He gently sits me down, and gets out the antiseptic. As he starts pulling some other medicine and bandages out, I am struck by how even though my favorite pair of jeans now have a giant hole (as well as blood and pavement) in them, that fact really isn’t bothering me too much.
“This might hurt a little. You’re going to have to be brave.”
Even though he’s talking to me like I’m a five-year old, I don’t mind. Truth be told, I have tried to be brave, but the sting of the cotton ball soaked with hydrogen peroxide is too much. I let out a stream of expletives that would do a sailor proud. The threatening tears from the parking lot tumble over, smudging my mascara and creating an even more disturbing image. I count myself lucky there is not a mirror in this room.
Denny looks at me and starts laughing hysterically. This is how McDaniel finds us. Mr. Captain of the drumline looks irritated, which completely diminishes his original hotness. Then again, if I was forced to carry two really heavy instruments, I might not be the world’s nicest person either. Denny turns around and sees the look on his Captain’s face and stops laughing. I feel weirdly caught between them.
McDaniel, muscles rippling, puts down the quints and asks, “So, is she in?”
I’m really wondering why my future spouse doesn’t care more about my current situation, but whatever. Both McDaniel and I look at Denny, who is considering the question. He takes a deep breath and answers, “Unless Wade says otherwise, she’ll do. Quint 4.”
From his tone of voice, I get this scenario has probably never happened before. I reply stoically, “I won’t let you down.”
The weird thing is, I really mean it. Even though this instrument has injured me – for the eight seconds I was playing, I absolutely loved the experience!
The strange tension is broken when a girl joins us. She’s wearing a cute skirt and tank top which I have admired at Anthropologie. I’m thinking, cool, potential new friend who I can borrow clothes from, when she goes and latches onto McDaniel’s arm.
* * *
CHAPTER THREE: Atypical Situations
I don’t like this girl standing in front of us. Although, I have to give her some credit, Anthropolgie Skirt Girl is obviously no dummy. She’s quickly picked up on the fact I am completely crushing on her boyfriend. ASG squints her eyes coldly at me and I resist the urge to stick out my tongue at her.
Denny seems to have also figured out the mood in the room has changed as well. In a transformation worthy of a superhero, he morphs from cute and flirty to growly and stern.
“Who’s this?” My arch-enemy asks.
Suddenly I see how she’s viewing me. Realizing I’m kind of a pitiful mess on the floor, this is probably the worst first impression I will ever give someone. There is absolutely nothing intimidating about me, nor anything that says I am even a remote threat to her relationship with McDaniel. I’m just some gross new girl bleeding all over the floor of the band room.
McDaniel answers her question, “Let me have the honor of introducing the newest member of the Westlake drumline, Julia McCoy.”
“I thought auditions were weeks ago,” ASG challenges.
McDreamy, I mean McDaniel, responds, “Only three quints were quality enough at tryouts, so technically we had another spot.”
At this point I feel like I should probably add to the conversation, rather than sit helplessly on the ground. I ask bluntly, “And who are you?”
“I am Kimberly.” She says it with such authority I wonder if I’m supposed to know or care who or what a ‘Kimberly’ is.
Apparently, this is obvious on my face because Denny provides the missing details, “Kimberly is one of our drum majors.”
Drum major? Does that put her in charge of our section? I thought McDaniel was our captain. I’m confused.
Denny sighs deeply and begins speaking in his Julia-is-a-five-year-old tone, “The drum major is one of the people who leads the entire marching band. She’s like a conductor.”
Well, this drum set playing gal has never had to watch a conductor, band director, or orchestra leader. Behind my drums I set my own tempos. Plus, does this Kimberly even play an instrument? What right does she have to go around conducting everyone? Who made her Queen of the Band?
I guess everyone at Westlake can read my mind, because Kimberly adds, “I’m also first chair trumpet during the concert season.”
All the things these people are saying make no sense. What is a first chair? What is the concert season? How does everyone know about this stuff and I have no clue?
I guess McDaniel decides we’ve all had enough of each other for now and announces, “Julia, you’ll obviously need to go over the fundamentals of marching before we start sectionals. I will expect Denny and you to work out some sort of practice schedule.”
The wheels in my head come crashing to a halt and I begin to realize I may be in over my head. I pictured this summer filled with lazy days by the pool flirting with cute lifeguards, maybe a fun summer job, and definitely finding a new band. I guess I thought wrong. These guys mean business.
Denny looks at me and asks, “How about tomorrow afternoon?”
I mutter sarcastically, “I’ll have to check my busy social schedule, you know, since I moved here 8 seconds ago.”
Denny, McDaniel, and Kimberly share a look that basically says, ‘this girl is going to be trouble and I hope we don’t regret this decision.’ Whatever. I’m okay with who I am, and I’m not about to start apologizing. I gather my bag, shrug and ask, “What time?”
“Two-thirty, no heels, no flip flops.”
I think of my pink Chuck Taylors and nod, “See you then.”
I walk out of the band room, through the halls of my new high school and just as I’m about to leave, I see a bulletin board. I pause and review a very important sign, reading “Battle of the Bands.” Pulling out my Hello Kitty notepad, I jot down the directions. Who knows? Hopefully, I’ll find a new band while I’m there. Life is more fun with band practices and gigs to look forward to.
Tucking my notepad away and pulling out my iPod, I walk back home, listening to Jared in Shorts songs on the way. I try not to get nostalgic and sad, but it’s tough. Back at my new house, I feel weirdly inspired. I think back about the conversation in the band room and know I have a bit of research ahead of me, so I log onto the computer, type in ‘marching band’ and a whole bunch of websites appear. For the better part of three hours, I read as much as I can – apparently, there is a whole new world awaiting me.
At dinner, my parents are predictably inquisitive about my afternoon. My mom asks, “Is there anything you’re going to get involved in?”
Fortunately, my parents aren’t too bad when it comes to the insane pressure of ‘what you do in high school ultimately affects the rest of your life.’ However, I know, as their only child, they don’t want to raise a total slacker. I twirl pasta around my fork and answer, “I’ll be taking mostly honors courses and…I guess I might be joining the marching band.”
My parents immediately smile across the table at each other. It’s actually the kind of reaction that makes me feel really good inside. I’m sure they had some reservations about moving and somehow hearing I’m actually getting involved in something must make them feel better.
Dad asks, “So, when will you know for sure if you’re joining?”
“I kind of auditioned this afternoon for the drumline and I made it.”
Mom actually squeals, “Honey! Why didn’t you say anything? This calls for a celebration!”
Dad leans over and squeezes my hand, “We’ll go out this weekend. Pick any restaurant you’d like.”
The following day, Denny and I are back in the parking lot, with the quints on stands in front of us. Looking closely, I think I can see part of my jeans on the parking lot from yesterday. Having learned my lesson, today I have on a very cute pleated black linen skirt, my classic pink Chuck Taylors and a white tank top. Denny gave me a strange look when I showed up in the band room, but I have always believed playing drums is no excuse not to look cute. Besides, if McDaniel shows up, I want to look my best. Oh, crap, I should be paying attention.
“Did you hear anything I said?”
I answer honestly, “No.”
Denny runs a hand through his spiked hair and asks, “Do you really want to learn how to march?”
“I have to learn to march if I want to be a part of the section, right?”
“Right.”
“Then, it doesn’t really matter if I want to do anything. It’s something I have to do.”
Denny looks confused and partially like he’s completely regretting the decision to add me to his section, but proceeds to teach me drill for the better part of two hours. While we run through the steps, I look longingly over at my quints, which I have secretly decided to name Quincy.
Finally, Denny decides we’ve had enough and we break for water. I have sweat more this afternoon than I have in a long time, but it’s the good kind of perspiration. At the water fountain, a young Westlake male approaches us. He is vaguely attractive in a jock-esque way. This dude actually pushes past Denny like he’s in a big hurry to drink water. Not sure if it’s the heat I’ve been subjected to, or if it’s just the fact no one really knows me, but in defense of my new section mate, I put my hand on my hip and say, “Excuse me?”
Denny pulls on my arm to walk away, saying quietly, “Don’t worry about it, Julia.”
The jock, who is at least a foot taller than me and probably double my weight, shouts after us, “Yeah, that’s right, Napoleon. Walk away – you’re good at that.”
“What is he—”
I am cut off by the impolite jock, “Who’s this girl, Napoleon? Liberty wouldn’t take you back this time?”
Denny does something similar to a growl, and literally has to pull me away from the scene. Back outside, I ask, “What the hell was that about?”
Although I’ve only known him for one day, my section leader doesn’t really strike me as the type who just walks away from scenarios like what just happened. Denny looks down at the ground and back at me, before he replies, “I used to play football.”
Suddenly, I can see Denny Napoleon as a football player – all cute and perfect in his uniform. Maybe Denny can see that I am seeing this and he flushes.
“Did you recently quit or something?”
“When I started at Westlake.”
There’s something in his voice that tells me, of course, there’s so much more to the story, but also for the time being I should just really not push things. Still wondering who Liberty is, I leave the question for another time. Aspiring to be an exemplary member of the quint section, I change the subject, “More drill?”
He nods, but says with a small smile, “No, we’re done for today – tomorrow with quints.”
I go home and waste no time texting Kat. She responds almost instantly.
>> Howdy y’all!
I’m glad she’s around. I type back.
>> Ha ha.
>> Have things improved any? Did you see McDaniel today?
>> Yes and no. Things are getting better, but no sign of my future husband today. :’(
Of course, I’ve already informed her of my deep crush on the Westlake drumline captain. My cell phone beeps.
>> How did the ‘marching lesson’ go today? (Is that what the kids in the South are calling it these days?)
>> It *was* a marching lesson, but details surrounding my section leader grow more mysterious – apparently he used to play football.
>> I always thought band geeks and jocks didn’t mix.
>> Apparently, they don’t.
>> So, you have a one-time jock in charge of your section? That could be interesting.
>> Maybe. I’ve got to find out what went on there.
>> Well, it sucks you aren’t here. I totally saw Zac Efron today when I was shopping.
>> Jealous!
>> He was hot, but it would’ve been more fun if you were there.
>> I know. Miss u 2. I hate to cut things short, but I am in desperate need of a shower. Talk later?
>> You know it.
* * *
CHAPTER FOUR: Battle of the Bands
The interaction between Denny and the jock lingers in my mind. I thought I had my dual eye colored section leader pegged: drummer, quiet, more passive than aggressive. But, if he used to play football, then why did he quit? What prompted him to do that? Yargh. This is when I could really use a new best friend.
Who am I going to meet who could possibly fill this role? I can’t very well hang around Westlake tomorrow and ask every girl who walks by if she knows the dirt on Denny Napoleon. Then it occurs to me, what about Laurel? She’s on the drumline and I bet she knows something about the guys in her section. I quickly jump on facebook and type in ‘Laurel O’Neil.’ Finding her profile (she’s friends with my new mutual friend Denny), I see she’s listed her IM screen name: LilDrummerGirl. In a few clicks, I’ve added her to my buddy list and see she’s online.
Cracking my fingers, I debate exactly how and what to say as an introduction that will not make me look like a complete stalker. I come up with a few options:
Setplayher: Uh…so, you know about the guys?
Setplayher: Hey! It’s Julia, that girl you were glaring at yesterday…
Setplayher: What’s the deal with Denny?
Deleting all of these killer opening lines, I decide to go with a simpler approach:
Setplayher: Hey Laurel, it’s Julia – the new quint player.
Reminding myself I have nothing to lose, I hold my breath and press ‘enter’ and wait for Miss O’Neil to respond. I enter into a fierce mental debate whether or not I should’ve used an emoticon and which one would be appropriate, when she comes back with this zinger:
LilDrummerGirl: Hi.
Ignoring her stunning conversation skills, I deny my sarcastic self and forge ahead. I decide killing her with kindness might be my best option, and hope to come across as breezy and friendly.
Setplayher: So, since we’re going to be section mates and all, I was wondering if we could maybe get together sometime?
LilDrummerGirl: Why?
…and she immediately sees through my ruse. Well, at least she’s got some brains to go with her matched grip. Of course, I can at least act offended.
Setplayher: What do you mean, ‘why?’ I’m new to town and we’re going to be marching together and all I get is ‘why?’ Thanks a lot.
There are a few moments before she begins typing. I recognize these are not the best terms to begin a friendship, but I need answers.
LilDrummerGirl: Fine.
I drum my Dior Black Sequins painted fingernails on the desk for a moment before typing.
Setplayher: I was wondering if you were planning on going to the Battle of the Bands on Saturday?
LilDrummerGirl: Maybe.
I idly wonder if drumming has somehow rendered Laurel incapable of typing anything longer than one word sentences. Determined to turn her ‘maybe’ into a ‘yes,’ I type the following:
Setplayher: Great! We can go together. I’ll meet you in front of the school around 1PM?
LilDrummerGirl: Uhh…ok.
Setplayher: See you then!
It doesn’t exactly help me figure out the mystery of Denny any sooner, but it does give me someone to go to the event with.
On Saturday, I tuck my drumsticks into my bag walk over to the school, wondering if Laurel is actually going to show. Since I’ve only actually seen her once, I’m kind of hoping I haven’t forgotten what she looks like.
And there she is.
Laurel O’Neil stands out, but not in the way any girl really wants to stand out. She is wearing, what I can only assume is her marching band t-shirt, and a pair of khaki shorts. They are neither fun, cute, or preppy. They are an awkward length and have (shudder) pleats. She looks incredibly uncomfortable. I am unable to hide my grimace as she looks in my direction. Of course, come to think of it, she kind of has a similar expression on her face.
Wait a minute, she does not think something is wrong with what I’m wearing. I’ve carefully selected my favorite camouflage capris with my newly acquired white tank top studded in rhinestones reading “Princess” on the front. The whole ensemble is capped off with earthy espadrilles. Swallowing my pride, I start gushing nervously, “Hey Laurel! So good to see you! I was afraid we weren’t going to be able to find each other.”
“Is that why you dressed so loudly?”
So that’s how it’s going to be, huh? I immediately quip, “Did you not want me to find you? Is that why you dressed so vanilla?”
Laurel looks for a moment as if she’s going to cry, then starts walking away from me. We are off to a beautiful friendship. I sigh, then run after her and say, “I was just kidding. Seriously, Laurel, don’t stress.”
“Fine.”
“Is there any band you particularly want to see?” I pull her in the direction back towards the stage.
“I’m not sure, really.”
“There is no way you do not know a band you want to see. You’re a drummer! You’ve got to know someone in one of the bands. Who should we cheer for?”
“Uhh…”
Maybe I’ve come on a bit too strong. After all, we’ve only known each other for like, five minutes. Maybe I should hold back the extreme optimism for at least another five. I ask innocently, “If you had to pick one whose would it be?”
“Denny’s!” she blurts out, then claps a hand over her mouth, blushing furiously. She immediately tries to backtrack and mumbles, “I mean, we should be there to support him, that’s all.”
Yeah right, ‘that’s all.’ Jackpot! Laurel’s going to know everything about him because she has a giant crush on my section leader. I pretend as if I don’t know she has a major case of like for Mr. Napoleon and say diplomatically, “Let’s go check when his band plays.”
We wander over to the check in area and Laurel starts filling me in on some of the bands. For the uninitiated, going to a high school Battle of the Bands might as well be billed as “cute Indie Boy Fest.” Laurel and I get a spot near the stage and wait while one band clears and another gets ready. After awkward silence stretches out for at least two minutes, I ask playfully, “So?”
“So what?” Laurel answers defensively.
“What about Denny?”
She crosses her arms and huffs, “Why would I know about Denny?”
This girl had a serious case of denial. Rather than alienate her further, I keep things casual, but continue to talk about Denny, “So, we were practicing the other day and out of nowhere this jock guy is all ‘back off.’ Any idea what that was about?”
Laurel looks skeptical to discuss the topic.
I nudge her, “Come on. I mean, I’m going to learn the truth sooner or later, so why don’t I at least get the real story from you?”
She seems momentarily flattered and answers, “Alright, here’s the basic story. Around eighth grade, it was like there was this day where suddenly kids in band became geeks and the jocks became cool. Denny was stuck in the middle. We didn’t have a specific football team for middle school, just the county sports team. Anyway, Denny was the star quarterback.”
Oddly, it didn’t take much for me to picture him in that role. From what I could tell, Denny was a natural leader. I prompted her, “So, what happened?”
“Basically, the way I’ve heard, there was some big misunderstanding between Denny and Coach Lewis. Denny wanted to do both, but I heard the Coach was pressuring him to choose one or the other. When push came to shove, Denny decided he would rather be on the drumline.”
“So what? I’m sure there’s plenty of football talent at a school this size.”
“That’s just the thing, there’s not really a good quarterback.”
I fill in the blanks pretty quickly and ask, “So the football team doesn’t have a good record and they blame Denny?”
“Basically, that’s been his life for the past two years.”
“Poor guy.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Do you think he regrets his decision?”
“I don’t know. He doesn’t like talking about it.”
Wow, it’s like this whole soap opera and I landed right in the middle of it. Laurel’s explanation makes the weird conversation with the jock from earlier make sense. Our discussion is interrupted when the next band starts. Throughout the afternoon, different bands play and I have to admit, some of them are half way decent. During a break, I stretch and ask, “I’m going to go get some water. Do you want anything?”
“No, I’m good.”
“Hope to see you when I get back,” I say, half joking. For all I know, Laurel could decide she’d had enough of my questions and be gone by the time I get back. As I make my way to the concession stand, I notice a group of guys arguing loudly with each other.
“He said he’d be here!”
“Dude, I know, but he’s not here and we go on in like five minutes.”
“Call him again!”
Just the occasion I was secretly hoping for. Hands in my back pockets, I saunter over, keeping my fingers crossed the missing ‘dude’ is a drummer and ask, “What seems to be the trouble here, boys?”
They look appreciatively over me for about four seconds, and then ignore my question completely. I look over the cases in front of me. While the Battle sponsors have supplied a drum set, most drummers have brought their own set of cymbals. I see a bass guitar case, but nothing resembling a cymbal bag is present.
“You guys missing a drummer?”
The three boys in front of me stop their argument and stare. One of them has the decency to nod.
“This is your lucky day – it just so happens I am a set player.”
* * *
CHAPTER FIVE: Blondie Saves the Day
“So?” asks the shortest guy, wearing a Justin Timberlake inspired fedora. Not knowing anything about what this band will sound like, given his funky headwear, I at least think they have a chance at being okay.
“So you need me.” I point out the obvious.
“We do not,” Fedora Boy challenges.
Just then a man with a clipboard approaches us and asks very seriously, “Beans and Cornbread?”
They all nod. I look confused. Beans and Cornbread? Of all the bands, I have somehow managed to pick the one with the most random name.
“Are you going to be playing today or not?” He impatiently taps his pen.
They all look at each other and then at me. Fedora Boy says, “Can we keep the cymbals on the set? Our drummer forgot hers.”
The event organizer looks at us for a moment before saying, “Sure thing.”
We all watch the organizer walk away and the second the guy is out of sight, Fedora Boy tells me, “You’d better be able to back up that statement, blondie.”
“Who are you calling blondie, bubby?” Without me, Beans and Cornbread will be…well, they won’t be able to play, that’s for damn sure.
Until now, the other band members have apparently been content to let me and Fedora Boy talk things out, but now Tall Guy raises his hands and says, “This is no time to be yelling at each other. Blondie, or whatever your name is, do you want to play?”
Even though these are not the ideal conditions under which I would join a band, my palms are itching to get behind a set and in front of an audience. I respond, “My name is Julia McCoy, and yeah, I’ll play.”
The third guy in the band, Wannabe Mohawk Kid, briefly fills me in on “their sound” (allegedly a cross between Panic At The Disco and Keaton Simon with some rockabilly thrown in for good measure). Then, it’s time and we’re on stage and being announced. Basically, each group has a chance to play three songs. After we find our groove halfway through the first song, I resist the urge to wave at Laurel, who’s looking decidedly pissed off I haven’t returned yet. Oops. After a bit of a struggle with the tempo during the second song, we finish the third song and have somehow managed to look like we’ve been practicing together for months. The crowd cheers appreciatively. We’re not Jared in Shorts, but we’re not bad for a band that just formed a few minutes ago.
Off stage, while the guys congratulate each other like they’ve just finished a set at Coachella, I grab a bottle of water and look around. I notice Beans and Cornbread have started chatting to the next band and catch the side profile of someone very cute. Then Fedora Boy moves and I realize I’ve been scoping out Denny! It’s kind of weird to see him outside of our teacher/student relationship. And strangely enough, we’re wearing practically matching outfits – camouflage cargo shorts and white tops.
Suddenly they turn and look in my direction. I guess this is my cue, so I ask, “What’s up?”
Tall Guy says, “So, Denny says you’re on the Line.”
“Yes.” How does everyone at this school know Denny? Is he some sort of celebrity or something?
I guess this fact adds something to my ability as a percussionist, because Wannabe Mohawk Guy says, “Why didn’t you just tell us earlier?”
Seriously, just how good is the Westlake drumline? I answer, “Sorry, I didn’t think to.”
Denny looks at me and says, “That was some great set playing out there.”
“I know” is my super suave answer. I’m not good at taking compliments, so what? I am a great set player. I continue awkwardly, “Umm, who are you playing with?”
“Oh, I’m just filling in for a buddy from another school. Honestly, there’s not really enough time to be in a band during marching season.”
Was that a challenge? I couldn’t imagine not being in band. Maybe Denny has time management issues, because I was definitely going to be in both marching band and a rock band. Not wanting to ruin the fun atmosphere, I dig around in my canvas bag and pull out my digital camera, shouting, “Picture time!”
Beans and Cornbread gather in and Denny takes our picture. I thrust the camera in Fedora Boy’s hands and say, “Get a picture of me and my quint leader!”
Denny’s all weirdly awkward about where he should stand, when I decide to reenact our special moment from a few days ago. I wrap my arms around his neck and launch myself into his arms, saying, “Catch me!”
Even though I’ve surprised him, he swings one strong arm under my legs and another behind my back and we pose in a few different crazy ways for the camera before he puts me back down – again, as if I weigh nothing, which, if my scale tells me anything, I know I do not.
“Looks like it’s almost time for me to go on,” Denny says and walks away, leaving me alone with my insta-band mates.
Tucking my hands in my pockets, I say, “Okay, then, guys, I’ll see you around. Thanks for letting me sub.”
Beans and Cornbread suddenly crowd around me. Tall Guy scuffs his foot on the ground and asks, “Hey Julia?”
I pretend not to know what’s coming and answer sweetly, “Yes?”
“Well, we’ve kind of been looking for an excuse to… Would you be interested in becoming our full time drummer?”
A few feet away, Denny looks our direction with interest. I make eye contact and subliminally ask, ‘Are these guys cool?’ He seems to get the question and nods slightly.
I look back at Tall Guy and say, “Sounds great.” We exchange info (including their names –
thank goodness) and I say, “Call me and we’ll talk practices.”
I hustle back to the crowd and keep my fingers crossed Laurel is still there. She is.
“Where have you been?”
“Umm…well, actually that was me on stage with Beans and Cornbread. Why? Were you worried about me?”
She plays with a piece of grass and says, “You’re not from here…you might have got lost or something.”