The same (following?) morning, I make sure my complete uniform is ready and head over to Westlake. I am one of the first people at the school. One of the first people I encounter is Mr. Mickelson. Gulping, I nervously wave my hand, desperately hoping he will walk past me and not engage in conversation.
“Well, Julia, looks like you’re feeling better.”
I resist the urge to fiddle with my new pink streak and nod cautiously, not trusting my voice to sound a perfect combination of ‘fake sick, but better enough to play.’ Also, what exactly does he mean, ‘I look like I’m feeling better?’
The Mick continues and abruptly changes the subject, “Did I ever tell you that I was in a band when I was in college?”
I always figured band directors had to be the biggest band geeks with the most band spirit when they were in high school. How else could you go to school for four years studying notes and theories? If I squinted, part of me could imagine a younger, shaggier Mick, and maybe he could’ve been in a rock and roll band. Shrugging, I figure my safest answer is to keep him going, “No.”
“I was and it was a lot of fun. We didn’t have a particular genre, I mean we thought we were something cool, but basically it was just a few of us messing around. We got a few gigs.”
“That’s nice,” I say awkwardly.
“Anyway, like I said, it was a lot of fun, but sometimes I had to know what took priority over the band, like school.”
I had a feeling that in the list of priorities in the Mick’s world, Beans and Cornbread wouldn’t be near the top. I wonder when he will let me know I will be not be competing later today and I should probably just go home. So, I am totally surprised when the WHS band director leans down, winks, and says, “Still, I always wondered what would’ve happened, if we had made it, been signed…”
“Mr. Mickelson?” Kimberly’s voice interrupts whatever it was that he was going to tell me.
“Yes?” he responds and walks over to the senior drum major, leaving me to wonder if guys ever outgrow sending mixed signals. Confused, I walk into the percussion room, and am happy to see a rather sad looking Denny, his muscular arms showing in a sleeveless black Zildjian t-shirt with crutches underneath them. Then I notice he’s wearing tear away pants that are opened on his left leg to reveal a black athletic brace on his knee. With a surge of emotion, I rush over to him, “I thought you said you were okay!”
He gives me a quick half smile, and answers, “I distinctly remember telling you that I could play...”
I would like to be mad at him for lying, but looking at his leg and the complete look of disappointment on his face, it looks as though he’s been through enough. The smile he gives proves he’s desperately trying to hold it together. Rubbing his arm gently, I ask, “How are you feeling? How is your knee? It’s the same one you hurt over the summer, isn’t it?”
“It’s the same one, but the nurses gave me some pretty great stuff last night. Also, the x-ray showed it was just a sprain, so I’m in luck, but I think crab stepping this evening is out of the question.”
“How is everyone taking it?”
Denny looks innocently at me and answers, “They don’t really know yet. I didn’t make any promises when I left the game last night.”
“Well, you can still play, right?”
“I don’t know. I was really just thinking about going along for moral support. Look at me…”
I’ll have to admit, it’s not the best he’s ever looked. He probably could’ve done with a day or weekend in bed. Getting beat up on the football field is really not the best idea the night before an important competition. We might not wear practice pads, but I have the bruises to prove the marching band is definitely a sport and requires a lot of physicality.
“What about the sidelines?”
“What about them?”
“You could use your quint stands and set them up in the Pit – it would totally work!”
Denny’s entire face lights up and he nods enthusiastically. We are interrupted by one of the underclassmen, who asks the obvious question, “Dude – what happened?”
I have a feeling this question is going to be on repeat for the next couple of hours, so I launch into a response, “Denny got a little banged up last night, but not to worry, he’s going to be competing up front from the front line.”
Poking her head in the percussion room, Laurel gives a ‘yeek’ face when she sees Denny’s knee, but announces, “Come on you two, it’s almost time for Senior Speak.”
Not sure what that means, I follow my favorite Pit member into the band room.
* * *
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: Liberty Strike Force
I am struck by how weirdly quiet it is as we walk into the band room. Everyone has gathered for the competition, and for once there is no additional noise. I don’t know what I expected, but basically, I assume once all the equipment was loaded we would just go and get on the busses.
As I am so short, I can only hear the Mick’s voice carry throughout the band room as he announces, “It’s been a long season so far, and you’ve all worked hard for this performance. Whether you realized it or not, for you seniors, from the first moment you took a step as a rookie, you were preparing for today and I know you’ll make me proud out there on the field tonight. Now, as you all know, we traditionally take this time to let any interested senior come forward and share some of their thoughts and feelings with the rest of the group. We ask you keep attention and listen to what the upperclassman has to say.”
The callused hand I am holding drops, the crutches placed in my hands, and Denny hobbles to the center of the room. The voice I know so well wavers a little as he addresses the band room, “Right, so, a few things to clear up. One, I’m sure there’s been plenty of talk behind my back about what the heck I’ve been doing this semester, most especially since I started playing quarterback.
Where to start? Oh yeah, no, this is not some sort of random fashion statement I’m making. As most of you probably know, I got beat up pretty well last night. The doctor told me I should probably stay off my leg today, but nothing could keep me away from competing. So, that’s why I’m here, and that’s what being a marching Warrior has taught me. We don’t give up. In fact, as of today, the only thing I’m going to give up is football.” Denny continues, “With a whole competitive season ahead of me, and indoor after that, I’m not going to risk myself out on the football field any more. Marching and playing drums is what I’ve always loved and if the rest of the people in the school outside this room can’t understand that fact, well, I don’t care!
So, basically, the way I figure, is that the rest of you have no excuse that you can’t go out there tonight and march your ass off. If I can do it, in pain, and on one leg, then I’m sure we’re going to show the judges just how dedicated we are. Who’s with me?!”
The room erupts into cheers! Denny’s mood (and his commitment) is infectious. Finally the room quiets down, but Denny remains at the front. I get the feeling the band is wondering the same thing I am – hasn’t he made his point? What is he still doing up there?
“So, while I have your attention, there’s one more thing I need your help with.”
Suddenly the room is so quiet you can hear a pin drop.
“You see, for the past two weeks, I’ve been, well, I’ve been kind of a jerk to someone who’s pretty important to me.”
The band titters, my heart stops, and Denny keeps on talking, “I know; I deserve it. In the spirit of everything, I want to take this opportunity to apologize to everyone for my lack of dedication and especially to my section mate, Julia McCoy, and ask her if she’ll consider going to Homecoming with me.”
Every eye in the band room shoots around to look at me. My face turns bright red. Denny hobbles up to me and asks shyly, if we were the only people in the room, “Will you go with me, Julia?”
What else could I say?
“Yes!!!”
Forgetting that his knee is busted, I jump in
to his arms, causing us both to abruptly knock down – crutches and all – in front of the entire band. Miraculously, I end up on top of Denny with the crutches crashing to our side. I hope I have not caused any further injury, however, I wonder if you can actually die of embarrassment.
No one can really follow this moment, so thankfully we are saved as Mr. Mickelson nods to Kimberly, who blows her whistle loudly, distracting everyone from the completely awkward scene I’ve just caused. Kimberly says, “Let’s go – we’re going to be Grand Champions today!”
There’s a bit of a stampede out of the band room, which finally clears, leaving me and Denny still on the floor of the band room. Not being able to help myself, I bust into laughter, and am joined by Denny. It feels good. I finally pull myself together and get up, lending a hand down to him to help him up, pulling him directly into me. Denny’s different colored eyes darken and he leans down to kiss me – making sure to make up for the past two weeks.
Vowing to make up for lost time on the bus tonight, I end our kiss and head towards the percussion room to grab our stuff. We walk down the familiar halls as fast as Denny’s crutches will take us. I ask, “So, did you mean what you said back in there?”
“I did a bit of thinking last night while I was waiting for the doctor. You know, your mind goes weird places when you’re wearing nothing but a sheet.”
“I can imagine.”
“Anyway, I was picturing the rest of my senior year and beyond and I thought how much I would regret it if I wasn’t able to compete with the Line.”
I lean on him (carefully, since I don’t want to put a lot of weight on his knee) and say, “I would, too.”
“So, in the end, I guess the decision was an easy one.”
Not making direct eye contact, I ask, “Same with me and Liberty?”
“Wait a minute, were you actually worried about that?”
“Well, you didn’t exactly give me a lot to go on, Mr. Napoleon.”
He continues giving me an incredulous look, as if I have asked him something utterly ridiculous and answers, “I guess that’s true, it’s just there’s really no comparison.”
“Did you talk to her last night?”
“Yeah…”
Ruining the conversation is the fact that we’re at the buses. Denny and I, amid whistles and clapping, make our way to the back of the bus to “our” seat. As I settle down in the seat, knowing there is at least a two-hour drive ahead of us, I unpack and repack a few things, and then hear my phone buzzing with a text from Greg. Opening my phone, I read:
>> Have you seen the paper today?
It was enough for me to remember extra tenor mallets this morning, let alone time to peruse the AJC. I type back:
>>No, y?
>>Gr8t picture of us!
I quickly text a reply:
>>Take a picture and send to my phone!!
A few moments later – a picture received! It’s difficult to make out on my tiny screen, but I’m looking at what appears to be a picture of me and Greg – from last night! I open my phone and dial Greg quickly, “Is that what I think it is?”
“Yup, it’s a picture of us!”
“What does the caption say?”
“It reads, Julia McCoy, drummer and Greg Worthington, vocals, of local band Beans and Cornbread open for The Academy Is… on Friday evening at The Foundry.”
“That’s so awesome!”
From what I can see, Greg and I are both totally sweaty, but I’m smiling and he’s singing, wailing really, and it’s totally rock and roll. Greg rambles on about marketing, and knowing this conversation should probably involve all of Bean and Cornbread, I respond, “Listen, Greg, can we talk about this tomorrow at practice?”
“Okay, J, good luck today!”
Closing my phone, I share the news with Denny and he’s equally excited. Sensing the time is not really right to have a heart to heart about what went down with Liberty, for the first time in two weeks, I honestly relax, and, leaning on my boyfriend’s comfortable broad shoulder, I fall quickly to sleep.
When we get off the bus, I walk slowly with Denny, because, that’s as fast as he can walk. I’m trying to keep down my feelings of anticipation and excitement. I have never seen so many marching bands collected in one spot! It actually warms my heart to see all these musicians and performers collecting in the spirit of competition. While performing at halftime has been fun, I don’t think people in the stands on a typical Friday night understand what kind of technical level we’re competing at. Here, however, tonight, on this field, kids who know how hard it is will be cheering us on – I can’t wait!
It’s then I see the Mick motioning towards me. In addition the clipboard he is forever carrying around, he is also holding a plain envelope.
Kissing Denny on the cheek, I say, “I’m sure this will just take a minute.”
However, it might take more than a minute when I see a stormy faced Wade join us. The three of us walk slowly away from the rest of the band, and I see my band director pull a newspaper section out of the envelope. He slowly opens it and there, in all its glory, is the picture Greg texted me.
“Julia, I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do. You broke the rules and lied to us. If I don’t make an example out of you, then I’m setting a horrible precedent for the rest of the band. We have to have discipline.”
Wade, with a good dose of disappointment, says, “Julia, how could you do something that you knew would deliberately jeopardize your chance to play? I thought more of you.”
“I…” I what? Pulling myself together, I respond in a wavery, but honest tone, “I didn’t think you would let me do both. I didn’t think you would let me play if I told you I was going off to be a drum set player. I moved everything so that our show wouldn’t interfere with the competition today! Marching means everything to me, but my band is important too. Can’t you understand?”
Mr. Mickelson replies, “I’m very sorry that you felt you couldn’t come to us, Julia, but my decision stands.”
Brushing the tears away from my eyes, I storm off, crying out, “What would you have done in my place?”
On my way to Denny’s open arms, my phone buzzes with a number I don’t recognize. A text pops up:
>> Enjoy your show today…hope your band director enjoyed the light reading I sent him!
* * *
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: Where There’s a Will…
Of course Liberty is behind this! As much as I want to text some nasty reply, I can’t, because the current state of my emotional state is too extreme. Shock is an understatement. I practically fall into Denny and burst into sobs. Being the good boyfriend he is, he simply lets me cry and cry. All of the sweat and tears and hours of practice comes back to me. I worked so hard for this competition, and for what? To sit on the sidelines and watch? To see my section play the notes I knew forward and backward? I knew Liberty was mad, but I don’t think she understood how much her actions would destroy me. The logical side of me says I probably deserve what I am getting, what with all the sneaking around and lying, but I didn’t care.
Finally calming myself down, I realize this situation is about crisis management, and currently the most important thing was making sure that somehow, some way, I marched tonight. There were still hours until we took the field and I had to believe anything is possible. Collecting myself, I ask forlornly, “What can I do?”
“I think you need to go to Wade.”
“Did you see the way he looked at me?”
“Yes, but, whether or not he wants to admit it, you’ve done a lot for him this season.”
“You mean, like Caitlin?”
“Maybe. Mickelson is a lost cause, so I think Wade is your best bet.”
“Really?”
“Yes. So, first of all, be honest with him – say what you feel, you never know, but lying isn’t going to get you anywhere. Second of all, I know this is going to sound mean, but don’t go being a girl on him – he’ll shut down. He def
initely does not know how to handle upset females.”
I nod in agreement. There isn’t a lot of time left to make my case. If Wade is going to be my only hope, I’d better get started.
Denny and I wander through the crowds, searching for Wade. Finally, we spot his familiar Carolina Crown visor. Wade is chatting with someone, who I can only imagine is another percussion instructor. Summoning what courage I have, I leave Denny and walk up to Wade.
“Excuse me?”
Wade must see the serious expression on my face, because he ends his conversation. Once alone, my instructor turns to me, “I have nothing to say to you, McCoy. You’ve made your bed.”
Stumped for a moment and determined not to make another scene, I take deep breath and reply, “Wade, have I asked you for that much this season?”
“What do you mean?”
I cross my arms and ask, “Have I ever asked you for anything?”
He thinks a moment, and finally realizes the fact that, no, I haven’t asked for much since joining the Westlake drumline. I haven’t asked to be treated any differently. I haven’t once mentioned that the tenors are a significantly larger portion of my body weight than anyone else’s. I didn’t even want to bring up the fact that I did him a huge favor with the whole Caitlin thing (even if I had ulterior motives for doing it).
Wade finally responds, “No, you haven’t.”
“In all of my months as a rookie on the Battery, playing tenors, I have never once complained, right?”
Sure, I might do a lot of mental complaints and bitching behind his back, but to Wade’s face I was all business. He knows this and sys, “No.”
“So, you might even go so far as to say that I was an exemplary member of the section?”
Confessions of a Teenage Band Geek Page 17
