The year was 1994. While history books would later categorize the era with the tabloid theatrics of Nancy Kerrigan’s bruised knee and the low-speed spectacle of O.J. Simpson’s white Bronco, and while the rest of the culture was busy inhaling the gutter-mouthed cynicism of Beavis and Butt-Head or the earnest, magical realism of Forrest Gump, my world was significantly smaller. For me, Elizabeth Cressy, the fall of ’94 would be remembered for one thing: the year I began my freshman year of high school.
High school wasn’t merely a new building; it was supposed to be a total brand relaunch. The shy girl who had spent three years of middle school trying to fade into the beige background of the hallway was about to enter the imposing concrete fortress of Northwood High in Farmington Hills. My mission was clinical: walk towards the gym for cheerleading tryouts. I was determined. I was effectively burying the “band geek” label in an unmarked grave. That part of my existence was firmly in the rear-view mirror. This was the fresh start, the opportunity for a radical reinvention, and snagging a spot on the cheer squad felt like the perfect catalyst for a transformation. The quiet, invisible Elizabeth was meant to be extinct. Or so I desperately hoped.
The seeds of this rebellion had been sown back in May, just weeks before we escaped the suffocating confines of Willow Creek Middle School. Mr. Hamilton, the high school band director, had arrived like a traveling preacher trying to sell us on the “glory” of high school music. He stood in front of our class, a charismatic figure wielding a single sheet of paper—a survey that felt like a life sentence.
- Are you interested in band in high school: Yes or No
- Are you interested in marching band in high school: Yes or No
- Are you interested in doing sports in high school: Yes or No
I remember the atmosphere of that room vividly—heavy with the lingering, synthetic scent of valve oil and decaying reeds. Ethan, Daniel Cohen’s younger brother and a relentless architect of my middle school misery, was busy clowning around with Tucker, my long-term, unattainable crush. Ethan, radiating that specific brand of malicious popular-boy energy, declared he was finished with music; he was pivoting to sports. Tucker, who was fleeing to our rival school, Harrison High, was obsessed with football. Nearby, the popular girls—the ones whose hair had achieved a gravity-defying, feathered perfection—were tittering about their own cheerleading aspirations.
A sudden, sharp wave of resolve washed over me. I grabbed my pencil, and with the cold precision of a surgeon, I circled “NO” for every single band question and “YES” for the sports category. Then, with a flourish that felt dangerously like freedom, I scribbled “join cheerleading” across the paper before handing it back to Mr. Hamilton. I wasn’t going to be a band geek anymore. The decision felt final.
That June, immediately after graduation, I stood before Northwood High. The building loomed like an institutional beast, a concrete gateway to a future I hadn’t yet defined. I navigated “B Hall” toward the gymnasium, each step becoming increasingly treacherous. The air was thick with the rhythmic, muffled thumping of music and the sharp shouting of an instructor. My heart was hammering a frantic, uneven rhythm against my ribs—a cocktail of genuine excitement and pure, unadulterated terror.
Just as I reached the threshold, the gym doors swung open. Out stormed Sharon—the absolute queen bee of the Willow Creek mean-girl circuit—her face a twisted mask of incandescent fury. She’d obviously been cut. Her sharp, predatory eyes locked onto mine, and she didn’t just see me; she dissected me.
“YOU want to be a cheerleader?” she sneered, her voice thick with a visceral, bubbling laugh. “HAHAHA! You’re too ugly. No one wants you!”
With that final, surgical strike, she flounced out, leaving me frozen in the hallway. The sting of her words was a physical sensation, a cold spike to the gut.
I tried to armor myself against it, to push past the searing discomfort, and finally dared to peek inside the heavy, cold metal doors. I saw girls my age—smiling, laughing, performing backflips with an effortless, athletic grace that I knew, with sickening certainty, I couldn’t hope to replicate. The image of Sharon’s sneer was branded into my mind. I hadn’t been popular at Willow Creek; I knew, deep down, these tryouts were a tactical error. A suicide mission. Why invite another round of public humiliation?
Instead of stepping into the arena, I turned away. I was ready to walk home and tell my grandmother I wanted to transfer to Harrison High—the rival school where the rest of my social circle would be congregating. It felt like a retreat, yes, but also a desperate, frantic attempt to find a harbor where I might belong. A place far away from the judgmental glare of girls like Sharon.
As I retreated, a rhythmic tapping caught my ear. It was a beat—mesmerizing, crisp, and clean. I spotted a guy sitting casually in a chair outside the band room, a practice pad resting on his lap. He was drumming, his sticks moving in a blurred, intricate sequence that was, strangely, soothing. It was a sophisticated counterpoint to the chaotic anxiety currently shredding my nerves. Curious, and perhaps drawn by the sheer, unpolished normality of the scene after Sharon’s venom, I drifted toward him.
“Are you in the band?” I asked, my voice barely a thread of sound.
He didn’t break his flow; he just offered a slight, acknowledging nod. I felt that familiar, prickly pang of awkwardness. I was bothering him. I kept it brief.
“Is band the cool thing to do?” I asked, layering on a coat of thick, self-protective sarcasm.
He stopped, and the sudden silence felt surprisingly loud. He looked up, and his eyes—a warm, grounded brown—met mine. “Yes,” he replied, his voice calm, confident, and devoid of irony. “You should join. Everyone should join. It’s fun.”
I smiled, a genuine, unforced expression. It was the first time I’d really smiled all day. “Thank you,” I managed.
He smiled back—a faint, easy grin. “You’re welcome.”
As quickly as he’d paused, he returned to his rhythm, lost in the architecture of the beat. He looked familiar—but who was he? The tapping echoed in my mind, a rhythmic relief from Sharon’s cruelty. The interaction left me with a strange, lingering sense of calm, a tiny, quiet tether pulling me toward a future I hadn’t realized I wanted.
Later that week, I sat on my bed, staring at the ceiling, contemplating the monumental dilemma: stay at Northwood and embrace the unknown, or run to Harrison for the safety of the crowd? The idea of a clean slate at Harrison was intoxicating. But then, I kept hearing that drummer’s voice—It’s fun. I picked up the phone and dialed Tucker.
“Hey T, how are you?” I asked, trying to sound breezy, praying my voice wasn’t vibrating with my inner turmoil.
“Great, Elizabeth! What’s up?” Tucker’s voice was bright, annoyingly cheerful.
“I’m thinking about going to Harrison. What do you think?”
I could hear the faint, melodic strumming of a guitar in the background as he considered it. “It would be great if you came here,” he said. My hopes soared. “Really?” I pressed, perhaps a little too eagerly.
“Yeah, really.” The melody shifted—Stairway to Heaven.
“Are you going to continue with the trumpet and play in band, or switch to guitar?” I asked, curious about his own evolution.
He stopped playing. “I thought about quitting. My girlfriend is going to do cheerleading, and she wants me to play football. I think I’ll take a semester of it and see how it goes. What about you?”
“I’m thinking about quitting band and becoming a cheerleader,” I admitted, the words tasting like ash.
There was a long pause, followed by a heavy sigh. “Elizabeth, don’t quit. You’re good.”
“Why should I be in band? I don’t want to be a stereotype, you know? Like in the movies where the band kids are the punchline,” I trailed off, the old, festering insecurities bubbling to the surface.
“The joke?” Tucker sounded genuinely confused.
“Where all the band kids huddle together, eat lunch in the band room, and only speak to other band kids. And the internal cliques—the percussionists only talking to percussionists. And being a clarinet player… well, that’s a joke in itself.” I let out a sharp, self-deprecating laugh.
“How is playing the clarinet a joke?”
“Uhh, well, I crushed on you, and you’d rather date a flute player,” I blurted out, instantly regretting the lack of a filter. Shit. I shouldn’t have said that.
“Ahh, well, that isn’t the reason,” he said, his honesty blunt but oddly reassuring. “It’s simple. She got breasts before the rest of you girls, and being a guy, I wanted her. Trust me, it has nothing to do with the instrument you played. If she played clarinet, I still would have asked her out.” His words, while a bit clumsy, were a massive relief. “Listen, Elizabeth, you’re a beautiful and amazing girl. If you quit band, you’ll just be like the rest of us. You’re going to Northwood, with a fantastic music program, and some of the popular band kids from Willow Creek, like Josh and Ethan… So it won’t be like it is in the movies. I think at Northwood, band is the ‘cool thing’ to do.”
Oh. My. Gosh. He said the same thing as the drummer. Band is the cool thing to do. Maybe there was a pattern.
“Thanks, T!” I said, a new lightness elevating my voice.
“Anytime, Elizabeth. Listen, I have to run, my brother is bugging me to do chores before Mom gets home.”
“Alright, bye.”
It was a mercy I was on the phone, because my cheeks were burning with a vivid, humiliating blush. Tucker Sandifer thought I was amazing? And then there was the drummer… The decision effectively made itself. I took out that crumpled survey from Mr. Sterling, found the number for Mr. Hamilton, and placed the call. With a sudden, iron-clad resolve, I told him I would be joining the marching band as a flute player and would keep the clarinet for concert band. He added me to the roster and instructed me to bring the forms and the booster check to the assembly.
My mind drifted back to Tucker’s reassurances. In middle school, the boys had gravitated toward the flute players—Ruth had been the target of their affection. And Ethan, who I had harbored a secret, painful crush on, had picked on me relentlessly. A few months ago, he’d sat behind me with David, a trumpet player. They were constantly buzzing with petty cruelty. I tried to ignore it, until the day I twisted my ankle because of them.
“Elizabeth is ugly,” Ethan had whispered to David the moment I sat down.
“Yeah, she is. Why is she in band? She doesn’t belong here.”
I had stepped away to secure a new reed, and the moment I turned back to my chair, David yanked it out from under me. I landed hard on my backpack. I scrambled up, saying nothing, trying to pretend the pain wasn’t radiating up my leg. At the end of class, I went to the nurse’s clinic. She urged me to report them, to go to the principal—to treat it like the bullying it was. But I, ever the people-pleaser, chose to stay silent. She examined my ankle, gave me ice, and sent me home. When I finally unpacked, the orange from my lunch was at the bottom of the bag, smashed to a pulp, oozing all over my books and my Trapper Keeper.
Looking back, I knew I should have burned them. But a part of me still held onto the hope that Ethan would join the band. I liked his personality; he made me laugh. I know, I know—you’re probably thinking how I could want someone who treated me like garbage to be in the band. But I had forgiven him. This was high school. I wanted a fresh start. Joining the band wasn’t a trap—it was an entry point, especially since I’d be playing the flute. I was finished with being a clarinet player. I was finished with being the punchline. I was ready to be popular, to be seen, and for once, not to be the joke. The decision was made. Band it was.
My grandmother dropped me off at the Northwood band entrance, a concrete purgatory where I was about to spend the most formative week of my life. I was flying solo; my best friend had defected to the rival territory of Harrison High, leaving me to navigate the social minefield of Northwood entirely on my own. In the high school caste system, the taxonomy was clear: you had your jocks, your archetypal nerds, and your wallflowers. Then, there was us. The “band geeks.”
But Daniel Cohen—who had burned his way into my consciousness over the summer with the casual authority of a guy who didn’t realize how magnetic he was—had insisted that band was the cool thing to do. In a school where the football team seemingly operated on a permanent losing streak, the band was the only thing with a pulse. I was a socially anxious teenager, a girl who wore her awkwardness like a neon sign, and I was desperate to belong. If this was the epicenter of cool, I was going to fit in, or at least die trying.
I pushed through the heavy metal doors, my flute case clutched against my chest like a shield. I was, as always, aggressively early. The thought of walking into a room after the music had started—being the target of a dozen judging pairs of eyes—was enough to make me want to vanish. I kept my head down, navigating the hallway with the practiced invisibility of a girl who hoped to never be noticed. What is wrong with her? I imagined them whispering. Why is she always alone?
I entered the band room and slipped into a seat in the flute section. I quietly assembled my instrument, the familiar clicks and clacks acting as a small comfort amidst the surrounding chatter. Everyone was buzzing about their summer vacations or their excitement for the new season. I kept my head down, avoiding eye contact.
Finally, Mr. Hamilton, our band director, stepped onto the podium. We warmed up, drifting through the familiar sheet music, until he eventually instructed us to head outside and break into our sections. It was time to start working on the hard part: marching while playing.
Marching band was, I was quickly learning, an exercise in masochism. It combined musical performance with intense physical exertion, all of it performed under the punishing, humid Michigan sun. Carrying an instrument while executing precise, military-grade movements was essentially a sport disguised as art. The drills were relentless, pushing us to our absolute limits.
I grabbed my flute and water bottle, trudging toward the sprawling parking lot where the band was already gathering. The flutes were huddled together, lost in a flurry of conversation and pointedly ignoring my existence—a familiar, sharp sting of exclusion.
Then I saw him. Daniel. The same handsome guy from a few weeks ago, the one who’d convinced me to join the ranks. He was looking in my direction while warming up to the cadences, and I felt a sudden, violent explosion of butterflies in the pit of my stomach. I’d never felt this way before, and I knew, instinctively, that I shouldn’t be feeling it at all. He was just so damn handsome.
Elizabeth, I scolded myself, focus on the flute. Focus on the marching, not on the guy who will never look twice at you.
Daniel’s eyes flicked back to his percussion section, and he resumed his warm-up. Was he really looking at me? Or was it just my overactive imagination? Perhaps he was staring into thin air, entirely lost in his own rhythms. I tried to convince myself that I couldn’t like him. I just couldn’t. I wouldn’t.
“ELIZABETH!”
Felicity, the flute section leader, shrieked. Her voice was sharp, cutting through the warm-up air like a knife. “PAY ATTENTION!!! If you can’t listen to what I, the section leader, am saying, then you have no business being in this band!”
The rest of the flute section erupted into laughter. I was mortified. Did Daniel hear that? No, he couldn’t have; he was too far away. Or so I prayed. From the very first day of practice in the parking lot, I’d known Felicity Rose despised me. She relegated me to the end of every formation and the back of every halftime set. I felt unwanted, and more than once, I’d considered switching back to the clarinet just to be near my best friend. There were only three upperclassmen flute players, and now two of us freshmen had joined, yet Felicity gave Marissa Moore all the best parts. I was given the scraps and placed at the very back of the pack.
Still, I didn’t care. I was part of the band.
***
Band camp. A few weeks before the school year officially started, our parents dropped us off in the Northwood parking lot with our luggage in tow. We kissed them goodbye and piled onto the bus for the long, 53-minute trek to Camp Robin.
I sat next to my friend Yoshiko. She spent most of the ride telling me she was moving back to Japan at the end of the school year, her voice tinged with a quiet, lingering sadness. Around us, the bus was a cacophony of adolescent energy: Walkmans blared, freshmen percussionists drummed rhythmic patterns against the vinyl seats, and the tuba players traded jokes with the rest of the brass section. I knew it was going to be a long, exhausting, and hopefully transformative ride.
When we arrived, the buses pulled up in front of the largest building—a massive structure serving as both the cafeteria and our main practice hall. We spilled off the bus and immediately gravitated toward our respective sections. My eyes scanned the crowd until I found Daniel, who was deep in conversation, laughing with the other percussionists.
Section leaders were already busy with cabin assignments, carefully announcing where the freshmen would be housed—at opposite ends of the camp. No hanky-panky at band camp, the unspoken rule seemed to whisper.
I walked into our assigned cabin and claimed the middle bunk. Yoshiko took the top, leaving me the bottom. I pushed my trunk against the wall at the foot of the bed, transforming it into a makeshift nightstand. Once I was settled, I pulled out my small notebook and began to jot down the day’s events, careful to keep my observations of the trip—and of Daniel—neatly tucked away on the page.
The Maunt, the marching band’s yearly satire newspaper, was essentially a guide for us rookies that made us all laugh. In the inside cover, it read:
Bonjour, God dag, Hola, Hallo, Aloha, Ellohay, Tag, Shalom and hello to all of you. “Spirit of North” Northwood Pirates Marching Band People!!! No matter how tired you are, by the end of this annual issue of The Maunt, you should be laughing with all your tired brain cells until you fall out of bed (just a reminder, don’t read this while you’re on the top bunk or sitting on the toilet)! Rookies, don’t despair, Wednesday isn’t as bad as it seems, just have fun and you can join the upper clansmen/women who are laughing at your embarrassing moments on Thursday. Also, don’t freak out about the true definition of a maunt, because nobody actually knows. But study these pieces of paper very carefully so you can ace the exam that might pop up in the end. And don’t forget to love, cherish, adore, respect, serve and kiss up (or feet, whichever you prefer) to all upper classmen/women. You’ll be seeing a lot of them, since band will become your life. Here’s a reminder to all, have fun and enjoy your stay at Camp Robin!
The next page was a message for us Rookies, things we needed to know about each section. Attention Rookies: Everything you always wanted to know about Marching band but were too embarrassed/chicken/air headed to ask…
The Drum Major: He is just as tall as your average guy, and looks like one too, but he can be spotted from the band when he flashes his stick. Assistant Drum Major: don’t cross him/her, rookies, as his/her bark is worse then their bite. But she’s not as noticeable as the Drum Major, since she’s less important.
The Director: If you are a freshman or sophomore rookie, probably all you can see right now is a pair of blue shorts. But don’t despair! When you’re a senior and he gives you a hug, your nose should reach his armpit. The Majorette: Since she’s the only one we’ve got, we’ve got to keep her. That is if you can spot her. But if you do happen to see her, remember that she is non-instrumental, so therefore secondary to the band.
The Flag Corps: Remember to pronounce it “core” and not “Corpse” as in a dead flag, like some wish they were… since they are non-instrumental they don’t have anything stopping them from arguing, especially right in the middle of practice.
The Percussion: this is the section to wind up in if you don’t make flags and you don’t have that sparkling smile to be majorette. Sometimes they think they’re at one of their many performances and start to play over the band. But that just allows the rest of the band to play louder. We also need them for cadences so the band has some sort of music to march to and entertain. We can’t live with them, we can’t live without them and please, try not to shoot them.
The Band: They are the most important and talented member of this ensemble. The band provides enjoyment at pre-game, half-time and during the football game. They also are the member who don’t argue as much since it is difficult to yell at someone while you are playing your instrument.
When you join the marching band cult, you effectively surrender your identity to the stereotype for the entire season. I’d had to choose between the clarinet or the flute to march with, and the choice felt like a life-or-death decision. In middle school, the flute players were the ones landing the trumpet boys. The clarinet players—myself included—were strictly off-limits, or at least that’s how it felt. During my final year, I’d finally begged my grandmother for a flute, and she’d come through. I learned the fingerings just in time to join the high school ranks, confident that being a flute player was my ticket into the dating world.
We arrived at camp to a schedule that felt more like boot camp than a summer vacation:
7:00 AM: Wake up
7:30 – 8:30 AM: Breakfast
9:00 – 10:00 AM: Band rehearsals in the lodge; drumline on the field
10:30 AM – 1:00 PM: Meet the drumline on the field for pregame and halftime
1:30 PM: Lunch
3:00 PM: Formation in front of the lodge; march to the field
4:00 PM: Recreation
5:30 – 6:30 PM: Dinner
6:30 – 7:30 PM: Sectionals
9:00 PM: Evening activity (optional)
10:00 PM: In cabins
10:30 PM: Lights out
The drumline was already out on the field practicing while the rest of us were still in the lodge, grinding through “Carry on Wayward Son,” “Smoke on the Water,” and the Championship medley. We were prepping the halftime show, Les Misérables, and today’s rehearsal was focused on “I Dreamed a Dream.” I genuinely loved the arrangement; I had a kick-ass flute part that made me feel like I actually belonged there.
Felicity Rose had insisted I stand at the end of the line, connecting directly to the snares. The problem? I was struggling to sync my marching with the music. It would have been nice if the section leaders had taken five minutes to help me, rather than acting as if I were invisible.
Mr. Hamilton’s voice suddenly boomed across the field, amplified by his loudspeaker. “Elizabeth Cressy! You need to maintain even spacing between the flute section and the snares.”
I hated having my name shouted over the loudspeaker. It was mortifying. My section leader wouldn’t help me—in fact, she excluded me every chance she got—but the only thing keeping me from quitting was what Daniel had told me over the summer: “Band is the cool thing to do.” Fed up with the silence from my leadership, I eventually made an excuse to duck off the field for a water break. I’m a visual learner, and I needed to see the movement from a distance. I watched the flutes form a line, swerve right, and march backward until they hit the snares. I was the missing link. I counted the steps, watched the percussionists strike their sticks, and when I heard Andrew, the “percussion overlord,” bark, “Tick, tick, tick, crab-walk!” it finally clicked. Why couldn’t the director or section leader just show me that?
While drinking, I found myself chatting with Mr. Cohen, one of the parent chaperones and Daniel’s father. “Why isn’t Ethan here? I remember him talking about wanting to join.”
“He chose sports,” Mr. Cohen replied, a hint of disappointment in his voice.
“Shame. He’d love it here—especially with his big brother on the field.” I realized how awkward that sounded the second it left my mouth. I’ve always been clumsy with small talk. As I tossed my cup into the trash, another parent piped up, asking who I was.
“That’s Elizabeth Cressy,” Mr. Cohen said. “She went to Willow Creek with Ethan. It appears she likes my son, Daniel; she can’t keep her eyes off him.”
I was mortified. Sure, I was attracted to him, but a crush? That felt impossible. He was a Junior, I was a Freshman; it felt weird. I’d liked Tucker Sandifer, and I’d liked Ethan, too. Tucker was at Harrison now—I’d never see him again. But Ethan? I missed his humor. He was the kind of person who could turn your worst day around with a single sentence.
By now, Mr. Hamilton had the band focusing on the drumline rhythms. Felicity noticed me watching Daniel, and it clearly grated on her nerves. “Poor Daniel,” she said, loud enough for the group to hear. “He must be devastated.”
“What happened?” Marissa asked.
“He was dating a senior last year, and she broke his heart. Dumped him.” Felicity turned to me, a cruel glint in her eyes. “And Elizabeth? I can see you’re blushing. You might as well know the rules now: a percussionist will never date a flute player. Especially not you.”
What was her issue? We hardly knew each other, yet she was already this vindictive. Was she threatened by Daniel constantly looking my way? Let’s be honest, folks: he would never ask me out, and I doubted he’d ever crush on me—but I couldn’t help but wonder, why would anyone break up with him? From what I remembered of him, he was a good guy. Probably perfect, at least in my eyes. I ignored Felicity and continued to watch him play the snare, spiraling into thought. I don’t know why I cared, but I did notice that Daniel lacked any real emotion about the breakup.
“Tick, tick, tick, crab walk!” Andrew shouted.
As I watched the line, my gaze locked with Daniel’s. I immediately wondered: did his girlfriend break up with him, or did he push her to the point of doing it? He hadn’t seemed heartbroken when I’d met him in the hallway back in June. If he pushed her, why would he do that? He had such beautiful blue eyes…
Then, it hit me like a light bulb: he knew long-distance wouldn’t work and didn’t want the drama. He couldn’t do the dirty work of breaking up himself, so he did the only thing he knew how: he pushed her away. It was pure speculation, drawing on the times Tucker and Ruth broke up and got back together. Tucker always seemed genuinely crushed. I remembered when Tucker dated Jade in 7th grade—I’d found out she was going to dump him and told him. He’d snapped, “Elizabeth, I know you have a crush on me, but that was mean. Don’t ever talk to me again.” A few days later, he’d found me in the hallway, hugged me, and wiped away tears. “Thank you for being honest, Elizabeth,” he’d said. We were friends again after that.
I made my way back to the field, unable to take my eyes off Daniel. He kept looking at me, too. I was majorly blushing. No guy had ever done that—not even Tucker. What was it about Daniel Cohen? His brother, Ethan, never gave me a second thought, other than to mock me. Daniel was different. I wanted to know him, but how could I with the “mean girl squad” actively trying to bring me down? School hadn’t even started yet!
Shit.
People near me were glancing my way. My marching was fine, my rhythm was in sync, but could they tell I was blushing like a bright red tomato? Shit, I whispered. Thankfully, no one noticed. As I looked at my music and marched halftime, I thought: I think I like him. I can’t. I have to get him out of my head and focus. It’s too noticeable that I’m attracted to him, and I’m sure he’s bothered by it. After all, I’m Elizabeth Cressy: a dork. No guy has ever liked me. I still haven’t even had my first kiss yet.
After practice, we marched back to the main area for a two-hour break. While some of the girls headed to the lake to swim, I retreated to our cabin. I needed to write. I knelt by my trunk and flipped the latch, but my hands met empty space. My stomach dropped.
A wave of high-pitched giggling drifted in from the next room. I walked to the doorway, my pulse thudding in my ears. Jackie was sitting on her bed, turning the pages of my life. When she saw me, she hopped up and dangled the notebook in the air.
“So, you’re into the Cohen boys?” she teased, her eyes cold. “You know they’ll never look twice at you.”
“Give it back,” I demanded, my voice trembling with a mixture of rage and humiliation. “Why are you reading that?”
Regina, ever the queen of her own little kingdom of cruelty, didn’t even look up from her mirror. “Why would you even bring that thing here? It’s pathetic, Elizabeth.”
I grabbed the journal and retreated to my bunk, collapsing onto the mattress. The knot of dread in my stomach felt like it might choke me. I wanted to pack my bags, walk out of camp, and never look back. I was done.
After tucking the journal safely under my pillow, I forced myself to walk to the lodge for a snack. My head was down, my feet dragging, until I spotted him: Daniel, sitting alone on the porch, his sticks dancing over his practice pad in a series of complex, rapid-fire rhythms.
“Hi,” I murmured, barely loud enough to hear.
He didn’t look up, just offered a curt, distracted nod and kept playing.
“Are you Daniel?” I asked, feeling foolish.
“Yes,” he replied, his eyes locked on the pad, his hands never missing a beat.
I was clearly bothering him. I turned toward the cafeteria, but stopped short at a wall plastered with old photos from previous years. There was Daniel, looking younger, grinning with the rest of the drumline. A few frames over, there was Felicity, my section leader, looking just as sharp and smug as she did today. I was leaning in, studying the faces, when I felt a presence breathe close behind me.
It was Daniel. My heart hammered against my ribs—I was instantly, painfully aware of him.
“Is this you?” I asked, pointing to a photo of him from a year ago, desperately trying to sound casual.
“Yes.”
“I like it,” I said. I like it? Who says that? I mentally slapped myself.
We stood in silence, staring at the ghosts of past band seasons.
“Do you know why Ethan isn’t here?” I finally blurted out. “I thought he really wanted to join. In eighth grade, he told me he wanted to be in the band just to be near you.”
Daniel turned, and for a second, the mask of the cool, rhythmic drummer slipped. He sighed, a flash of genuine frustration crossing his face. “I really wanted him here. It pisses me off that he chose soccer.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I’m sorry too.”
The conversation evaporated as quickly as it had begun. We both headed into the cafeteria, but the second he had his drink, he retreated back to the porch, falling right back into the sanctuary of his rhythms.
The next day was what the upperclassmen loved and the underclassmen hated: Rookie Day. All the rookies had an upperclassman who had adopted them ahead of time, except me. I never understood why I was constantly forgotten about or picked on by people. To be honest, this was the one time I didn’t mind being forgotten about, as I didn’t want to participate in this stupid day. It was a tradition each year for the percussionists to come into the Rookie Cabin to wake us up at the crack of dawn. I woke up to the sound of drum equipment and whispers entering the room. There was Daniel, standing in my cabin with his snare drum. Knowing this tradition, I had deliberately worn a flirty tank top to bed, hoping he might notice. And he did. His eyes lingered for a moment, a subtle shift in his expression, before he quickly averted his gaze. They played their cadence to wake us up and left. It was officially Rookie Day. The Maunt told us this was good fun; I didn’t know what to expect. First-year students, or “rookies,” had to meet with a senior who adopted us for the day.
The upperclassmen/women picked out a costume to dress us up. My friend Natalie was a “human condom” with a sheet on her. I laughed at some of the ridiculous costumes people had. Josh Nucian was a clown; there was a robot, a cowboy/cowgirl, and then there was me, orphaned from this event until Marissa, the twirler, tapped on my shoulder. “Elizabeth, I picked you. I thought you knew,” she smiled. “Here’s the costume I picked out for you. It was the same one I wore when I was a rookie.” A freakn’ clown costume, complete with a red wig. I went to my cabin and quickly put on the ugly costume. At least I didn’t have clown shoes! Marissa was waiting for me, and once I had the costume on, she applied makeup and a red nose. She said the nose wasn’t optional, and I had to wear it. I told her that it was hard to breathe with it on. She sighed and said I didn’t need to wear it. We both walked back over to the other rookies.
After we were dressed up, we then had to wear signs for the day, and if we disobeyed the other students, we would get a mark, and whoever got the highest marks had to kiss a senior in front of everyone. Once we heard the rules, most of which I had zoned out for because I was tired, we were told to line up in a single line to sing the school fight song, which I found out later, only us band kids knew the words. Thankfully, I studied with my friends Ruth and Yoshiko the night before. I didn’t want to get or give a “whammy” to anyone. Pirates, Pirates march down the field, Make our opponents yield. Driving, striving for that big score, We’ll make it to the fore. Brown and gold our colors do fly, We’ll hold them to the sky. Victory, victory is our refrain, For hearts that are brave and bold. RAH! RAH! RAH! Go! Go! Go! Straight through that line. Hit ’em till they resign. Smashing, crashing with all our might, ‘Til victory is in sight. Onward Pirates our hearts are strong, The end will not be long. Northwood High School onward to win.
After the marching band rookie glee club finished singing the fight song several times, we were dismissed to go and eat breakfast. I stood in line to get eggs and sausage with orange juice to drink. I sat down with Felicity and Yoshiko. “Let me get this straight, even if we are eating our breakfast, if an upperclassman asks us to get their food, we have to stop eating and get it for them?” I asked Ruth. “Yep. I had to get Alex’s meal.” And that’s what happened. I had to go wait in line to get my adoptive upperclassman her meal. By the time she got it, it was time to get in formation to march to the field to work on the pre-game for the first half of the day. The problem was, I didn’t eat much. I was hungry, and three hours of being on the field without food in my system, I knew it wasn’t good. However, I chose to suck it up because I wanted to have a good day.
When we got there, the seniors put shaving cream all over the field saying “Class of 1995” and had canoes in the middle of the field. I thought that was pretty cool to see. We all laughed. Mr. Hamilton wasn’t amused with the canoes, and the seniors had to move them. It made me wonder what my senior class would do? I could imagine the porta-potties placed on the middle of the field by the trumpet players. When the day ended, we gathered in the fire pit area to talk about what things had been done, what we needed to improve, the “Nurse Shannon” jokes, and the final thing, the kiss. Thankfully, it wasn’t me who got the most marks. It was a sophomore rookie named Julie Sandifer, who played the French horn, who had to kiss the senior guy.
Then came the evening activity, a camp-wide talent show. I was sitting with Ruth and Yoshiko, still in my clown makeup, feeling a mix of exhaustion and relief that Rookie Day was almost over. Towards the end of the night, a senior named George, a football player known for his easygoing charm, was dared to kiss the rookie with the most “spirit.” He walked straight to me, still in my clown costume, and with a flourish, dipped me slightly and gave me a quick, chaste kiss on the lips. It was my first kiss, even if it was just a silly, public dare. The crowd cheered, and I felt my face flush crimson beneath the clown paint. It was embarrassing, but also… a kiss. As I straightened up, I glanced across the bonfire. Daniel was there, standing with his percussion friends, his gaze fixed on me. His expression was unreadable, but the intensity of his stare sent a shiver down my spine. He had seen it.
It was the final day of band camp. We had to pack our things, clean our cabins, and take them to the bus. All except our instruments and music. Some parents were coming to watch the final performance before the school year started. My family did not come, as they never came to these things, which was fine. I liked being a teenager without my family hovering. This was my activity. We got into line formation and marched to the practice field. Left, Right, Left, Right, we marched to the cadences up until the percussion overlord shouted “ANIMAL” cadence, where we kicked forward and backward. I liked this cadence because it made marching fun. When the cadence finished, Andrew, the percussion overlord, played a drumroll that signaled the start of music, which cycled from “Championship,” our fight song, “Gimme Some Loving,” “Land of a Thousand Dances,” and back to “Championship.”
We arrived at the practice field and marched into our “pre-game formation,” which was, if it was a football game, we would be in rows facing the far-left goal of the football field and double-time into formation. I hated this because I was a magnet to the bass drums, meaning I would be close to running into them or they would run into me during this time. Once we got into our position on the field, we then played our fight song, which Mr. Hamilton told the parents on his loudspeaker was written by the first band director in the high school, sometime in the 1960s, since the school was built in 1961. Once the song was finished playing, we all then marched off the field and took a much-needed water break.
Now it was time to show the parents the halftime show. I was nervous. I didn’t want to screw up my part. I got this, I said to myself. The other flute players in my section were huddling together, giving pep talks, intentionally leaving me out of it. Some of you might think that I probably should have joined in the huddle, which in most cases I would have done. In this case, I was standing next to them; they called out the names in the section, leaving me out. I didn’t want that to get to me, so I got into the line and waited to march onto the field. I smiled as I saw Daniel, who was already on the field with the rest of the drumline. The percussionists stood there quiet, waiting for the drum major, Kennon, to give his signal to start the show. Mr. Hamilton was explaining what the band does during the school year and how important being in the music program was. When he finished, he said on his loudspeaker, “Kennon, you can start.” The Drum Major raised his hands to conduct and pointed to the drumline, who did a metronome strike on the drum for all of us band kids to march onto the field and get into position. I got this, Elizabeth. I can do it. I am not going to screw this up today, I told myself.
It was time to show Les Misérables. We first showed the parents “One Day More,” which finished with me connecting with the snares. The final song we had practiced on the field during band camp was “I Dreamed a Dream.” There was more, but we didn’t have time to finish it during the week at band camp and would learn it during the school year. I put my flute up, played, and marched the formations, didn’t mess up at all. I was proud of myself. Once we finished, Andrew gave his drumroll for a cadence to get us to march off the field. It was official: band camp was over, and school was ready to start in a couple of weeks. My ride back to the school on the bus was quiet. We were all tired from the week. All I could think about was the amazing time I had at camp and trying to figure out Daniel, as he was nothing like Ethan. He was reserved, quiet, a talented percussionist, and mysterious. Was I starting to crush on him? The thought sent a jolt through me. He was a junior, and I was a freshman. This wasn’t the movies; this was real life, and it would never work. I had to put the idea to rest immediately. Still, he was the hottest guy in the band, and whenever I was around him, my face would betray me, flushing crimson. I was deeply attracted, undeniably, and that was a problem. A big one.
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