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 Chris 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 Crystal. 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. Crystal 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 like they were personally protesting the entire week, 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 that somehow made him look both intense and annoyingly cool.
“Hi,” I murmured, barely loud enough for human ears.
He didn’t look up. Just offered a curt, distracted nod and kept playing.
I swallowed. “Are you Daniel?”
“Yes,” he replied, eyes locked on the pad, hands never missing a beat.
I was clearly bothering him. Mission accomplished, Elizabeth. I turned toward the cafeteria, but stopped short in front of 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, Felicity — my section leader — looked 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 immediately launched into its own chaotic drum solo.
“Is this you?” I asked, pointing to a photo of him from a year ago, desperately trying to sound casual and failing miserably.
“Yes.”
“I like it,” I said. I like it? Who says that? I mentally slapped myself.
We stood there in awkward silence, staring at the ghosts of past band seasons like two very socially challenged museum visitors.
“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 whole cool, mysterious drummer mask 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.
Sigh. The next day was Rookie Day…
The conversation evaporated as quickly as it had begun. Daniel grabbed his drink and retreated back to the porch like a man returning to his natural habitat — the sacred rhythm of his drum practice. Typical.
As I walked away, still replaying that painfully short conversation in my head, I couldn’t help but roll my eyes with all the theatrical flair of a girl who’d survived eighth-grade warfare. “His brother bullied me last year,” I muttered under my breath, “meanwhile Daniel is moody.”
As if that single moody mystery explained the entire absurd emotional labyrinth of teenage boys.
The next day was what the upperclassmen lived for and the rest of us dreaded: Rookie Day. Every rookie had an upperclassman “adopt” them ahead of time. Everyone except me, of course. Story of my life — constantly forgotten or picked on. For once, I was weirdly grateful. I had zero interest in whatever fresh hell this tradition involved.
At the crack of dawn, I woke up to the sound of drum equipment and whispered chaos entering the cabin. There, standing right by my bunk with a snare drum strapped on, was Daniel. I’d deliberately worn my flirtiest tank top to bed, hoping he might notice. And he did. His eyes lingered for half a second longer than necessary. A tiny shift crossed his face before he quickly looked away.
They played a quick cadence to wake us up, then vanished like ghosts. Rookie Day had officially begun.
The Maunt clapped her hands and announced with way too much cheer, “This is all good fun, everyone!” I had no idea what I was in for.
The upperclassmen picked out ridiculous costumes for their rookies. Avery got wrapped in a sheet as a “human condom.” Chris was a clown. There was a robot, a cowboy, and then… me, standing there like an orphan until Marissa the twirler tapped my shoulder.
“Elizabeth! I picked you. I thought you knew,” she said with a bright smile. “Here’s the costume I wore when I was a rookie.”
A freaking clown costume. Complete with red wig.
I trudged back to my cabin and put on the hideous thing. At least it didn’t come with clown shoes. Marissa waited outside, then applied the makeup and stuck a big red nose on my face.
“I can’t breathe with this thing on,” I complained.
She sighed. “Fine, you don’t have to wear the nose.”
We walked back to the group, where we got our signs for the day. The rules were simple and stupid: disobey an upperclassman and you got a mark. Whoever got the most marks at the end of the day had to kiss a senior in front of everyone. I zoned out halfway through the explanation because I was already exhausted.
We lined up and had to sing the school fight song — which, naturally, only the band kids actually knew. Thank God I’d studied the lyrics with Avery and Crystal the night before. I did not want to be responsible for any “whammies.”
After several painful rounds of Pirates, Pirates march down the field…, we were finally dismissed for breakfast. I stood in line for eggs, sausage, and orange juice, then sat with Avery and Crystal.
“Let me get this straight,” I asked Ruth, “even while we’re eating, if an upperclassman tells us to get their food, we have to stop and do it?”
“Yep,” Ruth said, poking at her eggs. “I already had to fetch Alex’s meal.”
Of course I ended up doing the same thing for my adoptive upperclassman. By the time I got back to my own food, it was time to march to the field. I barely ate anything. Three hours of practice on an empty stomach? Terrible idea. But I sucked it up. I wanted to have a good day.
The seniors had turned the field into chaos — shaving cream spelling out “Class of 1995” and two canoes parked right in the middle. We all cracked up. Mr. Hamilton? Not so much.
“Get those canoes off my field!” he barked. I couldn’t help wondering what my senior class would do someday. Probably something involving porta-potties and the trumpet section.
When the day finally ended, we gathered around the fire pit to debrief. After all the jokes and “Nurse Shannon” stories, it came down to the kiss. Thankfully, it wasn’t me. Julie Sandifer, a sophomore French horn player, got the most marks and had to kiss a senior guy.
That evening we had the camp-wide talent show. I was still in full clown makeup, sitting with Crystal and Avery, when a senior named George — a football player with easygoing charm — got dared to kiss the rookie with the most “spirit.” He walked straight over to me, dipped me dramatically like we were in some old movie, and planted a quick, chaste kiss on my lips.
My first kiss. In front of the entire camp. While dressed as a clown.
The crowd cheered. My face burned crimson underneath all the makeup. As I straightened up, I glanced across the bonfire. Daniel was standing with his percussion friends, staring right at me. His expression was unreadable, but the intensity of that look sent a shiver straight down my spine.
He had seen everything.
The final day of band camp arrived in a blur of packing, cleaning cabins, and loading the bus (instruments and music only, of course). My family didn’t come to watch the final performance — they never did — and honestly, I preferred it that way. This was my world.
We lined up and marched to the practice field to the beat of the cadences. I actually loved the “Animal” cadence because we got to kick forward and backward like idiots. When it ended, Andrew (our percussion overlord) hit a big drumroll, and we launched into the pre-game set: “Championship,” our fight song, “Gimme Some Loving,” “Land of a Thousand Dances,” and back again.
We moved into pre-game formation, and I silently cursed my eternal bad luck. As a flute player, I was a magnet for the bass drums. One wrong step and I’d either crash into them or they’d run me over. Just another day in band paradise.
Once we got into our slightly crooked positions on the field, Mr. Hamilton grabbed his loudspeaker like it was the holy grail and announced to the parents, “Folks, this fight song was written by our very first band director back in the 1960s, when the school was built in 1961. Let’s hear it for tradition!”
We played it, survived it, and marched off the field for a much-needed water break. Half the band looked like they were melting. I chugged half my bottle in one go and tried not to think about what came next.
Now it was time to show the parents the halftime show. My stomach was doing Olympic-level gymnastics. I got this, Elizabeth. Do not screw this up today.
The other flute players immediately huddled together like they were planning a secret rebellion. I heard one of them whisper, “Okay guys, we’ve got this. Just remember to stay tight on the turns—” They called out names, psyching each other up, and completely skipped over mine. I was standing right there. Like, literally two feet away.
One of the girls glanced at me for half a second, then turned back to the group. Awkward.
I could’ve inserted myself. In most cases I probably would have. But today I just smiled tightly, adjusted my flute, and muttered under my breath, “Cool. Great. Totally fine.”
I got into the line and waited to march onto the field. That’s when I spotted Daniel already out there with the drumline. He stood perfectly still, looking calm, focused, and annoyingly hot. The percussionists were quiet, almost eerily so, waiting for Kennon — our drum major — to give the signal.
Mr. Hamilton was doing his full proud-dad speech on the loudspeaker: “Band teaches discipline, teamwork, and the importance of being part of something bigger than yourself…”
When he finally wrapped it up, he boomed, “Alright, Kennon — you may begin!”
Kennon raised his arms dramatically like he was conducting the Super Bowl halftime show, then pointed sharply at the drumline. They responded with a crisp metronome strike that cut through the air. That was our cue. We marched onto the field and snapped into position.
You’ve got this, Elizabeth. Do not be the freshman who ruins Les Mis in front of everyone’s parents.
We opened with “One Day More,” and somehow — miracle of miracles — I connected cleanly with the snares on the final note. Then came “I Dreamed a Dream.” I lifted my flute, played my heart out, and actually hit every formation without tripping, dropping my instrument, or spontaneously combusting from nerves.
When we finished, Andrew gave a big drumroll cadence and we marched off the field like champs. Mr. Hamilton was grinning from ear to ear on the sidelines. “That’s my band!” he shouted.
It was official: band camp was over. School would be starting in a couple of weeks.
The bus ride back was dead quiet. Everyone was exhausted, slumped against windows or each other. I stared out at the passing trees and couldn’t stop replaying the whole week in my head — especially Daniel. He was nothing like Ethan. Reserved, quiet, insanely talented on percussion, and wrapped in this mysterious vibe I couldn’t figure out.
Was I seriously starting to crush on him?
The thought sent a ridiculous little jolt through my chest. He was a junior. I was a freshman. This wasn’t some cheesy movie where the age difference is adorable and everyone cheers. This was real life, and in real life that kind of thing usually ends in total humiliation.
I had to shut it down immediately.
Still… he was easily the hottest guy in the entire band. And every time I was near him, my face turned traitor, flushing bright crimson like it was personally trying to ruin my life.
I sighed and leaned my head against the cool bus window.
Great. Just great. This was going to be a problem. A big, flute-playing, completely hopeless problem.
The weekend after band camp ended should have been peaceful. I had earned the right to lie in bed, stare at my ceiling, and replay every small interaction with Daniel on an endless loop like a slightly obsessive movie. Instead, I was standing at the edge of a wide clearing near the town waterfall, watching sparks from a massive bonfire climb into the night sky like tiny escaping dreams. Music thumped through the trees from a big boombox someone had hauled out. Laughter burst out in unpredictable waves. Red plastic cups glowed in the firelight, and the air smelled like smoke, cheap perfume, and the particular kind of teenage chaos I usually tried to avoid.
This was the last big party before school started on Monday. Everyone kept calling it “the blowout.” I had let my friends drag me here with promises that “it’ll be fun” and “you need to live a little before high school really starts.” Now I was seriously regretting every decision that had led me to this moment.
I tugged at the hem of my shirt, suddenly self-conscious about how plain I looked compared to the girls in glittery tops and perfectly done makeup. Band camp had left me sun-tanned and exhausted, but at least out on the practice field I knew exactly where to stand and what note to play. Here? I had no formation. No sheet music. Just me, my rapidly beating heart, and the very real possibility of public humiliation.
I had barely taken ten steps into the clearing when Ruth appeared like she’d been waiting for me specifically.
“Well, well,” she said, looking me up and down with a smile sharp enough to cut glass. “Look who decided to leave the band nerd cave.”
I forced a laugh. It came out more like a pathetic cough. Ruth flipped her hair, gave me one last pitying glance, and disappeared back into the crowd with a group of girls who already looked like they belonged on a cheerleading squad. Her words stuck to me anyway, clinging like smoke from the bonfire.
I wandered closer to the flames anyway, telling myself I could just stay for thirty minutes and then slip away unnoticed. The heat warmed my face as I watched clusters of kids laughing, dancing, flirting. Some seniors were already telling exaggerated stories about what they planned to do once school started. A few freshmen huddled together looking just as lost as I felt.
That’s when Tucker saw me.
He was standing near the fire with a couple of guys, but the moment his eyes landed on me his face lit up with that easy, crooked smile I’d had a crush on for way too long. He waved me over. My feet moved before my brain could talk me out of it.
“Hey, Elizabeth,” he said warmly, pulling me into the circle like I belonged there. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Me either,” I admitted, trying to sound casual. My voice came out quieter than I wanted.
The conversation flowed around us for a while—mostly about who was going where for high school, football tryouts, cheerleading drama, and who was already grounded before school even started. Tucker kept glancing at me, though. Like he was actually happy I was there. Every time our eyes met I felt a little spark of hope I knew I shouldn’t trust.
At one point the group thinned out. People wandered off to get more drinks or join the dancing closer to the boombox. Suddenly it was just Tucker and me standing a little apart from the noise, the bonfire crackling beside us and the waterfall roaring softly in the distance.
“You know,” he said, stepping closer, his voice dropping to that intimate tone that made my stomach flip, “I always thought you were cool. Even back in eighth grade. Quiet, but… cool.”
My heart did something stupid and hopeful. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He leaned in a little more. “I’m kinda bummed we’re going to Harrison. Would’ve been nice to see more of you at Northwood.”
The world narrowed to just the two of us. Before I could overthink it — before I could remember that he had a girlfriend, before I could remember that I was the awkward band girl — he tilted his head and kissed me.
It was soft at first. Surprising. Warm. Everything my younger self had secretly imagined on long bus rides home from competitions. For one glorious second the party noise faded and it was just Tucker, the crackle of the bonfire, the distant waterfall, and my racing pulse.
Then—
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Ruth’s voice sliced through the moment like a record scratch. She stood only a few feet away, eyes blazing with fury, hands planted firmly on her hips.
Tucker pulled back quickly, looking guilty. “Ruth, come on—”
“I was invited,” I said, my voice smaller than I wanted it to be.
“Really?” woman in pink laughed, loud and cruel. “Oopsy.” woman in pink stepped closer, voice dripping with fake sweetness, stay away from Ethan”.
People around us started turning to watch. Whispers rippled through the crowd. A couple of seniors leaned in, eyes wide with interest. The familiar wave of humiliation rose in my chest, thick and choking.
“Thank you,” I said quietly.
Ruth blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Thank you. For a minute there, I forgot why I avoided places like this and people like you.”
“Avoided us?” She let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Honey, look around you. To everyone here who matters, you’re vapor. You’re spam. A waste of perfectly good yearbook space. Nothing’s gonna change that. You’re just a pathetic band geek who—”
“Ruth. That’s enough.”
Ethan stepped out of the shadows like he’d been waiting for the perfect dramatic entrance. Daniel’s younger brother. The same boy who had bullied me last year and made me dread going to school. Tonight he radiated that specific brand of malicious popular-boy energy, but it wasn’t aimed at me.
Ruth spun on him. “Stay out of this, Ethan.”
“Actually, it does concern me,” he said with a lazy smirk. “She’s in band with my brother and he says she is cool, if he says it, I say it too. And unlike you, she’s not running off to Harrison to chase cheerleading dreams and a guy who’s clearly over it.” He shot Tucker a pointed look. “Some of us actually have standards.”
The tension crackled thicker than the bonfire smoke. Ruth’s mouth opened and closed. She grabbed Tucker’s arm, muttered something vicious under her breath, and stormed off, dragging him with her. A few people whispered and shook their heads as they left.
I stood there stunned, heart hammering. Ethan turned to me, that arrogant smirk still firmly in place, but his eyes looked almost… concerned?
“You okay, band girl?” he asked gruffly.
I nodded, still shaky. “Why did you do that?”
He shrugged. “Because my brother would’ve wanted me to. Plus it was fun watching Ruth’s head almost explode.” He paused, then added with a smirk, “I’ve got layers. Shocking, I know.”
We stood there awkwardly as the party kept raging behind us. After a minute, Ethan jerked his chin toward the path leading out of the clearing.
“Come on. I’ll walk you home.”
I was too drained — and honestly too relieved — to argue. We left the bonfire glow and the thumping music behind and started walking down the quiet streets. The night air felt cooler away from the fire. Streetlights cast long shadows ahead of us. For several blocks neither of us spoke.
Eventually I found the courage to break the silence.
“Daniel told me you chose soccer over band,” I said. “Would’ve been great to have a bari sax player marching with us.”
Ethan let out a short “heh,” that familiar smirk tugging at his lips. “I liked band last year, but high school? Soccer is what I love more.” He kicked a pebble down the sidewalk. “Also… my brother and I are not getting along lately. He’s moody if you haven’t noticed.”
I almost laughed. “Yeah. I noticed.”
The walk continued. We passed familiar houses, quiet yards, the occasional dog barking in the distance. My mind kept drifting back to band camp — to Daniel on the porch with his practice pad, to the way his eyes had lingered on me that morning in the cabin, to the quiet intensity that seemed to follow him everywhere. And now here I was, walking home with his brother after getting kissed by another boy and publicly humiliated in front of half the incoming freshman class.
Life was weird.
When we finally reached my house, the porch light was on, casting a soft yellow glow over the steps. Ethan stopped at the bottom and shoved his hands in his pockets.
Before things could get too awkward, I stepped forward and gave him a quick hug. It was clumsy and brief, but it felt real. He hugged me back, just for a second.
“See you Monday, Elizabeth,” he said, that trademark smirk returning as he pulled away.
I watched him walk down the street until he disappeared around the corner. Then I leaned against my front door, heart still racing from everything that had happened in the last few hours.
Band camp had only ended a few days ago, but it already felt like a different lifetime. The quiet intensity of the practice field, the way Daniel had looked at me when he thought I wasn’t watching, the silly hope I’d felt wearing that flirty tank top to bed… all of it seemed so far away now.
And yet Daniel was still the one I couldn’t stop thinking about.
I touched my lips, still feeling the ghost of Tucker’s kiss, and wondered how everything had gotten so complicated so fast. High school started in two days. I had no idea how I was supposed to march through it without tripping over my own feelings — or my own feet.
I woke up several minutes before my alarm went off, the delicious scent of my grandmother’s cooking already drifting down the hallway — pancakes and bacon, the official smell of hope. Today was the first day of high school. A real fresh start. No more middle school drama, no more being the quiet girl everyone overlooked. I was excited to see everyone again and, at the same time, desperate to make new friends. A small smile played on my lips at the thought of a clean slate. Maybe this year I could finally be someone new.
I threw off my blanket, hopped out of bed, and pulled on my favorite blue-jean shorts, a soft pink t-shirt, and my prized black choker with the little silver heart pendant. Then came the white socks and my trusty white Keds — every girl in 1994 knew those were the only acceptable shoes. I dashed to the bathroom, brushed my hair, and stood there debating: high ponytail or side ponytail with a black scrunchie? I went with the high ponytail, added a sparkly barrette for a touch of flair, and finished with a swipe of mauve lipstick. I stared at my reflection, hands on the counter.
Elizabeth, this year is going to be different. You’re in high school now. Not everyone knows the old you. You’re not shy. You’re not ugly. You are beautiful. You’re going to get straight A’s and — who knows — maybe even date someone.
I nodded at myself, a flicker of real confidence in my eyes. I can do this. I smiled, turned off the light, and headed to the kitchen.
“Morning, Elizabeth. Ready for your first day?” Grandma asked, sliding a plate of fluffy pancakes and crispy bacon in front of me along with a glass of orange juice.
“Sure am,” I said, jumping up to grab the powdered sugar. (Yes, I know powdered sugar on pancakes is weird, but I’ve never been a syrup girl.)
As I ate, I studied my schedule for the hundredth time:
- 1st period: Freshman English – Mrs. Whitaker (7:45–8:53)
- 2nd period: World History – Mr. Brennan (8:58–9:56)
- 3rd period: Geophysical Science – Mr. Reynolds (10:01–10:59)
- 4th period: Concert Band – Mr. Hamilton (11:04–12:34) + A Lunch
- 5th period: Freshman Gym (12:39–1:37)
- 6th period: Pre-Algebra – Mrs. Barlow (1:42–2:40)
I spread out the school map and traced the routes between classes and my locker. Only one class was upstairs — math. Band I was excited about. Gym? Yuck. This was the year I’d finally have to suffer through it. Science and history should be easy. I got this.
And maybe… just maybe… I’d see that cute drummer again. The thought sent a familiar flutter through my stomach.
After breakfast I grabbed my backpack, flute, and clarinet, then climbed into the car with my neighbor Renee. Renee and I had never really meshed — she was smarter than me and always carried that slightly snobby attitude. Grandma dropped us off at the front of the school. The moment we walked in, we headed in different directions toward our lockers.
I opened mine slowly. A flash of embarrassment from my very first day of sixth grade hit me. I had gotten lost coming back from the bathroom, walked into the wrong classroom, and later ended up at the eighth-grade lockers instead of the sixth-grade ones. That was the day I first met Daniel.
The eighth-grade boys had been picking on me: “A lost sixth grader! What should we do with this one?” Daniel had been walking by with a friend. He told them to knock it off, took my hand, pulled me aside, and said, “My name’s Daniel… I can show you around if you want.”
I had been shocked. No one had ever defended me before. “My name’s Elizabeth. Thank you.”
“My brother’s in your grade,” he added. “You should make friends with him. He’s a cool guy.”
That was the last time we really spoke until band camp.
Wait a minute… I knew Daniel. He had been super nice to me back then. The realization hit me as I shoved my jacket and instruments into the locker. This year really will be different. I have a map. I studied it all summer.
I headed down the middle hallway to Mrs. Whitaker’s Freshman English class. She was an older lady everyone seemed to love, but I’d heard she was tough — especially when we got to Shakespeare later in the year. I wasn’t sure I’d survive it.
Next was Mr. Brennan’s World History. I took my seat and started doodling in my notebook. A familiar voice entered the room. I looked up — it was Ethan. He looked… hot. I hated that I noticed.
He took a seat three desks behind me. After everything that happened at the party over the weekend, I wasn’t sure what to expect from him.
“Hey, Ethan,” I said, turning slightly in my seat, offering a small smile.
He looked up, a faint smirk on his lips. “Hey, Elizabeth.”
I hesitated for a second, then added, “Mr. Hamilton asked me yesterday in band if you’re planning to join this year. He saw your name on the roster.”
Ethan leaned back in his chair and laughed. “What is this? First my brother, now you? I’m gonna tell you what I told him: at this time, I have no interest. I want to focus on track and soccer.”
“Thanks,” I said, cheeks warming a little. “By the way… you were an amazing bari sax player last year.”
“Thanks, Elizabeth. I appreciate that. Maybe in the future.” He gave me a quick high-five. “See you around.”
I watched him turn back to the guy next to him, heart still doing little flips. So flippin’ hot.
Third period was Mr. Reynolds’s Geophysical Science. Crystal was in my class — she was taking double courses plus Japanese on Saturdays. She gave me a little wave from across the room.
Lunch! Finally. I sat at an orange circular table near the cafeteria entrance with Avery and Crystal. The band room was conveniently close.
“I wonder if Daniel will be having lunch here,” I mused aloud, half to myself.
“Daniel? HA!” Avery laughed. “He’s a junior. He’ll probably eat in the band room if it’s his lunch hour. We’re A lunch. There’s also B lunch.”
As my friends chatted about their mornings, all I could think about was seeing familiar faces from middle school and worrying about marching band practice after school. I was still struggling to play and march at the same time. And I was terrified Daniel would notice how I felt about him and turn out to be just like his brother — making fun of me.
“What’s the matter with you?” Avery finally asked, noticing my silence.
“Nothing,” I muttered. That wasn’t exactly true, but I wasn’t ready to talk about it.
Fourth period: Band. The moment I walked in I felt a sense of belonging I hadn’t found anywhere else. The familiar sounds of instruments tuning, the organized chaos before Mr. Hamilton stepped onto the podium — it all felt right. I played clarinet in concert band and flute in marching band. It was a strange duality, but the music was home.
Fifth period was the dreaded Freshman Gym. In the 90s, the first half of the semester was swimming. We couldn’t bring our own suits — we had to wear the ugly brown one-piece with the gold “NW” in the middle. I wondered how many girls had worn them before me. The thought made me nauseous.
I couldn’t swim. Not really. I used to love it — pretending I was a mermaid in the deep end at the country club. Then one day my cousin snuck up, grabbed my leg, and pulled me under. I forgot how to swim and nearly drowned. My dad saved me. Ever since, water terrified me.
Mr. Callahan (the football coach and our gym teacher) had a not-so-secret rumor going around about what was really in his coffee cup. He’d stand in the shallow end holding it while giving instructions. We all found it very suspicious.
I stayed in the baby pool, doggie-paddling, refusing to go near the deep end or the diving board. Sometimes I used the classic girl excuse — a note from Grandma saying I was on my period. Eventually Mr. Callahan caught on and said we’d need a doctor’s note next time.
Sixth period was Pre-Algebra with Mrs. Barlow. She was a great teacher but a bit scattered. I was stuck with a bunch of jocks who only talked about football and girls.
After school the hallways emptied fast. The band room, right next to the choir room, became the official hangout spot. The percussion nook in the back was sacred territory — non-percussionists were not allowed to sit there or touch anything. Woodwinds stayed near the podium, brass in the back near percussion, and orchestra kids floated between rooms.
I felt like the odd one out. Part of me wanted to play other sports and have a normal social life. But band was fun… and the cute guys were here. Especially the percussionists. There was just something about them.
I went to the storage room behind the percussion nook, grabbed my flute, put it together, and headed out to the parking lot with the rest of the marching band. It was tradition to play as loud as possible to set off the few remaining car alarms.
Les Misérables halftime practice was intense but exhilarating. I kept glancing toward the percussion section. Daniel stood out, quiet and focused. He hadn’t spoken to me since band camp, but his presence was impossible to ignore. I wondered if he ever thought about our brief hallway moment years ago… or if I was just another freshman in his eyes. The thought made my stomach clench.
The weeks after that first chaotic week settled into something that almost resembled a routine — if routines involved dodging Regina’s death glares, surviving Mr. Callahan’s suspicious coffee cup in gym, and pretending I wasn’t constantly aware of where Daniel was in every single room.
Symphony Band practice on Wednesday afternoons became my favorite kind of torture. Freshmen mixed with upperclassmen, and I sat in the second row of clarinets with Regina, Jackie, and Blair. Regina, of course, made sure I knew exactly how she felt about me. She and I had the same unfortunate taste in percussionists, and she made no effort to hide it. She’d lean over to her friends and say things just loud enough for me to hear: “OMG, did you hear that Daniel hates Elizabeth? I don’t know why she keeps crushing on him. He hates it when she talks to him.”
Part of me wanted to believe it wasn’t true. The other part was too busy dying inside to argue.
Mr. Hamilton stepped onto the podium, handed out an attendance sheet, and passed around parts for “Aspen Jubilee” by Ron Nelson. He went over all the usual rules — be on time, stay in your seat, no talking — and then paused.
“Elizabeth… is Daniel’s brother Ethan going to join band? He was on the roster and I haven’t seen him. Can you ask him next time you see him?”
My face went nuclear. I felt every eye in the room on me, especially the kids who knew me from Willow Creek Middle. Why me? He could have asked Chris Harlan. Or Daniel himself. But no — he asked the awkward freshman who clearly had no idea what she was doing.
I nodded anyway.
At the end of practice I cornered Chris in the storage room while we were putting instruments away.
“Why did Mr. Hamilton ask me?” I whispered. “He could’ve asked you or Daniel.”
Chris shrugged, slinging his French horn case over his shoulder. “I have no idea. Maybe he thinks you and Daniel are dating? Not many girls talk to him outside the percussion world.”
I am not into Daniel. I like Ethan. I LIKE ETHAN, I repeated in my head like a mantra. I barely knew Daniel. A couple of hallway moments and a few glances across the parking lot during band camp didn’t count. Right?
The next morning at my locker, Jeff Caldwell — a sweet but painfully dorky junior — nervously handed me a small bag with a cute teddy bear inside.
“I saw this and thought of you,” he said, blushing hard.
Inside was a note: Elizabeth, Don’t let others get to you. Be yourself. You are a sweet girl and don’t ever change. – Jeff
It was genuinely kind. He wasn’t my type — way too dorky for my current spiral of bad decisions — but I felt bad that so many kids in band made fun of him. I gave him a quick hug anyway.
Ethan showed up at his locker across the hall a minute later. I stuffed the bear and note away, took a deep breath, and walked over before I could chicken out.
“Hey Ethan, can I talk to you for a second?”
He turned, smiling that easy smirk. “What’s up?”
My face went bright red. “Yesterday in Symphony Band, Mr. Hamilton asked me to ask if you’re doing band this year.”
Ethan laughed. “What is this? Why does everyone want to know? My brother asked me the same thing last week. I’m gonna tell you what I told him: at this time, I have no interest. I want to focus on track and soccer.”
“Thanks,” I said, cheeks warming a little. “By the way… you were an amazing bari sax player last year.”
“Thanks, Elizabeth. I appreciate that. Maybe in the future.” He high-fived me and headed off to class.
I watched him walk away in those tight 90s jeans and tried not to sigh out loud. So flippin’ hot.
By the end of that first week, high school had already revealed itself as the ultimate social experiment: equal parts powdered sugar courage, hallway humiliation, and the quiet, maddening pull of a boy who barely spoke but somehow always showed up exactly when you needed him to.
It was messy. It was confusing. And somehow, I couldn’t wait to see what ridiculous formation came next.
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