Notes From An Accidental Band Geek by Erin Dionne Read Free Book Online

“Can I come in?”
    I sighed, resigned. “Sure.”
    My door opened, and there he was, horn in his hand, like he knew I’d invite him. Kind of like a horn-vampire. Uncomfortable, I stood.
    “Just let me get another chair.” He rested his horn on my bed—made in 1921, it was a silver Geyer. I bet it cost more than some people spend on their cars.
    He returned with a straight-backed chair and a wide smile. After setting it next to my stand, he took his horn into his lap and waited for me. I still stood in the center of the room.
    “Let’s take a look at this,” Dad said. He patted my chair.
    That caused me to jerk forward and sit down.
    “How about we play it together, half-speed?” he said. I nodded, my voice locked inside of me. What if I couldn’t do it? What if I made a mistake—again? What would he think? He always said that mistakes revealed a lack of preparedness, and he spent ages listening to recordings of pieces and making notes on his sheet music. “You should know how a piece of music sounds before you play it,” he’d told me a thousand times.
    Dad readied his horn and glanced at me out of the corner of his eye, from behind his glasses. I raised my instrument to my lips. Dad tapped his foot at the speed that he wanted us to play and counted to four.
    “Dum-da-da-dum-da-da . . .” We played the run slowly, my fingers and mouth working together and getting all the notes right. Then Dad increased the speed slightly. And again, faster. I was still able to keep up, but a light sweat broke out on the back of my neck. Playing with him was weird. It was like I forgot that he was my dad who mows the lawn and accidentally set the grill on fire last summer. All I could think of was his Boston Symphony job—the job I wanted more than anything—my missed youth orchestra audition, and Shining Birches. How would I ever do what he did, be what he is, if I couldn’t master this piece? My heart rate increased and I had to gasp to take a breath—right in the middle of the run.
    Dad stopped. “You want to make sure that you time your breathing so that—”
    But I didn’t let him finish.
    “I know. I know. I think I got it, okay? Seriously,” I added, when the expression on his face read that he didn’t believe me at all.
    “Elsie, honey, everyone messes up sometimes,” he said. “Learning a new piece takes time.”
    “I know.” I crossed and uncrossed my legs, eyes on my music stand, but my brain echoing with the words I’d heard him say on the phone—that I “couldn’t handle” Shining Birches. I wanted him to know I could handle this. I needed him to know that.
    He smiled a thin, forced smile.
    “Great, then. I’m glad you’re all set.” He sat there, not moving. The metronome tock-tock-tocked, counting the beats of silence between us.
    I squirmed.
    “Thanks for coming in and helping me out,” I directed to the music stand. I didn’t look at him. After another few tock-tock-tocks from the metronome, he picked up his chair and left, closing the door softly behind him. And I felt like the biggest idiot ever.
    Shame washed over me. Why’d he have to be home? Between classes and marching band practice, my private rehearsal time was scarce and my playing was starting to suffer. This little episode was all my father needed to reinforce his theory that Shining Birches was too much for me. I clenched my jaw in frustration as I packed up. Unless I was positive that he was out of the house, the horn would stay in its case.

9
    After three days of freshman-only lunchtime orientation sessions—meet your guidance counselor, here are good ways to manage your time/deal with stress (ha!), and an intro to the computer lab and library services—the school finally let us have a regular lunch.
    And, after three days of being in high school, I had no idea what to do. In junior high, I ate alone in the band room and practiced after finishing my sandwich. When I’d stopped by this morning to drop off my horn