The Band Camp Chronicles

Chapter One

I stand in front of my mirror, watching my chest rise up and down in an anxious rhythm. Sun pours in through the transparent curtains framing my window, shining on my skin that will soon be warm in color from weeks spent outside. I should leave, stop worrying about the baby hairs fallen from my ponytail, the maroon muscle tank that is cut too low, the tight shorts clinging to my too-small butt. Moving to a new school sucks. There's no romanticizing it. It double-sucks when your first day is in the middle of June, and your peers will only see you drenched in sweat for the next few weeks. Okay, peers as in fellow marching band members, and everyone will be a hot mess for a while. It doesn't ease my fears, though, as Redwood West band won national awards last year, outranking my old school by three hundred and thirty-three spots. Their program is one of the hardest and most cutthroat in the country, and transitioning from a laid back school to one of, if not the best, marching band programs is not going to be easy whatsoever.

"Allison." I jump, my eyes flying towards the figure leaning against my doorframe. It's my mother, hand placed on her cocked out hip as she smiles. "It's time to go, sweetheart. To be-"

"Early is on time, to be on time is to be late, to be late is unacceptable." I recite, snatching my backpack off of my bed. "I know, Mom."

"Are you sure you want to drive yourself?" She asks gently, and I know she means well. It is still slightly insulting that she feels I'm incapable of driving myself two miles to the school that I spent the past two weeks driving to, just for memorization purposes. I realize that's pretty pathetic to drive to your school twice every two or three days for no sole purpose, but now I could probably get there in my sleep.

"I'm sure, Mom." I grab the keys hanging from a lanyard strung on the coat rack, slipping on my sandals simultaneously. I have my real tennis shoes in my bag, nice new Adidas still crisp and not broken in. Mom bought them for me as a thank you of sorts for being so pleasant about moving across the United States. She also decided to keep Dad's old car so I can use it for school. It's a beat up little thing, certainly not an envious road candy of any kind. But it's the only major part of my father that I have left, so I cherish every minute of it.

My father was a well liked guy back in my hometown of Hanselwood, Nevada. It's a small town just south of Las Vegas, where its most famous with the drunken partiers that know we have many inns to crash at. My dad and my mom had gotten married in Vegas, eloped to be exact. Broke and essentially homeless, they lived in a Hanselwood inn (Brady's Bed and Breakfast) where my dad became friends with the innkeeper, Brady Junior. When they got back on their feet, they moved to a smaller house in northern Hanselwood, and had me. My mother worked from home, and my dad was passionate about construction and architecture. My sister Cleo was born three years later. Life was great in Nevada; we went to a nice school and were respected members of the community. We couldn't have been happier.

My father passed away in a freak accident earlier this year. We didn't know why he hadn't come home until the local police phoned our house. I remember it clearly, my mom yelling through tears for us to grab our shoes and that we didn't have time for coats. The car ride was too quiet; not even the radio was on. All we could hear was Mom crying in the front seat.

My mother found the easiest way to cope was to pack up the house and move cross-country, as a somewhat fresh start. Now, here I am, in Redwood, Maryland. We moved into a smaller two bedroom house, and Cleo insisted on having her own bedroom, so I live in the basement. It's nothing like our old house; it's more worn down, but I like it. It's within half an hour of downtown Baltimore, which I've been meaning to explore when I get the chance. Maybe when I make new friends today, I can invite them out sometime.

I pull up into the parking lot, which is much better kept than Hanselwood High's pothole-infested asphalt. The school is pretty large, with Sandy colored bricks on the exterior. It's a two story building with a few balconies on the second level, which students obviously aren't allowed on. The football field is down a hill and around a few stairs from the main lot, and it has beautiful green fields with crisp yard lines and hashes. The bleachers are painted red, in the shape of a mule, which is the school's mascot. It's a far cry from the dinky, swampy fields and unstable chairs from my old school. It's nerve wracking in a sense.