The Marching Band AU//brallon -under major editing

dummies /1/

{there are two quote on quote 'branches' of percussion; pit and battery. battery is drumline -snares, tenors, quads. pit is front ensemble - tympani, keyboard instruments, etc. just a quick explanation before we get into this.}

It's far too hot to be outside. The waves of heat are visible, hovering over the turf and distorting everything.

The only people that are outside are those dumb enough to not check the weather, and that just so happens to be a group of high school students and a band director, sweating and suffering under humidity and heat.

"So, the first drumline practice of the season. I sincerely hope you all brought water bottles, we cannot have kids passing out left and right like last time." Mrs. Grant looks over her students, her eyes catching on one of her snares. "Ah- Brendon? Could you come over here for a moment? Guys, start warming up."

Brendon catches Pete's eyes, who shrugs. He follows Mrs. Grant to the bleachers, where she sits on a towel. "Ah, Mrs. Grant- if I did something...-"

"No Brendon, it's nothing like that. I- well, I guess it is. I was wondering why you came to practice today." Mrs. Grant holds a hand over her head, attempting to block out the sun and look up at Brendon at the same time.

"Uh- what? I'm on drumline, I came to drumline practice." Brendon twirls a stick around his finger, a nervous habit.

"Do you not check your email? Evidently not." She looks down at the ground and fixes her ponytail. "Well, there are not enough kids in pit for the upcoming season's competition music, which is a heavy front-ensamble based piece. Basically, the email explained that you- you're being switched to pit."

"I-I'm being switched?" Brendon blinks once -twice, the information not sinking in.

"Yes, Brendon. Along with Gerard. Pit practices are on Thursdays- the itinerary is on that email. So if you would check it..."

"I'm being switched from drumline to pit. So I shouldn't be here right now." Mrs. Grant nods in confirmation. "Oh." She can tell that the information still hasn't made it through his thick skull.

"It's not that you're a bad snare- quite the opposite. But you're talented at keyboard, your proficiency tests have made that clear, and the music that the front ensemble will need to be playing is high level. Mr. Hasty and I decided on switching the two best keyboard players in drumline to pit. That happens to be you and Way."

Brendon nods, almost detachedly. He pulls the harness of his drum over his head, setting it on the bleacher next to Mrs. Grant. "Okay. I'll -I'll go." He stands there for a moment before setting off for the parking lot.

Brendon drives away from the school on autopilot, his emotions a direct opposite of just a few minutes ago, when he was laughing as he put on the uncomfortable harness with the word 'bread' etched into it. He won't wear that harness again this year. It feels like that should be something minuscule, but it breaks the dam in his head and thoughts come spilling out.

He's going to be missing one season of marching with the drumline. One season is one year, one of only four years of high school marching band Brendon gets to experience. And he was planning on spending all four on drumline, going to practices on Wednesdays and getting popsicles after with his friends and laughing at dumb inside jokes. And Brendon feels angry. He's getting punished for doing good on his proficiency test, which is dumber than the heat and his broken car air conditioner. It's just dumb.

Brendon pulls up to his house and gets out of the car, trudging up the porch and through the door and up the stairs and onto his bed. The cold sheets serve to clear his mind. He's being switched to pit for the season.

And it's so fucking dumb.