Trombone Crush

1

This is it, my life is over. On my grave it will say 1999-2014 here lies poor, young Lana who died senselessly all because extracurricular activities 'look good on a college application.' People will see my grave and wonder what happened to me. Who was the cause of my merciless demise? Well, that woman was right here, in the car seat next to me with the biggest grin plastered on her face. I narrow my eyes at the she-devil that is my mom.

"Stop being so melodramatic, hun, this will be good for you." She glances at me and then back to the road.

"I didn't even say anything," I mumble, slouching farther down in my chair and wishing I could just be back home. I could be relaxing in my room, reading fanfiction but noooo I had to be here, in the car, going to be dropped off at hell by my own mother.

She looks over at me and snorts. "I really don't see what's so bad about joining the marching band. You love your trombone! Now you can play with other sentient human beings and make friends."

Those words make me sick to my stomach as my gaze turns out the window. That feeling increases tenfold when I see the big brick prison, otherwise known as my high school, getting closer and closer. My panic builds and I start gnawing on my nails. "But why? We're probably just gonna move in a year anyway. Can't I just try and make friends at the next school?"

She laughs "Nice try Lana, you know we don't plan on moving again for a while."

I roll my eyes at that unlikely statement and sink down so low in my chair that I can't see out the window anymore. I look up at my mom with pleading eyes. "Please, please, please don't make me go." I clasp my hands together in a begging gesture. "I'll be an angel child forever if you take me home! And I swear I'll stop eating your cookies and cream popcorn!"

She chuckles, shakes her head and ignores my final pleas for help. Instead, she gets out of the car and goes to grab my trombone out of the trunk. Traitor. I sigh and pull my pastel purple short hair into pigtails in preparation.

The next few minutes are a blur. My mom signs me in, she gets all the information about the schedule for band camp over the summer and for events once school starts and then leaves. Then, suddenly I'm acutely aware of the fact that I'm alone. I look around. I'm surrounded by other students my age; the sounds of people talking and playing their instruments blur together into an incoherent mess.

I bite my bottom lip. There are too many people. Way, way too many people, and they're everywhere. I feel trapped, like an insect under a microscope. Like if I stay here, I'll burn to a crisp. Like the harsh stares will burn right through me, and turn me to a pile of ash on the ground. My common sense begins to dissipate, the little voice in my head tells me that all the laughing they're doing is definitely at me. I grip my hands tightly on the handle of my trombone case. Then I fixate my eyes on a seat that's far enough away from the front of the room that I'll be safe from them and from that voice. I narrow my eyes and the mission begins.

I hug my trombone to my chest and move through the room. I hesitantly move between two people who are having a conversation, squeeze through some chairs, weave around a tuba case on the ground and finally, finally make it to my salvation; a beautiful black chair in the back of the classroom that tilts when I sit on it because one of the legs is too short. Perfect. Moments later, the band director tells everyone to take their seats and people crowd back into my precious personal space to sit down around me. Fudgenuggets. I'm most definitely not going to survive the rest of the day.

The band director explains our schedule then dismisses us to the field. Everyone practically stampedes out of the classroom, smashing and knocking into each other along the way. One hundred percent intent on avoiding that chaos, I take my trombone out of its case and put it together real slow like. I take a breath for patience, then follow the herd of students outside to the school track.