However, he had one final performance last night. It was the school district band spectacular. All seven high school bands performed, first individually, and then all together. It was pretty darn cool.
I'd seen a couple of the bands perform before. But the cool thing about this was that it was a showcase more than a competition. The kids totally treated it as such--the general mood was more supportive than it had been at any other show (which made sense, since they weren't trying to beat each other).
I signed up to volunteer. My contributions to the band thus far were monetary. I'd donated most of my money, and many boxes of snacks or water. But I wanted to give my time, though Mark was not pleased to hear it.
"You signed up for what?" he screeched. "Wait, what are you gonna do?"
"I dunno," I answered. "I just signed up as a parent volunteer."
"Are you gonna ride the bus?" he asked, nervously.
"I don't know," I answered.
"Are you gonna help hand out stuff?" he asked. "Are you gonna be on the field? You're not gonna help bring the instruments on the field, are you? Because you don't know how to do that."
"I don't know what I'm gonna do," I said, because his faith in me was truly flattering. "You've done this all season long, you know better than I do. I'm gonna do whatever the other adults always do."
"Oh God!" he cried, stomping off. I could tell by his reaction that meant I was riding the bus and completely ruining his entire life, although maybe not in that order.
I wasn't sure what my job was, exactly; I just hoped I could help without getting in the way. (The band is a well-oiled machine, partly because the kids know what to do, but mostly because the band leaders and parents are phenomenal. Watching the dads load the equipment into the trucks is like watching a 3-D game of Tetris with musical instruments.)
I arrived at the band room just in time to watch the chaos begin. I watched 80 kids comb through garment bags, slipping uniforms over their shorts and t-shirts. They buttoned their jackets, slipped on their shoes, then came to tell us they were missing a glove, a sock, a gold braid. (Each statement was quickly followed up with, "And yes, I already checked my bag, it's not in there.") Curiously, the only missing items were items that came in pairs. I have a high schooler myself. I wasn't surprised these things were missing; I was surprised there weren't more missing.
I introduced myself to the other moms, and asked if we were riding the bus with the kids, or driving ourselves.
"All chaperones ride the bus," came the answer. I felt great relief at that; now I knew exactly what my job was, and was not (I was mostly relieved not to break the well-oiled machine before they performed).
Mark hid in the farthest corner of the room that he could, careful not to acknowledge me. I made a mental note to return the favor when he inevitably came looking for concession stand money.
Finally, we loaded up the buses. I made sure to choose the second bus, loaded mostly with the color guard girls. I didn't really want to be on my ingrate son's bus anymore than he wanted me on there.
The bus driver started the engine, and as he did, the color guard started singing. They did a rousing rendition of "99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall," which immediately sent the band members into a tizzy.
"Can you not sing?" the band begged, which made the color guard sing louder. Luckily, they only got to 92 bottles before they finally got bored.
I sat in front of a couple of band boys who discussed important matters such as the iPhone 6, and whether it will eventually become an iPhone 100.
"It's like video game consoles," one boy noted. "They skipped like, 50 versions to go from the XBox 360 to XBox 4."
"They didn't skip 50," his friend answered. "It actually regressed--it went back like 365 numbers."
I frowned--I'm not good at math but 360-4 is not 365. But the boys had moved on to who knew more numbers in the pi sequence.
"I used to know, like, 27 numbers," one boy said. "My 7th grade math teacher said whoever memorized the most got extra credit, and I won!"
"How much extra credit did you get?" the other boy asked.
"Two points," the first boy said. "I wanted to get 3.14 points, but the teacher wouldn't give me that."
I thought he made a good point--the teacher missed an opportunity there!
Soon enough, we reached the school. We unloaded the bus, and the kids made their way over to the trucks to unload their stuff. The dads passed out all the equipment, which the kids immediately started playing. I was amazed to see the instrument pieces fitted together--I never knew tubas came in multiple pieces!
Then it was off to the field for the group rehearsal. The great thing about bands is that if you have a loud voice and a whistle, you can get them to do anything you want. (I could rule the band world if I had a whistle!) The drum majors from all the schools lined up their bands, and within a few minutes, they were playing the group songs.
Mark's band was thrilled, because they play one of the group songs in their show. He was stoked he had to learn one song less than everyone else.
"What are you playing with the group?" I asked, since they don't usually roll out the timpani for stuff like that.
"The tambourine," he said, and I shook my head, because honestly, when you're playing tambourine, does it really matter if you have to learn two or three songs?
The show finally started with the host school's steel drum band. I thought they were awesome, especially when they played "Margaritaville."
The local city college band played too, performing during each of the breaks when the bands took the field.
The next band up was tiny--just the drumline. But they had a secret weapon--cheerleaders. And the minute the music started, those cheerleaders started shaking everything they had. The band boys in the stands went crazy, whooping it up and cheering wildly--they were not cheering for their fellow drummers.
Mark's band went down to practice after them, and I went with them. It was my chance to perform one of the sacred rituals--pluming the hats--and I was nervous. I didn't want to mess this up.
"How about if you get out the plumes and I put them in the hats?" another mom asked. I nodded gratefully. We worked together quickly, until everybody had a tall yellow feather sticking out of their caps.
But just before the band took the stage, the mom came racing back towards me.
"The drumline!" she gasped, grabbing up the bags. Apparently, they'd gone off somewhere separately to practice, and none of the drummers had plumes.
We plumed them all with seconds to spare, and they took their places.
And man, did the band do an awesome job! They've been adding new movements, music and visual effects to each show, and this was no different. The theme was American music, and boy, did they do it justice. My favorite part was when Mark and the rest of the pit crew came marching out at the end, Mark pretending to play a fife, and Abe Lincoln dancing wildly. They were so good, the crowd all around us went crazy (although maybe it just sounded that way because I was sitting with all the other Millikan parents!). I had tears in my eyes at the end, I was so proud of them.
The next band was my favorite (after ours). They walked quietly to the field, until the drum major blew her whistle. That sent them all running in a hundred different directions across the field, but somehow they ended up in precise lines. They played current pop songs, danced around, and the tuba player even sang "Rapper's Delight." (Yes, she put down her tuba first!) She rocked it, although she lost her place a couple times because she was laughing so much. Again, all the bands hooted and hollered, loving the silliness.
At the end of the school performances, the kids filed down onto the field en masse. Even though they only practiced once, they knew exactly where to go, and how to play all together.
I strained to find Mark among them all. I finally did, and was not surprised by where he was--smack dab in the middle of the field. He was near but not with his band, and he was not playing the tambourine. He was playing the cymbals, crashing them together loudly, dramatically, high above his head, with a huge grin on his face. He was having the time of his life.
But he stopped playing during the next song. He held the cymbals at his side, and simply looked around. He watched the different bands playing, and even turned around to watch the musicians behind him. He was slowly taking in the whole scene, and even from the stands, I could see the smile on his face grow bigger and bigger.
And that was my favorite part of the whole show--watching my kid in the middle of all the chaos. He was one of them---he'd found his place, his people, his moment, and he was thoroughly enjoying it all. He wore his school sweatshirt proudly, and he laughed with all his friends, soaking it all in, one happy kid. The sheer joy on his face brought me to tears for the second time that evening.
It was a band spectacular, indeed.
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