Read Online Notes From An Accidental Band Geek by Erin Dionne - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Erin Dionne
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making new friends—I couldn’t remember the last time my head was anything but packed.
I counted the beats with Mr. Rinaldi, then raised the horn to my lips, hoping for clarity.
I followed his lead on the duet, letting the notes rise and fall, harmonize and separate, trying to stay as focused as possible on the music and leave the rest of my life behind. I tried, but couldn’t find that place where I stop playing and just start feeling the music. My horn and I were disconnected today, and there was nothing else I could do about it.
We held the last note for an extra beat, then Mr. Rinaldi put his horn down and studied me.
“Did that help?”
“Absolutely,” I answered, hoping he was convinced by my smile and didn’t look in my eyes.
12
“I wish your father wouldn’t hide his peas under his mashed potatoes. I always find them.” Mom scraped the remnants of Dad’s dinner down the garbage disposal and passed me the plate to load into the dishwasher.
“But you never say anything while he does it,” I pointed out. She’d been forcing green vegetables on my dad ever since they got married. “So he thinks he’s getting away with it.”
“True,” Mom mused. “I always think about it at the beginning of dinner, but by the time we’re eating I’ve forgotten.” She handed me the last of the silverware and I plunked it into the basket. “It’s nice to get you standing still,” she added.
I knew what she meant. Between band practice, classes, and squeezing in my Shining Birches audition prep—which was still not going well—I was rarely in one place for long. Lately, I’d taken to staying after band to play my horn, which made for a long night of homework later. I just nodded.
“You look so tired,” Mom said.
I shrugged. I didn’t want to think about it too much. I just needed to deal. “I’m fine.”
Mom slung a dish towel over my shoulder and started washing pots and pans. I leaned against the counter, drying lids.
“I know you’re fine, Elsie, but I worry. You’re young for all of this pressure, and I wish I were home more to help you with it.”
How many times did my parents need to remind me how young I was? Or that I needed help managing my life?
“I can handle it, Mom,” I snapped. I clanged the lid I’d been drying on the counter harder than I meant to. The sound rang through the kitchen. “I have work to do,” I muttered, leaving.
Upstairs, I dumped my backpack onto my bed and stared at the pile of folders, textbooks, and assignment sheets covering my comforter. I had a lab report to write up, chapters to read in Emma for English, history questions, math problems, and French verbs to conjugate. And I had to get as much done as possible before Saturday, which was our first field show and parade competition. Forget what I’d told my mom, high school was seriously so much work . I sorted through the stack, trying to decide what to do first. Nothing appealed. I hated to admit it, but Mom was right. I was wiped out, and really wanted a nap. I yawned, and glanced at the clock: 7:30. If I lay down for a half hour, I reasoned, I’d still have plenty of time to work on what was due tomorrow. I moved the pile of school materials to one side and curled up on my bed with my “Eat-Sleep-French horn” pillow.
What felt like a second later, a knock sounded at my bedroom door.
“Huh?” I muttered. The door opened.
“Honey, it’s late—” My mom stopped.
I sat up, groggy.
“I was coming in to tell you that you should get to bed,” she said.
“Bed?” Sleep fuzz clouded my head. “I was napping.”
“It’s after eleven,” my mom said, a furrow appearing in her forehead. “I thought you were doing homework.”
“Eleven?!” Shock reverberated through me. Had I really been asleep that long? I stared at my bedside clock, trying to make sense of what happened. I’d put my head on the pillow at 7:30; how had I lost nearly four hours?
“I’m going to bed,” my mom
I counted the beats with Mr. Rinaldi, then raised the horn to my lips, hoping for clarity.
I followed his lead on the duet, letting the notes rise and fall, harmonize and separate, trying to stay as focused as possible on the music and leave the rest of my life behind. I tried, but couldn’t find that place where I stop playing and just start feeling the music. My horn and I were disconnected today, and there was nothing else I could do about it.
We held the last note for an extra beat, then Mr. Rinaldi put his horn down and studied me.
“Did that help?”
“Absolutely,” I answered, hoping he was convinced by my smile and didn’t look in my eyes.
12
“I wish your father wouldn’t hide his peas under his mashed potatoes. I always find them.” Mom scraped the remnants of Dad’s dinner down the garbage disposal and passed me the plate to load into the dishwasher.
“But you never say anything while he does it,” I pointed out. She’d been forcing green vegetables on my dad ever since they got married. “So he thinks he’s getting away with it.”
“True,” Mom mused. “I always think about it at the beginning of dinner, but by the time we’re eating I’ve forgotten.” She handed me the last of the silverware and I plunked it into the basket. “It’s nice to get you standing still,” she added.
I knew what she meant. Between band practice, classes, and squeezing in my Shining Birches audition prep—which was still not going well—I was rarely in one place for long. Lately, I’d taken to staying after band to play my horn, which made for a long night of homework later. I just nodded.
“You look so tired,” Mom said.
I shrugged. I didn’t want to think about it too much. I just needed to deal. “I’m fine.”
Mom slung a dish towel over my shoulder and started washing pots and pans. I leaned against the counter, drying lids.
“I know you’re fine, Elsie, but I worry. You’re young for all of this pressure, and I wish I were home more to help you with it.”
How many times did my parents need to remind me how young I was? Or that I needed help managing my life?
“I can handle it, Mom,” I snapped. I clanged the lid I’d been drying on the counter harder than I meant to. The sound rang through the kitchen. “I have work to do,” I muttered, leaving.
Upstairs, I dumped my backpack onto my bed and stared at the pile of folders, textbooks, and assignment sheets covering my comforter. I had a lab report to write up, chapters to read in Emma for English, history questions, math problems, and French verbs to conjugate. And I had to get as much done as possible before Saturday, which was our first field show and parade competition. Forget what I’d told my mom, high school was seriously so much work . I sorted through the stack, trying to decide what to do first. Nothing appealed. I hated to admit it, but Mom was right. I was wiped out, and really wanted a nap. I yawned, and glanced at the clock: 7:30. If I lay down for a half hour, I reasoned, I’d still have plenty of time to work on what was due tomorrow. I moved the pile of school materials to one side and curled up on my bed with my “Eat-Sleep-French horn” pillow.
What felt like a second later, a knock sounded at my bedroom door.
“Huh?” I muttered. The door opened.
“Honey, it’s late—” My mom stopped.
I sat up, groggy.
“I was coming in to tell you that you should get to bed,” she said.
“Bed?” Sleep fuzz clouded my head. “I was napping.”
“It’s after eleven,” my mom said, a furrow appearing in her forehead. “I thought you were doing homework.”
“Eleven?!” Shock reverberated through me. Had I really been asleep that long? I stared at my bedside clock, trying to make sense of what happened. I’d put my head on the pillow at 7:30; how had I lost nearly four hours?
“I’m going to bed,” my mom
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