It all came down to this. All of the long hours of hard work, all leading up to this one final practice. Next Saturday the Liberty High School Marching Band would be competing at the FootHill Band Review and every member had to give it their all if we wanted to have a successful practice. It was a brisk October night, the leaves on the trees were turning a beautiful auburn, and the sun disappearing into a golden sea behind Mount Diablo. As we got into our formation in the parking, I felt the brass slowly turning my hands numb as I held my trumpet.
The Drum Major called us to attention, executed his whistle command to start the song, and we began the march down to the football field. As we were marching down all I could hear was Ms. Hurst, my band director’s, voice in my head. “Remember to roll step, straighten your shoulders, march in a straight line, be proud” was all I could hear. It wasn't until we finally arrived at the field that I realized her voice was no longer in my head.
“What do you mean you aren’t going to be here for the parade!”, a short, lean, older women with bouncy honey colored curls said with a stern voice that echoed throughout the whole band.
The worst thing you could do was tell our band director that you aren't going to be able to participate in a performance.
“Sydney!”, she exclaimed, motioning to me, “take Gabe’s spot”
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They were just like any other normal day. Once Friday night came around though the pit in my stomach made a reappearance. I was so nervous thinking about the next day that i hardly got any sleep. I woke up the next morning when it was still dark out and once I got the band room the sun was just barely peaking out of the peach colored sky. I silently put on my uniform, packed up my instrument, and walked out to the bus, waiting to board it. I spent the next long hour sitting on the bus in silence. Finally, one of my friends realized I wasn't acting like