My alarm rang. I looked at my clock.
I laid there for a good ten minutes just staring at my ceiling before grabbing my glasses and getting the will power to roll out of bed.
It was the first day of my freshman year and I couldn't have been any more unenthuisiastic. I had to endure about a hundred of my dad's high school stories the week before and just couldn't find the desire to have adventures like that. I had already survived band camp a week earlier and decided I hated it. Baritone just wasn't my thing. When it came to instruments, guitar was, because I was a rocker. I wasn't a classical player.
That was the only reason I had signed up for jazz band, a zero period class. Sure, it started at seven in the morning, but any chance I had to show off on the guitar was an opportunity I would take.
I brushed out my hair and brushed my teeth, barely awake, not caring. I stopped and blinked, just staring my my magnefied, bloodshot eyes in the mirror. I went over to my drawer and pulled out my favorite plaid shirt, then, smiling, trailed my hand to the back of the drawer and removing my favorite bong. I took a couple blows just to enjoy the high before school and went downstairs.
"Morning, Drew!" Mom's voice echoed through the room.
"Hey Mom. I'm kinda in a hurry. Do you really want me late for my first day of high school?" I asked blankly.
"Well," she chimed. "Just don't forget your lunch. Have a good day, sweetie. Try to make some new friends today." She handed me my old Power Rangers lunch box and I walked to the car to meet Dad. I sat beside him, istantly plugging in my old mp3 to zone Dad out. He didn't seem to notice.
"Son, are you excited for your first day of high school?" he asked, barely looking over his shoulder.
"I guess," I replied.
"You and Jake still good friends?" he asked.
"Dad, he was over for lunch every day of band camp."
"You've already had band camp?"
I cranked up my music. I couldn't deal with him today. We arrived at school ten minutes later and I grabbed my bag practically racing out of the car. Dad rolled down the window. "Have a good first day, son!"
I wasn't late for Jazz Band, but I wasn't early either. I sat down just as Mr. P sat down to start conducting and pulled out my Epiphone Les Paul Standard guitar. Henry French, the lead guitarist, sat down next to me.
"Yo, Drew. Welcome to jazz band. You pumped?" he asked, his typical slur a little more prominent than usual. He was a senior and he was hardcore. He couldn't care less about band, but when it came to guitar, he was a God.
"More tired than anything," I replied.
Mr. P's voice interrupted. "1,2,1,2,3,4!" he started. The trumpets sounded, followed by us, the bass, the saxophones, and the trombones. I bounced my head with the music. It was good. Henry sounded good. I sounded good. It went on like this for a few phraes. I bobbed my head, swayed with the music, and even tapped my foot, but it all fell apart.
"Let's try that again. It'll sound better when everyone is here," Mr. P announced. We started again in the same order. This time the song went farther. I even laughed a little.
But then, the door opened.
She walked in.
Like a bell in the night, the only thing I heard was her footsteps. The only thing I saw was the smirk on her lips anf the glisten of her eyes. I wanted to touch her hair as it seemed to blow through the wind, despite the fact there wasn't any wind there. My entire world stopped. I didn't even realize I was staring until-- BANG.
I dropped my guitar and finally blinked. Instead of fussing, Mr. P just laughed. "Checking out the Bari player?" he asked. I felt the heat rise to my cheeks, but she laughed it off.
"I doubt that," she said with a confident chuckle. Why?
She took her seat on the other side of the room and we started playing again.
"Where was she during band camp?" I asked Henry.
"Who, Dizzy? She was here. Junior. Total looker, don't you think?" he responded.
"Weird as shit, though. Who gives a fuck, though? I'm sure the sex is good."
"Have you slept with her?" I asked, suddenly in panic.
"Nah, no. She doesn't sleep with people. She keeps to herself."
The rest of the class, I stared at her as we played. I just wanted to find a way to talk to her-- impress her, but I couldn't figure out shit. She was a junior. I was a freshman. The chances of her looking twice at me were next to none, but I just wanted her to look once.
Class ended, but I sat in the band room until everyone left, shredding as intensely as possible, but she just walked away with some girl that I had never seen.
It was at that very moment that I made a vow to myself.
No matter what, she's gonna love me before Marching Season ends.