Contralto (A Band Geek Series): Part One

I was hanging out in the auditorium when Kota the red Lutari walked in. It was a Saturday, and since our marching band competitions are on Saturdays, we had about an hour to do whatever we wanted.

     “Hey, Juneau,” he called out.

     “What’s up?” I asked.

     “Just thinking,” he said, and something in his voice made me look at him, alarmed. He sounded so... depressed.

     “Thinking about what?”

     “My old school,” he said, not quite meeting my eyes.

     I was confused; I’d had the impression that Kota had always been here. “Your old school?”

     He sighed. “Yeah. It’s called the Contralto School for Instrumentalists. I went there for almost three years.”

      “Why’d you leave?” I asked.

      Kota looked me straight in the eye. “I didn’t leave. They kicked me out.”

      “What?” I cried. “They kicked you out! Why?”

      He tapped his fingers on his chair in classic drummer style. “I had a few enemies there. You have to understand, it’s a lot of really good musicians... and they all have egos the size of Kreludor. One of them framed me for something I didn’t do, and I was suspended.”

      “So once they investigate, they might let you back in?” I asked, feeling annoyed. I’d finally made an older friend, and he might leave me back where I started?

      “Key word—might.” Kota smiled suddenly at some inner joke. “It’s not likely.”

      “What’s the school like?” I asked after considering for a moment.

      “Contralto? It’s the best place I’ve ever been. You’re surrounded by music, and while there’s a ton of pressure to be good, it just motivates you to be better.”

      I was tempted by his words. There was only a month left in competitive marching season, and then I was free for another year... and I wouldn’t miss anybody too much. My friends and I had drifted apart a bit, and I didn’t spend much time with them anymore.

      “It’s a mess of egos,” he warned me, not noticing my reverie. I didn’t care. Contralto sounded like heaven. I mean, a whole school dedicated to music! What could possibly be better than that?

      “Hey, uh... you okay?” Kota asked, finally seeing my distraction.

      “Oh, yeah,” I said dreamily. “Perfect.”

      He said goodbye and walked away. He was probably regretting his decision to explain his “old school” to his speckled Cybunny friend.

      For the rest of the day, I asked Kota to tell me more about Contralto. Finally, he gave in, and every second after that, I was continually seeing myself at this wonderful haven. Me in the spacious dining hall, me relaxing in one of the dorms, me holed up in a small practice room.

      Now I really liked the idea of going there.

      I had made up my mind. If Kota was going back, I wanted to go with him.

      My chance came just three weeks later.

      Kota came running into the band room, waving a Neomail in his hand and hooting excitedly.

      “What? What?” I asked, careful not to get my hopes up.

      “I’m going back to Contralto!” He grinned.

      I nearly stopped breathing when he went on. “And you know, Juneau, I hear there’s an empty spot for another trumpet-player...”

      “You mean me?” I squeaked.

      “Go for it! I’m sure you’d ace the audition.”

      “Okay!”

      I didn’t notice Wandol standing nearby until I ran into him. “What are you going to audition for?” he asked.

     “A really great music school,” I said, bouncing on the balls of my paws, eager to get home and start my application for Contralto.

      “A school? Like, you won’t be here anymore?” Wandol's voice sounded weak. I realized for the first time that my friends might hassle me about leaving.

      “Yeah,” I replied, but that’s all I got out before the bell rang. I dashed for the hallway. Wandol stared after me, a crushed look on his face.

      I kept going.

      When I got home, I quickly filled out the application form and sent it off. The next morning, I had the date and time of my audition. I was told to play “any piece that you feel shows the full range of your abilities.”

      After hours of deliberation, I decided on the third song of this year’s show. Maybe I would even get some bonus for having my audition piece memorized.

     ***

     The day of the audition, I was nervously pacing the elegant foyer of the music hall on campus, home to the auditorium. “Juneau,” called an assistant, a motherly-looking green Xweetok. She beckoned me inside the huge auditorium.

      I sat down in a single chair onstage, emptied my spit valve, and played a few warm-up notes. My sound echoed around the enormous space.

      “Hi, Juneau,” said the judge on the left, a speckled Gelert.

      “Hi,” I replied. “I’m gonna be playing ‘Golden River’ for you.” The judge on the right, a white Xweetok, nodded appreciatively.

      I began even though my legs were shaking. I don’t sound too bad, I thought, and then I stopped thinking to focus on the music.

      The song ended with a low, melancholy whole note, and then it was over. The judges thanked me for my time and promised I’d know my results in a few days.

      They were true to their word. Two days later—just before the end of marching season—I got the letter.

      I was in.

      As soon as I saw Kota, I cried out my good news. Kota congratulated me, and we made plans to transfer to Contralto the next week.

      Once again, Wandol was listening to my conversation. “You made it in, then,” he said. His voice had that same hollow tone.

      “Yeah, I did,” I said, annoyed. “And you would you stop eavesdropping?”

      “It’s not eavesdropping if you’re yelling,” he said softly. He walked off, leaving me confused and exhausted from trying to figure him out.

      Contralto. I felt like I’d been waiting for this forever!

      On my way to my new dorm, an older pet knocked my backpack to the ground.

      “Oops,” he sneered. “I’d apologize, but I don’t associate with any of Kota’s friends.”

      “Why?” I asked, but he was already gone again. Frowning, I continued to my dorm.

      I got settled in with no more conflict... then I met my roommate, Dominique, an electric Krawk.

      She was loud and in-your-face, and she played the tuba. She wasn’t outright nasty until I mentioned Kota

      “Kota?” she spat. “The trumpet Kota?”

      “Yeah. Why does everyone hate him around here?”

      “I hate the drama he brings with him. And he’s an idiot. I think everyone’s sick of it.” She shook her head. “Can’t be friends with Aaron unless you hate Kota.”

      “Who’s Aaron?” I asked.

      She smiled grimly. “He’s got a grudge where Kota’s concerned. He’s big, he’s dangerous, and he’s possibly the best trumpet-player in the entire school. Don’t even think about talking to him. He doesn’t like underlings like you.”

      “Oh.”

      My first instrumental class was the very next day. Even though sectional classes are only about one-third as big as a full-band rehearsal, the number of students there was staggering. Kota waved at me from across the room. Hesitantly, I walked over to join him.

      “How’s your Contralto experience so far?” he asked, grinning.

      “Fine,” I responded. “I’ve been hearing some things about you, though.”

      “I told you there are lots of egos here,” he told me breezily. “Don’t pay attention to them.”

      “All right,” I said after a pause.

      Just then, the instructor, a purple Chomby, came in and screamed for quiet.

      “Now, let’s get out the piece I gave you on Thursday.” Kota nudged his stand over so I could read from it.

      Oh, Fyora.

      There were three things about the piece that I didn’t like. One, there was more black on the page than white. Two, it was insanely high. My eyes traveled up the staff, noting the ear-shattering pitches I was being asked to play. Third, there was a solo written into the part. And above that, the dreaded words: “Or improvise as desired.”

      “From the top. One—three—one-two-three-and!” At the director’s instruction, the saxes launched into a rollicking melody. I scanned the music briefly—we had fifteen measures of rest before we came back in.

      “Kota,” I hissed. “At measure 47, does everybody play the solo?”

      “Yeah, we haven’t auditioned it yet,” he whispered back, slowly raising his trumpet.

      The trumpets came in, low at first but building as the music rumbled on. I wasn’t doing too badly until we came upon a high A—sustained for eight beats. There’s no way, I thought to myself.

      I hit something. I don’t know what it was... it definitely wasn’t a note. I screeched on for four beats and then gave up. I could feel Dominique staring at me from across the room. The director stopped everyone and fixed the trumpets with a stern glare.

      “Down the line. Play it. One by one.”

      Each trumpet blared out his or her note, pitch-perfect. I actually hit it for four beats or so, and by the time my sound started to crackle, the kid on my other side was masking it with his high note. I put my trumpet down, sweating with nervous relief. I was safe, for now.

      After class, a blue Draik came up to me. I had noticed him during rehearsal—sitting in the end-of-the-line area reserved for musical gods and goddesses, cracking jokes and making everyone else look inferior.

      “I know you were the one who messed up that note,” he hissed, getting right up in my face. “This is a competitive school, all right? Get with the program.”

      Get with it, or get out, my mind yelled, conjuring up a vision of Ellen, my old section leader.

      “Sorry? Do I even know you?” My eyes caught the figure of Dominique waiting for the rude Draik.

      “Aaron,” he said, full of arrogance. “And don’t do it again!”

      He didn’t threaten me outright; but then again, he didn’t have to.

      Aaron stalked off.

      The next day, I headed down to the practice rooms to get some playing done. All of the doors were shut, meaning the rooms were occupied. I sat down in the hallway. Eventually, a room opened up and I stepped inside. I placed my music on the stand and reached to close the door.

      From somewhere down the hall, a trumpet blared.

      I paused, frowning. Weren’t we supposed to close the doors so nobody would be disturbed? Who would be so arrogant...?

      Oh.

      It was obviously Aaron. “Stupid Draiks. Think they’re all that,” a pet in the hall muttered as he strode off.

      I left my door open a crack, sat down, and began to play through this year’s marching band show. I amped it up to field-volume, blasting at all the impact points. I wasn’t even through the first song before my door was slammed back against the wall.

      Aaron stood there, his eyes raging. “We’re supposed to close the doors, okay? And quit with the volume! This is concert, not marching band,” he hissed through gritted teeth.

      “If rules don’t apply to you, they obviously don’t apply to anyone,” I retorted. “I didn’t see your door shut.”

      “I practically own this school,” Aaron snapped. “You’re just a little girl who thinks she can play trumpet.”

      “I know I can play trumpet,” I snapped.

      “All right, I accept.”

      My train of thought stopped. “What?”

      “Your challenge. Find two people to help judge, and we’ll play, and we’ll see who’s better.”

      Aaron walked out. The door banged shut behind him. I could only babble like an idiot.

      I was going to compete?

      Against “possibly the best trumpet-player in the entire school”?

      Oh, no...

To be continued...