My pride was strangling me.
And did I mention Midterms?
Oh, yeah, and that whole apologizing-to-Evan objective wasn't working out. See, I kind of didn't want to lie, so I kept my mouth shut. I mean, I was sorry, but there was that whole...
looking at him thing...
Back to Midterms.
Life was HELL. Two projects, a book report, and a day cut off the time frame to do it because of the debate tournament. Of all times to go to my first...
We were leaving on Friday morning, and I had to get my stuff together and turn everything in early. And of course, there were many other things to take care of. Like...my cat. And my book, and that band concert thing.
That took priority. This was very, very serious indeed. In fact, this was a midterm. For band. Which, oddly enough, it is possible to get less than a 100 in. Only the quiet, unbtrusive, Evan-esque people could keep the grade up...
And there I go again. This kid was stressing me out. Out of all the things I had to do, he decides to be all angsty and explode on me. Jerk.
I had forgotten that it was really my own fault. I had forgotten that I finally knew why he was that way. All I knew was that he wasn't leaving my head so easily, and it was so terribly cruel of him to hurt me like that when I had a million things to do...
And there goes insensitive Kirby on her self-obsessed tangent. Let's leave her over there for a moment while I monologue again without the help of my skitzophrenic other selves.
Band concert. Seven o'clock. In the theatre, a.k.a. the Black Box. Christmas themed, of course. Jazz Band was playing too (I was in Symphonic), and that night, one could find Kirby dressed in her fancy Christmas best (and Converses) bouncing around between yawns and generally making a pest out of herself before retreating to her timpani.
For those of you who don't know, timpani are huge floor drums, the largest the span of my arms, that can be tuned to make different notes from the pedals on the bottom. They are insanely expensive, some $6,000 per drumhead, and I still couldn't see what idiot had put me on them. I was awesome, of course, but come on, it was me, the girl who ran into brick walls.
Now, with that said, imagine Kirby in high heels, doing the sexy catwalk, several inches taller, sitting down behind the timpani and placing a glossy black toe on the pedal. It presses, her foot slips, and the heel breaks, slips discordantly, knocks the drum over. Not pretty. So hence, the Converses, and hopefully, no one would notice.
I felt justified when our drum major turned up in jeans and a t-shirt and a percussionist sported steel-toed boots. And besides, my feet were well-hidden behind my beloved timpanis.
All in all, we were pretty good. But I won't go into details. However, it goes without saying that I was totally perfect in the ending to the cool Russian song, and that my solo in Carol of the Bells was pretty sweet, too (one note, oh my goodness, but it sounded cool,) and that hopefully, Mom had figured the video camera out, and that Evan...
Wait a minute.
Listen, I know the story is pretty much
about him, and that this part must be sooo boring for you all, but I wasn't speaking to him, of him, or for him. Oh no I wasn't. So if you want your tragic teenage drama, deal with it. After all, I'm the writer here.
Anyway.
Our drum Captain was slaying me with every erratic beat of the poor little snare drum, but at least they all got the ending to Sleigh Bells right. I jumped a mile when that percussion guy slapped those two planks together--gods, that was a very scary noise. And the mallet percussion section leader got a few notes completely wrong, to my annoyance. But, enough whining.
Notice how I refer to the percussion as just that: the percussion. I was not of them. I had mallets, but not keys, drums, but not sticks. I deserved my own section.
Timpani
Kirby Emerson
It said so on the playbill, people. But really, I should have been listed as a section leader.
Oops. Didn't I already say no whining? Sorry.
Anyway, so we all finish the evening with a flourish and a bang, stand, take our bows, and jet. I grabbed my army-style khaki jacket and walked outside to wait for my parents to bring the car around. I was carrying my backpack, you see, because the next day was the tournament, and I had stuff to do. So I cruised down the sidewalk, overloaded backpack on back, and I feel this kick on it, right? Some teasing flutist had jokingly made as if to kick my backpack and therefore send me sprawling. I turned around to reprimand them.
"Don't do that," I said sternly. "I'm like a turtle with this, if you knock me over I'll never get up--"
I ask you, who puts a pole in the middle of the sidewalk? Overbalanced by my 50-something pound backpack, I ran straight in to the damn thing. Stars winked before my eyes as that whole second-law-of-motion thing forced me back, and when I put my hand to my throbbing head, I felt a cut and blood on the side.
"Owww..." I muttered. I heard laughing, and a couple of girls crying, "Kirby, are you okay?" and rushing over. When my vision returned, I found myself staring up at the offending pole from the ground, blinking in surprise, with a ton of interested band members and a parent or two standing over me.
"I'm fine," I managed, stumbling to my feet. "I'm fine..."
I shoved them off eventually, my hair falling over the now not-bloody cut to successfully hide it from view. Cursing poles under my breath, I kicked my backpack moodily.
But then I caught a glimpse of Evan, standing a few feet away, looking concerned and confused, as if he wanted to help but couldn't. Obviously, he wasn't that mad at me...right?
So all in all, despite the huge pain in my head, I felt rather proud of myself. That is, before the amnesia kicked in.
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