“BOX DRILL,” I call out as we hit the second-to-last formation of our second song, “Bloody Mary.” My arms tingle slightly and my breath trembles. I can barely choke out the words. I glance forward and then to my right. The other people in my line are set and ready to go. 12,13,14,15, step off. 

 

My left foot shoots to the right, and I make my way through the sixteen-count drill. I hit the edges of my box with precision despite the slippery grass. As my right foot hits count sixteen, my left foot opens up and I point my bell to the far-off box with all the breath I can muster and choke out the final note. 

 

Our drum major’s hands swing and close. We all put our arms down in unison as I drag my head up to peek at the mass of people in front of us. I can only see the piercing eyes of the huge homecoming crowd boring into my soul. At this point in the show, the sweat starts to accumulate on my back and inside my hat. I take a sharp breath and inhale the musk of our war-torn uniforms mixed with the cool fall air. Our marching band uniforms shine purple, gold, and white under the night sky. However, they hold a stinky secret; sweat and determination soak deep into the fabric.

 

During this brief pause, I realize two things. First, how the stadium lights wash the uniforms of my classmates in front of me in ice-cold light. The white parts of their uniforms sparkle back at me, or maybe it’s the heat radiating off of them. 

 

Solo.

 

My heart beats faster than before, sending shock waves through my chest. The center of my abdomen twists and contracts like a hungry cobra in protest. The fangs of sudden stage fright and nerves sink deep. 

 

I have a solo in the upcoming song: “Flowers.”  This moment doesn’t just display my work from this season, but for the last eight years of band. My solo has eighteen counts, and I have run it a million times over—in class, in my head, and while trying to relax before bed. But still, the cobra bites. The hot, volatile venom spreads through my body like wildfire. 

 

I stare at the drum major so I do not miss the start of the song. I shake my hands out, attempting to diminish the ferocious effects of the venom coursing through my veins, eventually snapping my trumpet back up. Peeking at my line, everyone has gone askew; the crisp formation from before is lost. My heart rate doesn’t slow. I cannot focus any better. I attempt once more to rid myself of the poison via word vomit. “Good luck. We got this,” the remark comes out in a

pitch slightly higher than normal. I scramble for additional words: “Doing good guys.” I do not turn my head to the person next to me.

 

The drum major’s hands raise and swiftly hit the four corners of the conducting pattern. “1, 2, ready,” Breathe “and.” I summon all the air in my body to support the opening line before we move. Don’t forget the E flat on top of the B flat, play the right notes! The notes bang out my bell in perfect time with the band, and my ears faintly ring in response. 

 

Step off.  I lift my feet that seem a hundred pounds heavier, and count my beats. I have sixteen steps and then another ten or so before I need to plant myself like a statue and play the best notes of my life. 5, 6, 7, 8. 

 

The internal temperature of my uniform rises considerably. The venom infecting me causes more than jitters and a rapid heart rate. It has a special hidden ingredient, the sulking notion that I’ll miss my cue or mistake the notes. Don’t mess up, don’t mess up. I stop playing with the rest of the band and take a few breaths to gather my thoughts while heading to my spot in the drill—or my final resting place if I don’t do this perfectly. 

 

Everyone else heads toward the end zone while I point my toes to the fifty-yard line, against the grain. What are the notes again? I nervously review my notes in my head as my stomach churns. I have to do well. I need to make 5th-grade Jenny proud. I advance to the line, just in front of the first hash on the field, and step into the statue pose I’ve hit plenty of times before. I pop my left foot out so my feet stand shoulder-width apart on the splintered grass. With the rest of the band far from me, the audience’s eyes and focus shift to me. They expect greatness and I must provide it.

 

I lift my bell higher than the enthusiastic crowd, towards the heavens, tensing every muscle and tendon in my body. I can no longer glimpse back at the drum major. I have to listen to my fellow trumpets, finding my place in the music. Go after this dotted quarter note section. As they play that spot in the music, I draw in a breath that burns like fire. It, and the adrenaline, fuels me and casts out the venom that previously poisoned my mind. I press my lips harder to the mouthpiece and force that fiery breath back out and through the silver tubes of my trumpet. Just before the sound blasts out, I know it will sound beautiful. The cobra knot in my chest finally releases. The Friday night lights charge my confidence and the crowd melts away, blending into the deep black sky.

 

I got this.