Last year was my fourth year at Blue Lake Fine Arts Camp, a summer camp for gifted musicians, artists, dancers, and actors. I was in the Symphony Band, conducted by Mrs. C. Her usually angry mood, frequent mood swings, and yelling tone of voice led a certain group of campers (myself among them) to call her SPAWN OF SATAN. It was a small joke between my cabin members, but it was the perfect nickname for our dictator-style band director.
My fellow percussionists always seemed too tired to care. The one who was most out of it was Trey (yes, like the serving utensil), a tall teen with a foppish mop of black curls and black-rimmed glasses. He rarely spoke, and when he did, it was only to state the obvious or ask a question. He was countered by preppy James and quick, hyperactive Josh, both of who would offer their input even when it wasn’t asked for.
Our band director handed out the first piece we would be playing, “The Florentiner March.” The percussion section called for three snare types, cymbals, bells, and timpani, and we quickly divided them up amongst ourselves. I would be playing the cymbals as well as the bells.
The two weeks wore on as we worked on our pieces for the Final Sunday concert. Besides “The Florentiner March,” we would be performing a Bach chorale, some American folk songs, a Peruvian-style piece, and a lovely piece based on the composer’s impressions of the Upper Peninsula. Our director drilled us each day on the pieces, and under the hot sun in the large pavilion, the two-hour-long rehearsals seemed to drag on forever.
The day of our final concert arrived. Our tech teacher, Mr. S, helped us set up on the shell stage. For our first song, the march, we would need the cymbal stand to be near the bells so I could switch back and forth between the two easily.
SPAWN OF SATAN led us onto the stage, and began announcing our pieces. Before we knew it, she had raised her baton and we were off.
The first part of the march went well, and then it came time for me to play the bell solo. I went to set the cymbals down, instinctively reaching for the stand.
It wasn’t there.
SPAWN OF SATAN glanced back to the percussion section. The bell solo was nearly upon us, and I was going to drop the cymbals.
But then, I didn’t.
Something metallic and strong was underneath my hands. I looked up at Trey, who had shoved the stand in my direction.
SPAWN OF SATAN glanced back at us again. I disentangled my hands from the cymbal straps and took up my mallets. Trey glanced at me. I looked back at him. We were doing just fine.