Sectionals

In band, there are rules that only exist after you break them. 

Not everyone enforces them. 

Just a certain kind of kid— 

the kind who speaks for the room 

before the room decides. 

At the beginning of the year, 

I said out loud that trumpet felt hard. 

That was it. 

Not a complaint.

Not an excuse. 

Just the truth of missing notes and feeling everyone hear it. 

I wondered if clarinet might fit better. 

I said it quietly, 

to people I trusted. 

Insecurity was something I wanted to whisper. 

Someone else joined the circle. 

Not my friend— 

a friend of a friend. 

She laughed and said, 

“What, so you can mess up that section too?” 

I didn’t know sections were fragile like that.

I didn’t know wanting to improve 

counted as damage.

After that, I stayed within the barbed wire 

that marked the territory

of one of the loudest instruments in the room. 

By the end of the year, 

the class was relaxed enough 

for food to appear. 

Someone decided it was a potluck. 

I wasn’t a part of that decision. 

Everyone else was. 

My friend brought cookies. 

I asked if I could have one. 

She started to say yes. 

Someone else said no. 

You didn’t bring anything, 

so you can’t have anything. 

It wasn’t cruel. 

It was confident. 

Like the rule had always existed 

and I was late to learn it. 

There were nods. 

People already eating. 

My friend said yes anyway, 

and gave me one, 

but the sweet treat tasted sour on my tongue. 

I hadn’t been invited, 

so I hadn’t brought anything, 

so I wasn’t supposed to eat.

Because I didn’t melt into the symphony. 

In band, they tell you to listen carefully. 

So I do. 

Not for the music— 

for what I’m allowed to do wrong.