Band Cramp

Warren arrived at the house just after 5.00pm. The sound of a thousand falling needles greeted Gareth as he opened the door, the outside unkind to Gareth's nerves. Warren stood, unimpressed, as the rain attacked his waterproof jacket. His unshaven, scruffy brown chin wet and his eyes were even sadder than usual.

'It's wet,' Warren grunted.

Gareth didn't respond. He was thinking about what was to come, his nerves building up. He had spent the last hour packing and unpacking various bits and pieces which could help him survive the weekend, based on Warren's advice. The week had given Gareth ample time to over-think what he needed, what with his ankle tag confining him to the house, like a prisoner. The tag was bulky and devoid of colour, like a leech that sucked out Gareth's happiness, except heavier and somehow more detestable. He hated how his tag controlled his new life, incarcerating him when the sun slept, and longed to get away, even if that meant spending the weekend with the band from hell.

As Warren tapped a code into Gareth's ankle tag, for what Gareth could only assume was to over-ride the usual curfew limitations, Gareth picked up his wheeled suitcase. It was full of clothes, some bathroom essentials and, of course, his horn. He had no official case for the trumpet, not after Darren had set it alight when they originally stole it.

Warren nodded to his car. Gareth turned to shout a goodbye to his mum, but thought twice about it. She wouldn't respond, anyway.

'See you on Sunday, Kerry-Anne,' Warren called, watching Gareth embrace the rain instead of his mum.

'Watch out for deer. You know what them country roads are like,' Kerry-Anne echoed down the hallway.

A smart car. Warren drove a smart car - the tiniest car Gareth had ever seen. Before he could argue or comment, Warren swooped Gareth's case from the wet pavement and stashed it in its boot.
It wasn't long before they were on their way to Ely.

'Three days,' Warren noted, squinting through the windscreen wipers as they drove, 'three days of playing, running and doing the best you can.'

'Well, two and a bit,' Gareth sighed, his eyes glossing in thought.

For a few moments, only the hammering rain continued the conversation, in the dark.

'Think you can handle it?' Warren reconvened.

Gareth gave Warren a look to suggest the Parole Officer was an idiot for asking.

'It's just a tiny marching band. This'll be easy.'

'Chase Diggby is a difficult man. Remember what I said, earlier in the week, and you'll be fine.'

Gareth did remember. Warren had told him that Chase went out of his way to test people, to make sure they could handle the band. One of the reasons the band had shrunk down, so considerably, was because of Chase and his methods. Those that stuck around could take whatever Chase threw at them, although a few still argued back. Gareth was told that as long as he did what Chase told him, and didn't make a fuss, Gareth would survive just fine for the rest of the year. In Gareth's mind, however, nothing could be worse than an extended duration in a prison cell, the disappointment of his mother baring down him day after day. Adhering to Chase's commands had to be better than that.

********************

They arrived at an empty school, fifteen minutes late. The rain was pouring down even heavier, as if trying to drown Gareth before he could find cover.

'There's no sensors for me to keep track of you through your ankle tag, you hear me? I swear to God, Gareth, if you I catch you trying to run, I'm not doing you any more favours. This is the best you get. One chance. Don't mess it up,' Warren warned, the tone of his voice low and somewhat vicious to previous conversations he'd had with Gareth.

Gareth considered what would happen if he ran, just for a split second. He then concluded that would be the most stupid thing to do, in the world. It's something Darren would do.

'Let's just get out the rain,' Gareth huffed, pulling his suitcase to the school double doors.

Highfield High School. The walls were made of new brick and the interior was refreshingly snug in both size and temperature, after the rain. A small staircase led up to a corridor of classrooms, whilst downstairs led to an empty food tech area. Gareth trudged everywhere to find where he was supposed to go, in this tiny but winding maze. Eventually, just when he was about to give up, he found a large classroom full of air beds and sleeping bags, near the entrance staircase.

As Warren opened the classroom door, he was immediately met with a large woman with an angry face and tightly tied back dark blonde-hair. She was well built and looked ready to beat up Gareth, as soon as she lay her eyes on him.

'Warren Davies,' Warren smiled, extending his hand.

'Ealga Taggart. What do you want?' she replied, simply staring at Gareth.

Warren lowered his hand, evidently not receiving a hand shake, but this didn't deter Warren's friendly attitude.

'Gareth, here, is new. We were just looking for a place to set his bed down.'

'Over 18s only, in here. You need the gym.'

As Eagla closed the classroom door, Gareth couldn't help but wonder what her problem was. She looked like someone had stolen something precious to her and... oh. Gareth soon realised that her problem was probably him. He watched through the glass of the classroom door, watching her set down other people's beds as if this was her usual routine and everyone had a specific place to sleep.

'Come on. The gym's in the other block,' Warren noted.

They jogged back outside, into the downpour. A building stood in front of them, where several instruments were wailing loud noises, whilst a large building sat to their left.

'I'll take your case to the gym, just left of here. You head inside and get ready. Chase isn't going to like that we're late, so it's best not to keep him waiting even more.'

'Wait,' Gareth halted.

He quickly unzipped his suitcase and pulled the much shinier trumpet from within. It had taken a solid day of polishing it with furniture polish and a couple of duster clothes, but it was a much bigger improvement over the tarnished brass of before.

Warren zipped the case back up and hurried to the gym, leaving Gareth to nervously trudge to the building of wailing sounds.

Gareth stepped through the double doors of this new building, and immediately into what looked like a P.E hall. The floor was a zig-zag of polished patterns, whilst the walls were lines with plastic, blue chairs. Everything echoed horrendously, but somehow it made the wailing horns and the thudding of the drums sound much better than when they were out on the field, last week. Several large glockenspiel-looking instruments were furiously being played. All three of these different musical sections were playing their own tunes, as if to warm the players up.

No sooner had Gareth set his eyes on Chase, did Chase wave his arms to cut the horns off from playing. As soon as the horns stopped, the drummers stopped. As soon as the drummers stopped, the glockenspiels stopped. The sound of silence was tense.

'I don't know what sort of time you'd call this, Mr. Firkins, but it sure as hell isn't six o'clock,' Chase's hoarse and Scottish voice reverberated around the hall.

'We got held up in the rain-' Gareth started, but was interrupted.

'I don't care what your excuse is. Everyone else made it here on time, so should you. Now, because it's your first evening, I'm letting you off lightly. Play the C major scale on your trumpet.'

'What?'

'Play the C scale. Trumpet.'

Gareth, absolutely bewildered by what this meant, was grabbed by the wrist and pulled to where Chase had been standing. Gareth felt his heart skip a beat from worry. He was suddenly standing in front of an arc of brass players, all expectantly staring at him. He looked to his right, as if to look for some form of help, only to find a line of drummers with poker faces, silently watching. He felt the eyes of the glockenspiel players burn into the back of his wet hair, drying it off.

'C. D. E. F. G. A. B. C. Do it or you're running a lap around the field. Trust me, you don't want to do that in this weather. Now play,' Chase growled, folding his arms and staring at Gareth in the same way everyone else did.

Holding his trumpet as best he could, a finger atop each valve and his left hand awkwardly steadying the instrument, Gareth raised the horn to his lips. With the horn's bell facing somewhere at Chase's feet, he blew a raspberry into the mouth piece, as he did when he tried playing at the parade.

The hall echoed with a note which sounded like someone had let one rip after a bad curry. Several horn players sniggered. Gareth frowned and desperately tried to carry on.

Pressing the first valve down, the one closest to his face, he tried playing another note. This time a squeak of a note spouted out, lasting no longer than half a second.

Chase shook his head, his eyes still fixated on Gareth. No, Gareth thought, he had to do better than this. So, without further warning, Gareth attempted the very tune which he tried playing at the parade, out of his window.

A flurry of awful notes spewed forth, higher in pitch than the previous two and much more tuneful, but in the end they were only half a note, with no pitch or flavour. They were flat representations of notes, and Gareth knew it.

'Stop!' Chase roared, uncrossing his arms and waiving them about, as if to push the very air back into Gareth's trumpet and avoid a massacre of the ear drums. 'You evidently can't even play the C scale, but I figured as much, based on your performance at last week's parade. No two fools could sound the same...'

'Then why did you make me play?' Gareth replied, feeling hurt.

'Because I wanted to see what you'd do, Mr. Firkins,' Chase responded, giving a wry and unpleasant smile.

Several band members gave out to their undoubtedly held back laughter, making Gareth feel terribly unwanted. He'd been trying all week to play something worthwhile and learn some notes, but it hadn't gotten him very far. What he really needed was someone to teach him, if he was going to play the trumpet at all. Furious, Gareth stomped out of the his central spot, in the hall, and away from Chase.

'Don't tell me you're quitting already, Mr. Firkins?' Chase mused.

'I can't play,' Gareth snapped, 'so I need someone to show me, unless you want me away from the rest of your precious band all weekend, trying by myself?'

Chase nodded, wrinkling his nose.

'All right. Get out my sight for tonight,' Chase responded, in a harsh tone. 'Stefan, teach the kid how to play. Take him to a classroom with a music stand. Make sure he knows the basics for tomorrow.'

A golden brown skinned trumpeter left the ranks of the arc and headed towards Gareth. His hair was short and dark, but messy. His eyebrows were his most prominent visual feature, like two caterpillars had crawled onto his brow and decided to live there. They were just as expressive as two living creatures, too, with one raised as the teenager approached Gareth. He must've been at least two years older than Gareth, about 18, and wore an immense baggy, grey t-shirt. This must be Stefan.

'Follow me' Stefan commanded, an unidentifiable accent escaping his lips.

Gareth complied and soon found himself braving the elements to go back to the classroom block. Just as they exited, Warren strode up to the pair.

'All right, I'm off,' Warren said.

'What? Already?' Gareth replied, wide-eyed.

'I've got things to get on with and it's not like you're going anywhere... right?' Warren responded in a warning tone.

'I've got my eye on him,' Stefan chuckled in a way which made Gareth a little uneasy.

'Good. I've set your bed stuff up, Gareth, so you don't have to worry about that. Least I can do whilst you're going to be so busy. Anyway, I'm off. See ya.'

With that, Warren trudged back to his smart car and hopped in. With Gareth's only familiar face having left, already, he was led to a dry classroom to reflect on what had happened in the hall.

'You know, I was only late because my Parole Officer was late,' Gareth grumbled.

'Doesn't matter. No one gets off from Chase's wrath. He'll always choose something he knows you'll struggle with, too. With Yammers, the large drummer, he'll make him do something more physical. With Aaron, our tiny tuba player, he'll make him try and play some really high notes - something extremely difficult on his instrument. He made you play the C scale, because he knew you couldn't do something so simple.'

Gareth felt annoyed by this. Simple? It felt incredibly hard, back in the hall.

'So let's learn, already,' Gareth huffed.

Stefan raised one of his expressive eyebrows and set about unfolding a music stand. Uninterested in simply watching him, Gareth looked about the classroom and quickly found a plastic, blue chair to sit down on.

'No,' Stefan simply said, not looking up from fixing up the music stand, 'we don't sit down on chairs, here.'

'Then how am I supposed to relax?' Gareth challenged.

'You're at band camp. You don't relax until night falls,' Stefan smiled, shaking his head.

For all it was worth, Gareth didn't think Stefan was a bad guy. He could've said that in a negative way, like Chase seemed to with everything, but he made a joke out of it. Gareth relaxed a bit and put the chair away. He didn't mind so much, not if Stefan was going to be light-hearted. It put him at ease.

'Right, first off, we need to sort out your posture,' Stefan started.

'My what?'

'Posture. It's how you carry yourself. You know, how you stand?'

With a shuffle of his feet and a lift of his horn, Gareth stood how he did in the hall, when he tried playing the fail scale.

'No, you see, you're pointing the trumpet down at the ground and you're all slumped. Imagine... imagine a hole has been drilled through the top of your head, all the way down to your toes.'

'Ain't that what they call girls?' Gareth laughed.

'Not if a guy's gender fluid,' Stefan responded, as if that was the most natural response in the world. Gareth was confused. 'You know, when a guy can sometimes feel like a girl on some days and other days feel more masculine? He'll dress and change his attitude to accommodate?'

'Who, in their right mind, does that?' Gareth laughed, thinking of a guy in a dress.

Stefan simply stared at Gareth, causing him to stop laughing almost immediately.

'Anyway, imagine the string pulling you up.'

'You're weird, mate.'

'No one's weird. We're all unique. But at band, we all come together as a unit. We're all one. No one is unique when we're out there, playing music on the field. Remember that,' Stefan quipped.

Gareth sighed, not knowing what to think. Was everyone as bizarre as Stefan in Adonis? Or were they more like Ealga? All he could do, at that moment, was follow Stefan's instructions.

'Now, stand with your feet together, your toes facing away from each other but with your heels touching. Imagine a piece of rope is threaded through the long hole in your body, pulling away at you, holding you up,' Stefan suggested.

'Ooh er, misses,' Gareth chuckled, but complied all the same.

'Don't stand on your tip-toes. Just imagine the rope pulling you up, as straight as you can possibly be without lifting your feet off the floor. Good. Now lift that trumpet to your lips.'

Gareth did so. Stefan let out an unimpressed noise and pushed the end of Gareth's trumpet upwards, causing the mouth piece to slide off of Gareth's lips.

'What you doing?' Gareth asked.

'Pushing the end of your bell up.'

'Get your hand off my bell.'

'Make me,' Stefan replied, giving off half a smile.

A little freaked out by this, Gareth raised the trumpet mouth piece back to his lips, the trumpet's "bell" held up by Stefan. This felt uncomfortable. It was like holding a weight up in the same position, whilst making sure your body's weight was pulled into the air. Gareth started to breathe heavily, from a little bit of pressure.

'We'll focus on breathing exercises tomorrow,' Stefan laughed.

'Hey, it's not intentional, mate. It's just really uncomfortable!' Gareth growled.

'And it will be. It's an unnatural position that you have to hold yourself up in. It looks good on the field, though, and it frees up your air passages so you can play clearer,' Stefan explained, getting out some music and putting it onto the stand. 'Now try and play this.'

Gareth looked at the jumbled mess of musical notes on the page, weaving in and out between a tunnel of lines and what looked like a Disney letter at the start of each line.

'I can't,' Gareth simply responded.

'I thought as much. This is the musical version of the C major scale - that thing Chase told you to play. You'll need to learn this if you're to play anything at all. Don't worry if you can't read it, I'll just write the valve numbers down on the page.'

Gareth grew increasingly annoyed at how much there would be to learn. Would he have to remember everything and do them all at once? He hoped not. Playing the C scale and holding himself tall in this position was impossible, right now. He desperately tried holding himself up, only to find himself naturally slumping. He put his horn down.

'Hold your horn up. Stay like that,' Stefan commanded.

'No, it hurts. I want to rest,' Gareth responded.

'You need to build up your arm strength. It's only a trumpet - the lightest of the horns. You'll have to hold it up all the time whist playing, so you play to the crowd, not the worms. Keep the horn up whilst I write these on your music, got it?' Stefan said, his voice not upset or angry, but more friendly and encouraging.

Gareth grumbled and lifted his horn back up, feeling the muscles in the top of his arms wane and shake as he held them there. Eventually, his arms began to lower themselves, shaking violently as he tried to keep the bell of his trumpet parallel to his vision.

'All right, you'll be able to do it with time,' Stefan noted. 'For now, though, take a look at this music. The 1's mean you press the first valve down. That's the one closest to your face. The 2's are the second valve. That's the middle one. The 3's are the third valve. That's the one furthest away from your face and closest to the bell. Everything else is a combination of those,' Stefan encouraged, pointing at the various notes and the pen he'd inked beneath them.

'What about the 0's you've put?'

'You don't press any valves down at all, for those. Now try it. The C scale.'

'H-hang on, how do I even play a proper note?' Gareth delayed, realising that what he played in the hall, and out his window, wasn't exactly pitch-perfect.

'You know how to make a sound in the mouth piece, right? You blow a raspberry, or a small one. You did it in the hall. Well, doing that normally, loosely, with no valves pressed down, is a low C. That's the first note you need to play. Just try the first few notes like that, pressing the valves to change the note.'

Gareth puckered his lips onto his trumpet's mouth piece and blew an immature raspberry into its hole. A pitch-wavering note came out. Following Stefan's inked instructions, Gareth pressed the first and third valves down with his fingers. The note changed, causing elation within Gareth. He tried the next note - a first and second valve. It changed again, slightly higher in tone.

Taking a big breath, Gareth blew back into the trumpet and started over, this time going through the first three notes much faster. He pressed the first valve on its own, next. The note changed and then cut out several times, despite Gareth blowing. Confused, Gareth tried the next note, which was no valves at all, which reverted the note back down to his first note - a low C. Gareth stopped.

'It's not just about pressing the valves, but also keeping an even pitch on every note, so they don't warble,' Stefan explained.

'How do I play higher?' Gareth blurted out, confused.

'You tighten your lips,' Stefan simply answered. 'That way, you can play higher notes by pressing the same valves. Your first note is a low C. The note you couldn't play, just now, is a G. That is also played with no valves pressed. Your last note is also a C - a middle C. That's also played with no valves. Each one is higher, so you tighten your lips slightly with each higher note. You probably didn't even realise you were doing it until you tried to play the G.'

Gareth tried again. C. D. E. F. G... He went higher and higher until the final note left to play in the C scale - a middle C. He just couldn't reach it. He blew... and blew... and blew, but he couldn't make the note higher than a G, with no valves pressed. Growing frustrated, Gareth lowered his horn and cursed under his breath.

'When I first joined, I couldn't play at all. Now I'm the best trumpet player in this band,' Stefan slowly responded, watching Gareth hammer the classroom floor with his right foot, in frustration.

'What's that meant to mean?' Gareth glared. 'That you're better than me?'

'It's meant to mean that we all start somewhere. Practise makes perfect, after that.'

Gareth sighed and put his trumpet down on a classroom table. Leaning against the table, he looked up, a quizzical expression on his face. Something had been bugging him.

'Why did you join?'

Stefan gave a half smile and sat atop the table, next to where Gareth leant. He looked out the rain spattered window and into the lamp lights that refracted off of their drops. Gareth followed suit.

'I was eight years old and I was indoors all the time. I never wanted to go out, I just wanted to stay in and write stories of adventure and mystery. I loved writing. Then my mother made me come here. She wanted me to learn an instrument so she could brag to her other parent friends. I didn't want to go. I used to come up with excuses in why I couldn't go, every weekend; things like I had a temperature, or rehearsal had been cancelled due to the weather. She grew wise to that, in time. So I kept going. I endured Chase and the rest of the band, and just became good at it. Once I became good, I didn't mind going. Now I stick with it, because deep down, I think I enjoy it, otherwise I wouldn't be here anymore.'

Gareth let Stefan's story sink in for a moment. Stefan had gone to march for Adonis because his mum had made him. In a weird way, Gareth had wished his mum had done the same, or at least paid an interest in his past-times, even if Stefan's mum sounded controlling.

'I thought there was no sitting at band?' Gareth smiled, noticing Stefan perched atop a table.

Stefan laughed and shook his head.

'So what about you, then? Why was coming here even an option?' Stefan asked.

Gareth plopped himself next to Stefan, on top of the table, his trumpet to the left of him and Stefan to the right.

'You've gotta heard the story by now, that I'm here for community service, I mean.'

Stefan nodded, slowly.

'A lot of the others went berserk when Chase told us. Be wary of them. I can tell you're not a bad guy, Gareth, so just make sure you convince the others of that. We may all be a team, here, but some of them will make it hard because of your past with us. Stealing one of our trumpets and the situation with the parade will take time to rectify,' Stefan warned, a warm tone to his voice which was soothing among the pattering sound of the rain.

'Well, it was either join this band or face a trial and possibly prison. I thought this would be better. Maybe I'll make some people think differently about me? I don't know. I'm here, now.'

Stefan patted Gareth on the back and jumped back onto his feet.

'So then, let's show them. No doubt you're lips have rested for a bit, so they're recharged. Let's try and get you playing that middle C,' Stefan chirped.

With a smile on his face and enthusiasm in his stomach, Gareth leapt to his feet and put the trumpet back to his lips to try and play that elusive middle C.