The first day of Marching Band camp. Hoorah. It’s one of my favorite things to do, ever, though I’m only a sophomore. I’m in my third season of Guard, since I did Winter Guard. Sigh. Guard is the most amazing thing ever.

Sunburns, the way the sun is so bright it makes my eyes hurt, the ache in my feet and the half nervous, half excited feeling in my stomach are not. There’s only an hour until lunch break, and it can not come soon enough. However much I may be addicted to this stuff (Guard, that is. Or Marching Band in general. Whichever you prefer), there’s only so much physical discomfort one can take.

The flag was heavy in my sweaty palm, in a comfortable way. It’s like the flagpole is an extension of my body, which is how it’s supposed to be I guess, but sometimes it’s awkward because there’s times I forget it’s there, and trip over it with as much grace as one can manage while tripping over a flagpole. Though my name is Grace, it’s very misleading, because I’m anything but graceful. I prefer to be called Gracie, though I don’t suppose I have a choice, since that’s what people would call me wether I liked it or not.

It took me a few minutes to realize that my best friend in the whole wide world, (or one of several) Gemma Deans was talking to me.

“What?” I asked, having absolutely no idea what she was talking about. She sighed and rolled her eyes.

“It’s time for a potty-water break. Are you coming?” I know potty-water sounds childish and immature, but that’s what the guard calls our breaks. Actually, our instructor, Josh, started it, and if at twenty five-ish he’s immature enough to say it, then I certainly am. With a relieved sigh I rolled my flag and dropped it unceremoniously on the ground. Gemma was waiting for me, and we entered the band hallway together. The cool air washed over me. It wasn’t actually that cool, but against my sun warmed skin if felt like bliss. Compared to the glaring sun outside, the school seemed ridiculously dark, and it took a minute for my eyes to adjust. I collapsed to the ground by the wall by our pile of belongings and dug my water bottle out of my bag. I’d stuck it in the freezer the previous night, so it was still half frozen, and the icy cold water tasted better than anything in the world, at the moment at least, soothing my dry throat. Gemma slid down the wall beside me, leaning back against the cool stone wall with her eyes closed.

“I hate band camp,” she muttered, wiping beads of sweat from her face. I held my water out to her, and she took a long drink. Lawry, Kaietelyn and Mary sat next to us after their turn at the drinking fountain. Usually we all complain about the water from the fountains in the band hall tasting funny, but on days like today, we couldn’t care less. Lawry is one of the three seniors in our guard this year, along with Chealsea and Sara. The three of them are the best of friends, virtually inseparable, especially Sara and Lawry. They seem like separate halves of the same person. Sometimes I even get them confused in my mind as to who said or did what, simply because you can’t have one without the other. Kaietelyn and Mary are juniors, and they’re great friends too. It wasn’t long before Sam, Chelsea, Sara, Penny, Drew, Hanna, Haley and Mira joined us. In short, the entire guard sat in a largeish, lopsided circle in the band hall.

What seemed like moments later, but was probably fifteen minutes, Cidney came inside to get us. She’s our other instructor - Josh is actually the one who writes our work. Usually it’s her and Alec, but Alec was absent today, for one reason or another. With him, you never knew. Once we had reassembled into a somewhat decent block practice began again, and the rest of the hour passed rather quickly. It seemed like no time at all before the rest of the band began to wander inside - Battery first (their section leader was fond of eating, and didn’t like to miss any of his lunch break), then the trumpets, mellos and saxophones. The low brass section was the last to be seen meandering in from the band practice field, and when they had reached us, Josh decided that we could go to lunch too. It sucks being the closest to the band hall and the last one inside.

I ate lunch with Gemma, Kay (It’s not her real name - her real name is Mary-Margaret. Kay is her middle name, and she’s never forgiven her mother for making the clearly misguided decision to name her after her great-grandmother), Aimee, Liz, Aly, Benjamin, Logan and Corey. They’re my circle of band friends, the ones I hang out with constantly outside of band practice. We’re all a group of wacky sophomores, with little sense and not much more than air in our heads, where our brains should be. Kay plays trombone, Aimee and Liz play flute, Aly is in the Battery, Corey is a trumpet, Ben is a clarinet, and Logan is a mellophone. And of course, Gemma and I are the guard geeks. We’re a pretty well rounded bunch, which makes up for whatever else we lack.

The cool floor of the cafeteria feels good on my sore feet, and the absence of the usual florescent lights makes the place almost pleasant. I firmly intend to keep my bottom planted in this chair for as long as possible - I’m going to be doing enough standing today without wasting my lunch break wandering around the school like we usually do after practice.

“What have you got for lunch today?” Aly asks me, leaning over Kay to peer at the selection of plastic-wrapped food in front of me. Kay sits back to avoid Aly’s long blonde hair hanging in her face. Aly’s tapping out rythyms on the edge of the table with her drumsticks, a habit which most find annoying, Corey finds endearing, and the rest of us have learned to live with.

“What do you think?” I reply sarcastically, and she screws up her face in mock concentration. It’s a long-standing joke that’s Aly’s psychic, ever since she dressed up as Professor Trelawney in fifth grade for Halloween. Her preoccupation with the Harry Potter books ended a while ago, but it never fails to prompt a laugh out of at least one of us.

“Using my telepathic powers, I’d say you’ve got a peanut butter sandwich, a granola bar - no wait, make that two granola bars, Cheeze-it’s and a particularly battered apple.” We all grin at her antics - I have the same thing for lunch every day. It’s not hard to guess, because probably the whole band knows by now the contents of the infamous Beuerle lunches. My older brother Chris eats the same thing, as well as my little sister, Janie.

“I do believe you’ve finally discovered those psychic powers you’ve always wanted,” Aimee comments around a mouthful of potato chips. Gemma tosses Aly a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and just manages to catch the peanut butter and banana one that she receives in return. They always do that - trade sandwiches, simply because neither likes the ones that their mothers pack. Gemma’s mother is a firm believer in the magic powers of PB&J, and refuses to buy anything else, and Aly’s mom is determined that her daughters lunch should be healthy and nutritional at all costs. The rest of the food trading is done quickly, and anything that no one wants gradually migrates to the center of the table, where it is snatched up by someone or discarded.

“So how has your day been?” Aimee asks, and her question is greeted by a chorus of groans.

“Why don’t you get Aly to use her telepathic powers to answer that?” Gemma suggests, which is greeted by a short burst of laughter. Normally we wouldn’t laugh at something so not-really-that-funny, but it had been a long day and we were willing to laugh at anything.

Aly does her fortune teller routine again and finally manages, “Tiring.” Kay snorts at this.

“Tiring is an understatement. Try something a bit more awful, such as devastating.”

“Or disastrous.”

“Dreadful.”

“Demonic.”

“Dull, dire, destructive, deathly and desolate.”

“Dismal, and what’s with all the D’s people?” says Kay, and that’s the end of that. I glance down at my watch and groan.

“Fifteen more minutes until lunch is over.” That’s what we always say - lunch is over, never practice starts. If we say that lunch will soon be over it’s easier to ignore the fact that within minutes we’ll be back outside, busting our butts to make the five sets we’ve learned of the show look halfway decent, or attempting to keep the freshman from getting murdered by the band director. Slowly we disperse to throw away the remains of our meal and migrate towards the band hall.

“Hey Gracie, wait up!” Logan calls, and I stop to wait for him. He’s tall and lanky, and still frightfully awkward, considering he grew about five inches during the summer. It was a shock to see him for the first time in nearly three months this morning. I didn’t recognize him at first. We’ve been friends since seventh grade, but we’ve become a lot closer thanks to marching band.

“How was your summer?” he asks as we start down the hallway. I shrugged.

“Ok, I suppose. How was yours?”

“Fine, I guess. Rather boring, actually. I missed you.” I can’t think of anything to say to this, so an awkward silence fills the air. The strange thing about us is that I have a huge crush on him - have since fifth grade, actually, and he’s got possibly an even bigger one on me. Only thing is, we’ve never actually talked about it - just though email and instant messaging - which is a big problem, considering we’re both too shy to bring it up. He’s asked me out several times - via text message - but I’m not ready for a boyfriend - I very much enjoy being single.

Thankfully, Gemma comes up beside us and rescues me - or us rather, from ourselves.

“I can’t believe we’re doing Pink Floyd for the show this year!” She’s more than rather thrilled - she’s into some strange music, and Pink Floyd is one of her favorite bands. Logan and I exchange smiles, the awkward-ness from before fading.

“It’s terrific, isn’t it?” I remarked as she linked arms with me. She’s wearing her shirt from Wicked - she’s more than a little obsessed. The two of us went and saw it together this summer, and I have to admit - it was brilliant. Relieved to have something to talk about, I eagerly gushed over the awesomeness of the show with her until our senior Drum Major, Aym Wilson called us all together and announced that we would be having sectionals until two. That’s what the guard had been doing all morning, but then again, that’s what we did, at least during band camp, because we don’t have to learn marching basics.

Dinner was hot dogs and hamburgers, something I knew we’d have more than once during the week. Luckily I love both, but I had a hot dog tonight, slathered with ketchup and sprinkled with relish. The sun was sinking in the sky as we settled into the grass in front of the school to eat, beneath the shade of Our tree. I could feel the beginnings of a sunburn on my shoulders, nose and the back of my legs. It was inevitable, no matter how many layers of sun screen I applied, no matter how frequently.

The last two hours really seemed to drag. Nine o’clock couldn’t come fast enough, and it was getting harder to see the flag in my hand as the practice field grew dark. Then the first cars pulled into the parking lot, Mr. Cross, our band director called quits, and we began the slow, painful walk to the tired parents and/or siblings who awaited us. Then it was home, shower and finally fall into bed and be asleep before you hit the pillow, even if it was only to dream about band.

Band camp is certainly one of the most interesting experiences of my life.

A/N: So this is going to be Gracie's story, probably ending at the end of the Marching Band season. Tell me if you like it and I'll try and update it relatively soon...