Wednesday nights under the stadium lights. I spent every fall there. The buzz of the band room—literal and figurative.  A trumpeter, tucked in a padded practice room, egg cartons lined the walls to dampen the sound, ricocheting off four brick walls and the film of carpet lain over concrete floor, and the wall of wooden lockers.

I’d pace through the room. With my backpack, track bag, and lunch sack slung over one shoulder.

When the trumpeter hit the note that made their chops ache by the end of the song,

The snare drum would rumble with the soundwaves like a ghost chiming in.

Drum sticks resting on its head.

There was an excitement about the place. Everyone returning from the long walk to McDonalds or China town—two blocks farther and in the other direction, so never both.

High on deep fried french fries and boaba tea, with a new collection of mechanical pencils. Inconvenient charms dangling off the end, click while while you write. I never.

But it felt like belonging. To have a place, a dot on my spot, X amount of steps from the hashmarks on the football field. Where I’d stand, shiny black marching shoes and pace off the steps indicated by my X. I’d lay my tuba down and then lay down next to it. While the other hundred high school musicians flirted and counted their own paces from the hashmark on the football field. And sometimes I’d pout about it.

Its nice to show up and pout about it. Its nice to be obligated.