Why was I always fourth chair? I thought things would change after the eighth graders left, but now two seventh graders had passed me up, too. But at least one of them was nice to me. That kept me going sometimes, when otherwise I would have become envious and frustrated.

I kept working.

Why didn’t I get the chance to play piccolo? I guess that was a privilege just for the very best flutists. OK, fine. I probably wouldn’t practice it enough, anyway. I hardly practiced the instruments I already had.

I kept working.

Why didn’t I ever get solos? Why was I always cut? OK, so what I didn’t practice every day–or even every week–I didn’t think First Chair did, either. Maybe I should quit … but no. What else would I do all day? Study? I needed some kind of art in my life.

I signed up for high school band.

What even was this? Was I not allowed to have a life? Band consumed all of my day. Before school started. And then school was just an after thought in comparison–waking up in the wee hours, stumbling sleepily onto the field just before dawn, doing jumping jacks and then marching … I’d had a full day before the first bell rang, it seemed.

All this, and for … what, again? OK, so I’d made second band … That was something. Nothing to sneeze at. But I was still often the worst in my section, always feeling overlooked and ignored.

I wanted so bad to quit. But honestly, what would I do with all those extra hours?

I worked harder.

Most of my friends had quit. First Chair from 8th grade, too. Many of the rest of the people I knew had moved up to first band, but I was still here. Somehow, my desire to quit had gone. I guess somewhere between all the games and bus rides and performances I learned that some rewards are worth working for.

I worked harder.

More people quit. Of all the other junior flutes from my middle school, I was now the only one left. A striking sense of responsibility hit me, and maybe a little bit of loneliness, too. But I had finally made first band. After everything. It wasn’t easy even now–the schoolwork was torture when I tried to find practice time. I quickly learned the value of even the smallest practice session–especially if I could squeeze in two or three a day. Bit by bit, I learned time management. Bit by bit, I improved.

I had never worked harder.

My friends all thought I was crazy. (Still do.) I was far too serious about this whole band thing. (Or having too much fun.) I was even told once that I’d “gone to the dark side of the band.” (The cookies are great, though.)

Now in my senior year, I think I finally understand how band so sneakily slipped into my life these past six years. It was the thrill of marching-in. It was howling at the moon at football games. It was the heart-pounding rush of nerves on the field at a contest. It was being total goofs on the bus. It was dancing to pep music. It was exchanging pickles and chips from our sandwich boxes on contest evenings. It was yelling myself hoarse at posture check. It was the pre-dawn mornings on the field, when the turf was cool with dew and I could count the stars.

Band coaxed me out of my reluctance, but it didn’t happen all at once. My instinct to give up when I felt I didn’t have a chance took a while to overcome. But year by year, bit by bit, these little things did their work–and perhaps became more important than any big challenge along the way.