It's Not a Clarinet

“It’s actually an oboe...” I said, gesturing to the case I held delicately in my hands.

Mr. Rooney, my new band teacher, smiled and nodded. “It’s been a few years since we’ve had one of them. How long have you been playing?”

“Six years... I started in fifth grade...” Mr. Rooney smiled again.

“We’ll be glad to have you in band, then. It’ll be a little odd putting you in just a month before the district competition, but I think you can do it.”

“Am I the only oboe?”

Mr. Rooney chuckled. “With this size of town, I’m glad to have have even one. Yes, you are the only one... we have a bassoon though. He just switched over from alto sax.”

That was the problem with moving to a smaller town. It meant a smaller band that likely wouldn't have another, better, oboe. Now I couldn’t hide behind Lena’s playing... this wasn’t going to be good.

I was going to miss good ol' Lena.

Six years of playing doesn’t necessarily make one good. I was living proof of that. Anything faster than a quarter note scared the living crap right outta me. I would describe my runs as ‘an extremely fat walrus trying to climb up an icy, glass covered slope.’ Slow, clumsy, and loud.

I loved band, and I loved my oboe, but was still clueless on why I had picked such a difficult duck-squawk of an instrument to play.

At least there was a bassoon though. I could complain about reed making to somebody who would understand. At least, if he made reeds. He probably didn’t.

“I’ll get your music to you in class tomorrow, and we’ll get you all set up and everything,” Mr. Rooney said, getting up and moving to a small office in the back.

“Thank you sir,” I called after him, gathering my oboe and preparing to head to my next classroom to speak with that teacher. Moving in the middle of the school year was one of the worst ideas my parents had ever had.

“Oh, Erika,” Mr Roone said as I neared the doorway. “Welcome to Hamilton High School.”