Soon after I got home, it was Tuesday, which meant band rehearsal. I went to the school, and everyone said that they had missed me while I was at camp last year. My friends came up and hugged me, and I almost felt loved. I sat down in my chair, and rehearsal began.
We played Maya, our marching band show, and stands tunes for two and a half hours. Playing my saxophone helped calm me down. The notes were like my sorrows soaring away in a beautiful, graceful way.
I loved the half time show. It was fun to play, and told a story. It was actually telling the tale of the Mayans and the end of the world, but to me, it was telling my life story. It had a few soft and pretty moments, but most of it was loud, bold, and scary. It fit me well.
I had rehearsals every Tuesday and Thursday night. What I did in between was not stuff I remembered well. I know I refused to go swimming, and going out to the park. I was still upset about the time I was called a whore by a few adults, who were supposed to be mature and respectful, simply because I hugged two of my black friends. That bugged me. Just because I hug my friend, and just because you’re racist about it, doesn’t make me a whore.
That was a perfect example of why I don’t open up to everyone about everything. People will always have something negative to say, and they will always judge you. It’s inevitable. I wish I could say that I truly didn’t care about what they said, but I did. It hurt me.
Adults were supposed to be the mature, respectful ones in the world, but evidently, they weren’t. They called a fourteen year old a whore for hugging her friends, while fully clothed, in long sleeves as a matter of fact. The world was so horrible to me. People were awful. Society was inhumane. I hated it.
I tried to ease my mind by practicing before band. Band camp was going to start on Monday. It was Friday at this point. I was extremely depressed for some reason. I couldn’t point my finger on it, but I was dying. Saturday passed, and I didn’t care.
Then Sunday hit.