1, 2, 3, 4

The band room was ringing with jazz, trumpets punching their way through the band commanding attention, the saxophones accenting the melody with quick movements of the keys, and the piano sweeping up and down intricate scales effortlessly. The roar of the band consumed the airways and it grew and grew, about to reach the crescendo of the song. Two measures from the shout section. I was anticipating my favorite moment, when I was finally allowed to my drum rip and take command of the sound. 1, 2, 3, 4. One measure. 1, 2, 3, 4. But there was just silence, the remnants of music slowly sank to the floor. The band didn’t dare make a sound as we waited for who the fool that made a mistake in his band was. He exhaled and put his hands down. Looking out into the band, he said, “Zach, rushing or dragging?” He wasn’t even looking at me. I could hear my heart beating in my head, throughout my whole body. The fluorescent lights never sounded louder. “Rushing?” I choked out. “Well, let’s find out, play your part at 72,” he said. His gaze now shifted over to me, he was an animal eyeing his next meal. He snapped 1, 2, 3, 4. My arms and legs had turned to jelly as I feebly stumbled through my part. After playing through a bit he held up one to stop me. He paused a second and said, “Again.”