Summer Time Blues: The Itch of Music

          It was 2010 when I had last marched. When I moved to Chino in 2006, my new high school was known for its award-winning marching band, and my parents wanted my twin and me to join immediately. Music became a part of us, and I sit here in my room thinking back on when I marched in a Drum Corp, an elite group of musicians working only towards the best--that was in 2009.
          The corp and I were in Wisconsin, and the streetlights had just turned on out in front of the school where we were rehearsing and housing. Crickets, frogs, and unseen creatures orchestrated the darkness, but our arc of standing musicians kept us confident.
          I held one of the larger horns, an instrument somewhere between a trumpet, tuba, and trombone--the euphonium. For my size, I was able to carry it well, and I felt my playing gave one of the better sounds in my section. We were a small corp, so there wasn't much competition if there was competing.
          Our instructor moved in front of us holding a plastic block and a chiseled and chewed drumstick. His eyes moved over us, and with a hit of the block we swung our horns up. He hit the block again, counting, and we began to play.
          Notes echoed out into the empty streets behind, bouncing from the trees we were aimed at. The sounds of nature had died as we grew louder, and to us, nothing was more important than perfection. Our twelve-hour days were nothing but back-to-back playing and running. Our legs were the gears working to form symettrical and intricate shapes to the sounds of drums and our horns. We were tired, but we wouldn't go take anything but the best.
          At the far corner of the arc, however, a trumpet player threw down his horn from his lips and slapped his neck. Then, he slapped his arm.
          I could feel the entire arc stop at look at him even as we continued to play to the beaten counts.
          Then, a mellophone player dropped their horn and smacked their leg.
          A tuba flinched and nearly toppled over.
          Two more trumpets spasmed and turned their heads. Finally, the beat stop as the conductor cried out and dropped his stick.
          For minutes, we passed around a silver can of bug spray. The mosquitoes buzzed in our ears and dug their sharp faces into our warm skin at any point they could find. I had placed my horn on the ground; the bugs forced me to move like a schizophrenic boxer, scratching and itching. We never went on, and it was decided to just go in and rehearse in a gym somewhere. When we found no such thing, the directors simply scratched their swollen pockmarks and called it a night.
        
         California is much different in that our evenings aren't so hectic with insects. The news mentions something about mosquitoes once or twice every two or three months, but bug spray sales suffer in comparison to other states.
        I've aged out, finally, and the music has died in me from where it last was. My parents still bring it up, the music, and I can find my mother watching old videos of rehearsals, performances, or going through a stack of photos unrecognizable to me.
       In my top left drawer, beneath the stacks of legal paper, pencils, and dried up sticky-notes full of ideas, I have a small black box. It's dirty, and the sticker label on it is warn out with a crust of dirt and oil. Sometimes when feeling down, however, I open it to find a glistening silver mouthpiece with one dent on the lip and grease stains at the stem from where my horn once held. That's when I feel the itch the most.