It’s getting dark out, the air is icy, and the breeze carries the clouds further away from our little alcove behind the school cafeteria. Little cliques of long time friends huddle together and gossip as they stretch, arms going up, down, and finally falling to the sides. Some eager participants are warming up their wrists and elbows, others are focusing on their knees and ankles. Small gatherings are going over simple choreography among the sweeping canvas sheet; painted and decorated on each side to illustrate the striking essences of the new years junior varsity and varsity shows. The bustle and murmur of voices, each one independently composing oneself for the competitions soon to fall upon them in the coming days. But for now, on that wintry January evening, it’s only a rehearsal.

          I take a deep breath, the rain from earlier that afternoon had long subsided, and the sun sits dormant in a hazy scarlet glow behind the mountains for the time being. Practice nights smelled like home. This one in particular amplified that feeling. The desert creosote, the dampened earth, and the puddles in the dented asphalt where we set up our space welcomed anyone and everyone. Scuffed silver flagpoles and old wooden rifles with chipped white paint would occasionally collide with the ground, making a well known and accepted clamor. If I listen a bit closer, I can hear the familiar shuffling of calloused feet leaping and cavorting on the rough ground beneath the tarp. As I exit my final stages of recovery from a mild illness the week before, I turn my attention to the little parts of the show that I missed. My teammates run this way and that, I smile at the laughter from the cold pink noses and ponytails. The instructors stand up to get our attention, signaling the start of varsity’s practice for what remains of the night.

          The two instructors that we look up to as not only teachers, but more so like family stand before us. They announced their predictable lines that were said at the start of nearly every practice: “Set from the very beginning, from the top of set one!” We were all well accustomed to it at that point in the season. The clatter of flags hitting the asphalt grew quiet as we made our way to our designated spots on the floor. My partner for the beginning of the show and I lay diagonal to each other on the rugged black tarp painted with white squiggles and swirls across it. The entire show plays in my mind like a movie on fast forward in the few moments I have left before it starts for real. A chilly breeze sweeps over me as I lay on my side with my right arm outstretched and my left arm curled in under the right side of my face. I had become ultimately desensitized to the fragrance of the floor, which was not exactly the most pleasant. It had a potent musk of quite literally, the blood sweat and tears that went into the ages of productions that were performed in seasons prior all on the tarp we’ve come to know and love as a guard. Although it was repainted and repurposed for each new program, it still served us well every time. The first chirpy notes of the song began abruptly, and the chill of the winter night faded out as the focus set in. 

          The nerve wracking tension of putting on a spectacular performance combined with keeping a beaming smile towards the invisible audience resulted in four minutes of aching exhaustion time and time again. Most of the program was muscle memory reflecting the countless hours we spent cleaning the features and perfecting every line. The coaches' continuous corrections and the counts of the music flooded the scene as we went like a hasty ocean current. Their voices echoed under the metal ceiling: straight arms, flat back, pointed toes, chins up. Things they’ve said a thousand times that we hear and correct in the moment and then continue on. Although my hands were like ice, I knew the smooth metal of the three flags that I used throughout the different parts of the show like I’d had them my whole life. I assumed it was the same for everyone else. The pavement underneath the tarp dug into the bare skin on our hands and feet, but the discomfort and occasional stab from a jagged stone was a common inconvenience that my teammates and I became professional at hiding with a smile. The brief encounters we had with one another during a run were simply flashes of vibrant cerulean blue and bright green similar to the hues of a flock of tropical birds. I knew the show like the back of my hand, and performing it felt as though it was over just as quickly as it began.

          Voices of our tired friends started to arise after our instructors praised us for our efforts and gave us the green light to begin our journey back to the band room. All of our synchronized steps and motions to sore muscles or new bruises took us back as a group to end the night. I took my first real breath of the night air after the program. It always burned our noses and lungs, but we knew nothing could surpass that feeling after a successful show. The bustle of my companions rolling up their silks and opening water bottles was muffled slightly. Some of us rushed to get home as fast as possible, probably to study or just to finally relax after the long day . I high-fived a couple of my beloved JV friends that stayed past their practice time just to cheer us on. Most of the rehearsal was focused on perfecting old mistakes, but an admirable execution of our hard work to end the night made every scrape, bruise, and broken nail feel worth it. I returned my equipment with my tired hands, and prepared to take my backpack back outside to meet my parents in the parking lot. (Took out sentence) Rehearsal is over, but the joyful energy from our practice night remains in our little space behind the school cafeteria, for us to come back to next time.