into the Silent Song: Me & the Marching Bands Book 2

Chapter 1

[ January 1992 ]

The whispers started before the door even shut behind me. Every head in the band room turned.

“Who’s that?”

“Where’s he from?”

“What does he play?”

The room smelled like old carpet, valve oil, and nerves, mostly mine.

I kept my head down, as the school secretary nudged me forward like I was heading for a firing squad. She had walked me past the classrooms and into a big open commons area that was a cross between a food court and a lunchroom. We passed the choir room, a pleasant chorus of voices in tight harmonies carried through the door.

She said that I was going to love Mr. Brenner and the Band of Gold before she flung open the big metal band room doors.

***

“This,” she announced way too brightly, “is Wesley Wade. New student. Just moved here. Make sure to make him feel welcome.”

She beamed at the director’s  podium like she’d just handed over a winning lottery ticket. Then, without another word, she pivoted on her heels and disappeared back through the door, which slammed shut with a loud thunk behind her.

The room felt twice as loud in the sudden silence she left behind. Every band kid in the room was turned in their seats, necks craned to see the new kid.

I was standing in front of a full concert band, mid-rehearsal, no instrument in my hands, no music in front of me, and judging by the way everyone was still staring, no hope of slipping in quietly.

Mr. Brenner stood at the podium, a thick-set middle-aged man with a round face and a grin so relaxed it practically slid off his jaw. He wore a faded Hawaiian shirt tucked into khakis and loafers without socks. He looked like he’d gotten lost between a surf shop and a faculty meeting.

“Welcome, Wesley,” he grinned casually. “What do you play?”

“Trumpet, sir,” I responded.

“Trumpet, huh?” he said, eyeing me like a fisherman sizing up a new lure.

I nodded, too nervous to find my voice.

“Perfect,” Mr. Brenner said. “We can always use more brass in the family. Pull a seat off the chair stacks and set up in the arc back there. We’ll catch you up tomorrow once you’ve got your horn.”

Family.

I hadn’t expected to hear that word right off the bat. At Jameson, it had taken time to feel like I belonged. Marcus, Lisa, Jayla—they hadn’t just been section mates. They’d been friends I could count on, even when everything else felt new and sideways. I didn’t know if that would happen here. Maybe.

Hopefully.

“Yes sir,” I muttered, heat climbing up the back of my neck.

The sea of faces followed my anxious journey to the stack of chairs in the back of the room.

Don’t do anything stupid, Wesley. Don’t do anything stupid.

I reached the stack and gave the top chair a tug, only for the legs to catch on the one underneath.

The whole pile groaned and rattled like a bad roller coaster.

Perfect.

I wrestled it free with a loud metallic clang, cheeks burning hotter with every second.

Nothing to see here. Just the new kid setting a Guinness World Record for humiliation.

On the way back, I passed the trumpet players sitting at the top end of the trumpet row. Two guys who looked so alike they had to be twins sat there. Both athletic, lean but muscular. They wore fitted acid-washed jeans and muscle-thick arms giving them a relaxed but ready-for-trouble look. They wore matching confident grins and eyes that tracked me like a pair of hawks.

Another guy, sitting a few chairs down, caught my eye and gave a quick chin-nod. He had moppy brown hair styled in a messy bowl cut that flopped into his eyes every time he moved. He dressed like he didn’t care. Baggy Mickey Mouse tee. Old sneakers. His smile was easy, like he didn’t have anything to prove.

They all looked so at home here. Like this room already knew their names. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to disappear or ask to borrow some of that confidence.

I slid into the empty chair, wishing I had my trumpet to use like a shield.

So, this is what it’s like to be the new kid in the middle of the school year.

“Alright,” Mr. Brenner tapped his baton against the stand. “Let’s pick it up from letter C. Let’s hear some power, folks! Make it count!”

The baton went up. Instruments rose. The band took a collective breath.

And then chaos.

Whoa.

The music was supposed to be big, brassy, bold, soaring, and  triumphant. You could tell just from the first measures that it was written to sound like the opening of a parade or the crowning of a king.

But it sounded more like a choir of goats getting sideswiped by a flock of geese. Well… maybe not that bad.

But the trumpets blared with wild enthusiasm and not much precision. The percussion fought a losing battle against the tempo. The woodwinds squeaked and honked their way up and down their runs. The low brass rumbled along like a train threatening to derail any second. Most of them seemed to be hanging on for dear life.

If you can’t play it clean, don’t play it at all.

Granger’s voice echoed in my head. Not much risk of that here.

I blinked, heart sinking a little.

This is not The Sentinel Sound.

At Jameson, a cracked note meant dishonor and shame, or at the very least, a death stare from the director, which was worse. Halbrook expected, maybe even demanded, a kind of sacred respect for the rehearsal space, for the music.

At Voyager?

It seemed to be just part of the weather. The wrong notes. The fighting tempos. The squeaks and shrills.

Nobody seemed fazed.

Nobody even winced.

Do they hear themselves?

I leaned forward, pretending to study the worn sheet music on the stand in front of the last chair trumpet player next to me.

I could just make out the title: “Flourish for Wind Band.”

The rhythms moved fast. The melodies jumped up bright and high. It didn’t seem too technical, especially compared to the phrases and runs we had played in the Into The Storm show at Jameson. I knew they were supposed to be playing a ceremonial fanfare, something that wanted to be bold and magnificent. But it came out lurching and off-balance.

At least they’re trying.

***

After about twenty minutes of scrambling through wrong notes and chaotic cutoffs, Mr. Brenner finally waved his baton in a lazy arc through the air. The band cut off and horns came down.

“Alright, that’s it for today! Good work, everyone. Let’s work on those problem areas. See you tomorrow!”

The band exploded into rowdy chatter the second the words left his mouth. Somebody in the low brass section shouted, ‘Watch the tuba!’ right before a loud thunk rang out through the room.

A multitude of ‘oohs’ rose up like a choir, but Mr. Brenner had already gone into his office and shut the door so nobody yelled at anyone. No death stares. Nothing.

Flute and clarinet cases clicked shut. Sheet music flew into folders. Someone tossed a crumpled ball of paper across the room at the low brass section, earning a roar of laughter. Trumpets were packed into cases and slid into band lockers all around the room.

I guess one of those is mine.

I stayed in my seat, fiddling with the corners of my schedule, the introvert in me hoping someone would break the ice and say hey.

The twins nudged each other again, giving me another once-over. I caught a few whispered exchanges from the trumpet section, none of it mean or rude exactly, but they were definitely sizing me up.

“New guy’s gonna have to prove it,” one of the twins said, not even bothering to lower his voice.

I bit the inside of my cheek and stared harder at the paper in my hands.

The guy with the floppy brown hair wandered over, carrying his trumpet in one hand, a navy blue Jansport book bag slung casually over one shoulder.

“You from around here?” he asked, flipping his hair out of his face.

“Sort of,” I said. “Just moved. From Virginia.”

“No kidding. Big move. I’m Zach, by the way.” He stuck out a friendly hand.

I shook it.

“Wesley.”

“Welcome to the wild, wild Voyager Band of Gold,” he said, laughing. “You’ll like it here. Voyager’s got more heart than polish, but we make it work. You’ll fit in… Probably.”

I smiled. This time it felt real.

“Wesley? Wes?” Mr. Brenner’s voice cut across the clatter as students funneled toward the door. “Catch me after school tomorrow, would you? We’ll do a quick playing check.”

I nodded, heart picking up speed again.

The hallway outside filled with the low roar of students switching classes. I slipped my schedule into my pocket and slung my mostly empty bag over my shoulder, getting ready to find my next class. According to the schedule I’d been handed at registration, it was Physical Education.

More new faces. More things to get used to. But, I was hopeful. If Jameson taught me anything, it taught me that I could sail through any storm.

And tomorrow… tomorrow, I’d have my trumpet.

Tomorrow, I’ll get my shot.

Chapter 2

The rest of my first day at Voyager High had gone better than I expected.

PE turned out to be way less terrifying than it sounded on paper. I’d braced myself for pushups and running drills, maybe even some sadistic version of rope climbing like they showed in old movies. But instead, Coach Lancaster just tossed out a bunch of basketballs and told us to “find a hoop and shoot around.”

That, I could handle.

I ended up at one of the side baskets by myself, sinking a few free throws and pretending I didn’t notice the other clusters of guys forming up for half-court games. It wasn’t Jameson. It wasn’t Georgia. But it wasn’t terrible either.

The bus ride home had been just as uneventful. A few kids nodded off against the windows. Some passed notes. No one paid me any mind. No cliques eyeing me like an alien. No bullies waiting to pounce. Just a regular, creaky ride home.

Home?

That was still up in the air. First Georgia. Then Virginia. Now we were restarting here in Halley, Florida.

Halley wasn’t just a cute, little coastal Florida beach town. Half the town worked for the space industry in some way: NASA, the Air Force, or private contractors you weren’t supposed to ask too many questions about.

Even the air felt different, tinged with salt and jet fuel, like you could smell rocket science baked into the sidewalks.

When I stepped off the bus, the first thing that hit me wasn’t the humidity. It was the green.

Halley looked like someone had cranked up the saturation on a TV screen. The lawns were thicker. The trees leaned heavier into the streets. There were orange and grapefruit trees in almost every yard, and even though it was January, a few stubborn fruits clung to the branches like they had something to prove.

Our house sat on a sprawling lot at the edge of an older neighborhood. A faded orange brick ranch-style place, low and flat, with chipping paint around the windows and a front porch that was perfect for sitting and playing guitar on. But the backyard stretched almost into the woods, a wild mess of palms and tangled vines that looked like it belonged in a Predator movie.

Before school, standing at the bus stop, I had imagined three laser dots on my back. I was half-expecting a huge alien to lunge out of the trees and grab me. But nah. That was just in the movies.

Probably.

Later at home, the smell of cardboard boxes still clung to the air inside when I pushed open the front door. We were still living out of boxes. Mom hadn’t finished unpacking the kitchen yet, and Dad had given up even pretending to look for the toaster.

So we celebrated my first day of school in true high-class style. Taco Bell drive-thru: three tacos for me, three burritos and a handful of hot sauces for Dad, and a crunchy taco salad for Mom. Pepsi for all.

We sat around the folding table in the dining nook, laughing about how they’d mixed up Mom’s order twice, and for the first time since we’d moved, it almost felt normal again.

Dad wolfed down his third burrito and grinned across the table.

“Another meeting out at the Cape tomorrow,” he said. “New project starting. Big hush-hush stuff. Means a lot of long days for me.”

“That’s great, babe.” Mom smiled.

It was the first time in a while it sounded like Dad actually liked what he was doing.

My room was huge compared to the old place. Plenty of space for my keyboard, my trumpet stand, and the towers of cassette tapes I still hadn’t shelved. If nothing else, Halley came with a little more breathing room.

By the time I crashed into bed, I felt… not good exactly. But not lost either.

Maybe this place wasn’t going to be the worst thing ever.

***

[ Second Day at Voyager High ]

The next day started with less fanfare.

No secretaries marching me into class. No standing in front of a full band room feeling like a circus act. Just a normal, tired shuffle off the bus and into the main building with everyone else.

First period Biology came and went without incident. Introductions. New kid stuff. I got seated next to a cute blonde girl who didn’t notice me. Mr. Clark had assigned the class textbook reading the day before, so we spent the whole period doing a worksheet about mitosis. I did my best. I kept my head down and filled in the blanks, pretending not to notice the two guys at the next table arguing over whether amoebas had feelings.

Do they?

After Biology, I found myself drifting toward U.S. History with a little more hope.

History had always been one of the few subjects I actually liked with all the stories, wars, and crazy decisions made by people who should’ve known better. It was like reading an endless novel where nobody ever learned their lesson.

Voyager’s hallways felt a little less intimidating today. Bulletin boards flashed posters for Space Club meetings, rocket launches scheduled for spring break, and scholarships from companies with names that sounded like sci-fi villains.

I didn’t know anybody’s name yet. But I recognized a few faces now: the kid with the neon shoelaces, the girl who carried three spiral Trapper Keepers at once like they were a stack of giant pancakes, the heavyset guy who wore a jean jacket no matter what the weather was like.

Still… no friends.

Not yet.

I pulled open the door to Room 208 and hesitated for a second just inside the threshold.

The room smelled faintly of old wood, pencil shavings, and that weird waxy floor cleaner every school seemed to use.

Rows of wooden desks. State flag hanging crooked by the clock. A big poster of Abraham Lincoln taped above the whiteboard with a quote in big block letters:

“Whatever you are, be a good one.”

Mr. Ellery, the history teacher, was already at the podium, flipping through a big yellow roll book. He was mid-thirties maybe, dressed in khakis and a Voyager polo shirt, with a little bit of a surfer vibe despite his receding blonde hairline.

I was there before most of the class. I handed him my schedule.

“Great, Wesley… Wade is it?” he said with a warm smile. “Find an empty seat anywhere. We’re about to get rolling.”

I slid into the open desk near the middle, not really paying attention to anything beyond the weight of my backpack and the too-cold AC vent blasting straight at my neck.

That’s when she walked in.

She had this calm way of moving, like she didn’t need to announce herself because the room would figure it out anyway. She wasn’t flashy. No loud accessories, no dramatic entrance. Just jeans, a hoodie tied around her waist, and a notebook with doodles already crawling up the spine.

She slid into the seat beside me and offered a quiet smile.

But it was her eyes that caught me.

Hazel green, like leaves after a storm. Not bright. Not glowing. Just… deep. The kind you don’t forget because they don’t look past you. They look into you. Like they’re studying something you’re not sure you want seen, but also don’t want hidden.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey,” I answered, probably too fast.

She had dark brown hair pulled back into a messy ponytail and a T-shirt that said Cape Canaveral 5K Fun Run in faded letters across the front. The logo showed a rocket trail curling around a cartoon Earth. They really loved their space stuff there. She wore jeans with little scuffs on the knees and a pair of beat-up white Keds.

Friendly smile. Easygoing posture.

“You new?” she asked, twirling her pencil between two fingers.

“Yeah,” I said. “Wesley. Just moved.”

“Marissa.” She nodded like she already knew that.

Mr. Ellery banged an actual gavel on the podium at the front of the classroom.

“Alright, listen up! We’re starting group work today. You and your partner will be responsible for one major event leading up to the American Revolution. Presentations next week.”

Partner up?

Around the room, a collective groan rose up like smoke. A few kids immediately paired off—loud ones with loud ones, the quiet ones scanning the room like deer caught in headlights.

I caught myself glancing at Marissa, wondering if I should say something—

“Ya wanna be partners?” she asked. “It’ll be easier that way. Plus, nobody else in here actually reads the assignments.”

She said it like it was a proven scientific fact, not an insult.

I laughed under my breath.

“Yeah. Sounds good.”

“Cool.”

A friend!

Everyone turned their desks toward their partners. Marissa scribbled her name at the top of a sheet of notebook paper and slid it across the desktops between us. I liked the way her cursive handwriting looked like the way she sounded when she said it.

Marissa.

“You want to do Boston Tea Party or Lexington and Concord?”

“Lexington,” I said. “More shooting. Less tea.”

Mr. Ellery handed out a worksheet on the Declaration of Independence, probably just to keep us quiet until the bell. Marissa had a pencil in one hand and a red Skittle in the other, like she wasn’t sure which one she trusted to get her through the next five minutes.

“You always walk around with headphones on?” she asked, not looking up.

“Sometimes.” I shrugged. “Depends.”

“What’s playing in there? Please say it’s not Bon Jovi.”

“Mostly trumpet stuff. Some Miles Davis. A little Wynton. Sometimes I sample it and mess with it. I’ve got a keyboard that’s a sampler that I—”

Now she was looking directly at me. Her head was tilted, eyes squinted like she was trying to read a subtitle that didn’t match the movie. It caught me off guard.

“—Trumpet and keyboard.” She said, chewing the Skittle. “Nerdy and futuristic. I respect that.”

I wasn’t sure if it was a compliment, a burn, or both. But I didn’t hate it.

She laughed, a bright, quick sound, and I felt some of the tightness in my chest loosen.

Friend.

I didn’t know why that word felt different this time. Maybe it was the way she looked at me. Not through me, not past me, but at me. Like I mattered.

The thought felt lighter than I expected. It was like shrugging off a weight I hadn’t realized I was carrying.

Marcus would’ve been proud. He always said I needed to branch out more, especially when it came to talking to people who didn’t already know all my bad jokes. Lisa and Jayla would probably rag me about it. Trey would be celebrating as if Marissa and I had already gotten married.

But to me, she was a friendly face. A warm resting place in a place that still felt cold and unfamiliar.

A girl friend, not a girlfriend. Definitely not that. But a real friend, maybe.

That counted for something.

Chapter 3

Algebra II with Ms. Johnson felt like getting dropped into the deep end of a pool without a life jacket. She was one of those teachers who believed “good morning” and “what’s the answer to number five” were basically the same thing. No smiles. No warm-ups. Just math.

I took a seat near the back and copied down the problems from the board, watching out of the corner of my eye as a group of football players turned the back row into a comedy club. Ms. Johnson didn’t even blink. She just kept scrawling equations like she’d seen it all a thousand times.

After Algebra, I found a seat at one of the round lunch tables around the edges of the commons area, trying to act like I wasn’t looking around. The commons area smelled like hot grease, mop water, and whatever the cafeteria was trying to pass off as ranch dressing.

Kids clustered in groups: athletes in the center, band and choir kids against the windows, a few loners orbiting the edges like satellites.

Nobody looked twice at me, which was fine. Invisible was better than being a target.

I picked at my soggy pizza and watched the clock crawl until band class.

***

I waited outside the band room for a minute, fiddling with the zipper on my book bag. I was nervous about the playing check.

Back at Jameson, playing checks had been a military operation, down the lines, one by one, no mercy.

Praying you didn’t mess up in front of everyone.

Here?

I had no idea what to expect.

After that I sat through Concert Band without playing again, and sweated my way through PE.

***

I was still getting my bearings around the school hallways when I heard a familiar voice behind me.

“Fancy seeing you here.”

I turned and there was Marissa, putting a textbook into her locker, a bag of Skittles in her hand.

“You lost?” she asked.

“Always.”

“Well at least you’re consistent.” She grinned.

I smiled, kind of surprised she remembered me outside of history class.

“Still learning where all my classrooms are,” I said. “At least I get to start my days with Biology.”

“Gotta love Biology, right?” Marissa asked, smiling.

“Yeah,” I said. “I guess the teacher’s pretty cool. I sit next to this blonde girl who I think must’ve thought I was a ghost.”

“Ha,” Marissa laughed out loud. “Let me guess… Ash?”

“Ash?” I blinked. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t think I exist in her universe.”

“Yeah,” Marissa mocked. “Blonde. Pretty and knows it?”

“I think so.”

“Yeah, that’s gotta be Ash.” she said slightly bothered. “You headed to band?”

“English, actually.”

“Reading and writing does a body good,” she joked. “I gotta run.”

She gave me a quick wave and peeled off toward the stairwell like she had somewhere to be. I stood there for a second too long, slightly dumbfounded that Marissa had even noticed me at all.

***

After English it was Study Hall. Bell. Done.

I didn’t see Marissa the rest of the day.

But her voice kept showing up anyway.

Not her words, just the rhythm of them. The way she said “It’ll be easier that way” stuck in my head like a line I couldn’t stop replaying.

It wasn’t anything big. But it lingered.

And somehow, in a place where I didn’t know anybody, that kinda felt like something.

Today wasn’t over yet.

I had one more thing to do, and it felt bigger than anything I’d done all day.

The playing check with Mr. Brenner.

The building cleared out fast after the last bell.

Lockers slammed. Sneakers squeaked. Voices and laughter floated down the breezeways and out into the parking lot.

I lagged behind, my trumpet case in one hand, the strap of my backpack digging into my other shoulder.

The band room door stood half-open, humming faintly with the leftover echoes of the day.

Inside, the band room felt almost hollow.

Empty chairs sat in curved rows facing the director’s podium. A couple of percussionists were still packing up sticks in the back corner. Somebody plunked random notes on the piano in the ensemble room next door, the sound muffled by the cinder block walls.

Mr. Brenner stood by the podium, scribbling something onto a clipboard. He looked up as I entered.

“Hey, Wes,” he said, waving me over. “Glad you made it. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

I set my case on an empty chair and flipped open the latches. My trumpet gleamed under the fluorescent lights. Well, gleamed was a generous word. It was clean, but definitely not shiny like the newer horns some of the other players had. Still, it was mine. A birthday present back when I thought moving states was the biggest thing that could ever happen to me.

I pulled the horn out, ran a quick cloth over the valves, and took a deep breath.

Everything from Jameson kicked in without thinking.

Stand tall. Shoulders back. Horn at a proper angle. Breath from the diaphragm.

Mr. Brenner grinned like he could see the muscle memory firing behind my nerves.

“Warm up a little,” he said, pulling a music folder off the podium and flipping it open. “No rush.”

“Where’d you move from?” Mr. Brenner asked casually, flipping through some paperwork.

“Virginia,” I said, buzzing a few notes into the mouthpiece.

“Ah, good music programs up that way,” he said. “You march corps?”

“No, sir,” I said. “Just school band. A lot of band.”

He grinned like that was the right answer.

I brought the mouthpiece to my lips and buzzed a few low tones, letting the vibrations settle in my chest. Slurred up a few octaves, loosened the fingers. Let the horn breathe with me.

“Let’s start with your Concert B-flat scale. Two octaves if you’ve got em.”

Easy.

I did have them and I played them without a problem. It did get a little tough at the top, but I just muscled my way through the higher part of the scale before coming back down smoothly.

“Ok, very nice.” He sounded impressed.

I nodded.

“Now a chromatic scale,” he said. “Your low G to G above the staff.”

Got it.

I played the scale climbing in half steps over two octaves until I soared to the top. Then I descended back down the ladder until I rested on the bottom low G.

“Excellent, Wesley.” His eyes seemed to be eager to hear me attempt sight reading.

Mr. Brenner handed me a sheet of music from the stand.

Nothing fancy, just an excerpt from one of the concert pieces they were working on: “Flourish for Wind Band.”

“Pick it up from letter B,” he said. “Whenever you’re ready.”

I nodded. Swallowed. Set my feet.

And played.

The notes tumbled out, bright and full and clean.

It wasn’t perfect. I cracked one high note, but it felt good. Solid. Steady.

Better than I’d even remembered feeling back at Jameson.

Mr. Brenner nodded along with the beat, a slight bounce in his loafers.

When I cut off cleanly at the end of the phrase, he gave a soft whistle through his teeth.

“Man, I like that sound,” he said, smiling wide. “You’ve got some good chops on you. Solid control. Nice tone, too.”

I lowered the trumpet, heat climbing into my face.

“Thanks,” I muttered.

“You’re gonna fit right in,” he said. “In fact, how would you feel about joining the Jazz Band?”

“Really?” I blinked.

“Yeah,” he chuckled. “We’ve got an empty trumpet spot. And with your tone and range, you’d be a great addition. I’ll send a note up to the office tomorrow. We’ll get your schedule switched out. Drop PE and add Jazz. Sound good?”

I didn’t expect it to feel like this. Not just relief at being asked to be a part of something, but feeling like I mattered.

“Yeah,” I said again, louder this time. “Yes, sir.”

It sounded very good.

Mr. Brenner slapped the clipboard against his thigh with a grin.

“Alright. You’re all set. Bring your horn tomorrow. We meet fifth period, right after Concert Band. Get ready to swing, Wes.”

I nodded, still a little stunned, and packed up my trumpet.

The parking lot was almost empty now, just a few battered pickups and faded sedans waiting for their drivers.

The sun hung low over the rooftops, spilling gold across the cracked asphalt.

Beyond the campus, rows of skinny palm trees leaned into the breeze, their fronds whispering in the sticky Florida air.

Somewhere past all that, past the neighborhoods and the long causeways, the Cape was out there, hidden for now.

I could see Mom in the Ford Taurus across the lot.

The salt on the breeze stung my nose, and for the first time since we left Virginia, it didn’t feel wrong.

It just felt… different.

Different could be good.