It was the kind of cold that made you wonder if you had any body parts below your knees or elbows, the kind of cold that ripped apart your skin, the kind of cold that made you consider starting a fire using the technique you saw on TV one time when you were five.

I was huddled together for warmth with my fellow marching band members behind the bleachers of the football stadium, waiting for our turn to perform at our final competition of the season: East Kentwood. We were little orange and black penguins in our new uniforms, trying to conserve body heat and keep our instruments from freezing entirely. My silver plated trumpet was so cold that it hurt to hold it in my hands. I tried holding it between my legs, causing it to almost fall on the concrete. If it had landed, I feel like it would have shattered.

My best friend and section leader, Kylar, stood closest to me, clutching his gold plated trumpet close to his chest and rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. Just glancing at him brought back all of the memories we had made together. I choked down my tears; I figured if they fell they would freeze on my face. Kylar was a senior, and this was his last competition. My last competition with him.

“Are you ready for this?” I asked, standing close enough to could count each individual freckle on his face. There were a lot. The unmerciful wind whipped his bright orange plume this way and that.

“I don’t think so.” His sigh spiraled like smoke up into the air, and was whisked away by the next gust of wind. I put my arm around him, and he embraced me. I focused my eyes on a lock of his curly red hair, so similar to mine. Trying not to cry, I thought of all the brutal summer sectionals when Kylar pushed me to my limits. I remembered the games at band camp, when our stomachs hurt from all of the laughter, all of the late night conversations on the band bus that ended in tender and encouraging words. This was the end of all of that.

My mind pulled me back to one particular summer sectional in early August of my freshman year, when I didn’t really know Kylar that well yet. I noticed the stern expression on his sunburned face as he led us through yet another round of “marching suicides.” Marching forward and backward over and over again at 160 beats per minute was not anyone’s idea of fun, but Kylar’s, “You’ll thank me later” still rang in our ears.

The weeds in the field where we marched tickled my nose, and I could hear entire armies of insects attacking every inch of exposed skin. 

“1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, and back! 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, and forward! 1, 2, 3 …” Kylar’s voice pierced through the muggy August air, and when I thought I simply couldn’t take another step, I heard his call. “Band, ready, halt! Stab and close!” I stayed as still as I possibly could at attention, despite the fact that a mosquito was assaulting my mouthpiece. I still remember Kylar’s words to me at the end of that night: “You did a great job, I’m proud of you.”

I wish I could have some of that August heat right now, I think to myself, pulling away from Kylar’s embrace. I looked into his blue eyes just as the hail began to fall across my glasses, threatening to block my view of him altogether. The force of the wind almost took my words and sent them into oblivion. “Just give it all you got. Everything you have, put out onto that field today. All those hours of work need to shine in these next seven minutes.” I almost added, “That’s what you always tell me,” but I didn’t need to. Kylar knew, and his face quickly transformed into his trademark grin.

“I taught you that.” He laughed as he elbowed me. “Don’t forget when we’re out there today that I taught you everything you know.”

“I won’t ever forget.” My tears almost fell then, but I got distracted by our band director’s urgent cries.

“Get under the bleachers, guys! It’s coming!” I turned and saw the hail coming down even harder, and the noise of it hitting our buckets got annoying really quickly. Every rap on my head was a reminder of what we were about to do. “We’re still marching, so don’t even think about going home!” A fresh gust of wind blew through, and I could feel my plume threatening to pull itself right out of my bucket and fly away into the cold air above the football stadium. The hail was now mixed with snow, and the temperature seemed to drop again. I was seriously about to start looking for some twigs to make my fire when everyone started lining up to march onto the field.

“Now entering the field is the Dowagiac Chieftain Marching Band! Featuring soloists Isabella Ruiz on alto saxophone and Kylar Kinyon and Martha Schaller on trumpet!” Kylar looked back at us and held his trumpet up as a signal to stand at attention. He smiled at me in a way that made my throat freeze up. His slightly upturned lips and watering eyes said it all. It was the last time he would give us that signal. I took a deep breath to steady myself, then immediately regretted it. It was like sucking in the entire arctic tundra, and every breath I took after that was like inhaling a glacier.

Later I learned that the wind had been blowing at a whopping 30 miles per hour during our performance, and it was a miracle that the sousaphones didn’t drag their players down with them. The heavy bells swung back and forth with every gust, reminding me of a pendulum on the verge of breaking. Every step I took, I was afraid that I would crack my head open on the turf that was virtually frozen over. The hail harassing my trumpet was a constant bother and my glasses were in danger of falling off, but I shoved those worries to the back of my mind. I needed to do this, to give it all I had. For myself. And for Kylar.

To be honest, I don’t remember much of what happened during the performance (except for seeing my life flash before my eyes when a sousaphone player swayed so far to his right that the bell of his instrument almost hit my head). I do know those seven minutes were a few of the quickest in my entire life. That last command for horns down gave me goosebumps on top of goosebumps. Our drum majors clasped their hands at their sides, standing their ground, but their eyes gave them away. I could see their tears welling up and freezing on their eyelids and cheeks.

The snare drum tapped to lead us off the field, and I tried to take it all in even though my body was screaming at me to just run away to some place far away from here, some place warm. I wanted to go back in time, back to those days a year ago in August when I had my marching career with Kylar ahead of me, instead of behind me. The parents and supporters who braved the hail, snow, wind, and brutal temperature stood waving their blankets and cheering us off the field. I knew there were some tears in their eyes too. The snare drum kept tapping, and I thought I caught a whiff of hot dogs coming from the concession stand. I couldn’t feel my arms and legs at all, and I licked my lips, tasting blood.

Then I turned around, to where I knew Kylar was in the line. As he moved his trumpet in time with the drum, he caught my eye and smiled at me. When our eyes locked, I saw the near-frozen tears all over his freckled face. But seeing his smile melted something deep inside of me, and I felt a little bit warmer.

If there is one piece of advice I want you, the reader, to take away from this story, it’s to find someone who can make your heart melt even when it’s cold outside. So cold you wonder if you have any body parts below your knees or elbows, the kind of cold that rips apart your skin. And for goodness’ sake, learn how to make a fire. It might come in handy one day.