By the time we got to the middle of the week, none of us ever thought of worrying about a health problem. The only person we were thinking about was our band instructor. By this time he had been in and out for weeks. He was out again, and no music substitute to guide us. So we took matters into our own hands and the whole band instructed itself. Two seniors helped us, a band of probably 17 or more people. Me? I was no bother. I was a Junior in the back playing the loudest and heaviest set of percussion ever: Tympanis. 

I wasn’t ever front and center directing the band, but I felt the stress of trying to learn music for a concert two months away; we were learning so slowly, too slowly. We were still making progress up until that one day that will probably go down in my memory as one of the scariest moments in my school career.

One set of lights were on, it was at least several minutes before we went to lunch, and our senior drummer was getting some percussion instruments out of a large locker beside my set. The room, usually filled with side conversations in between practicing, was dying down to silence and murmurs. We both heard some conversation about calling someone. Calling the nurse? The senior drummer turned around and asked, “Sorry, what happened?”

I turned, too, to find two girls at the classroom’s phone looking to and fro,  panicking. The rest of the room filled in my view, the rest of my bandmates were circled around a trumpet player in a trance. His trumpet was in his lap, he was looking down, shaking subtly. He was unresponsive to everything around him. I called his name, twice or three times. The pitched- percussionist calmed me down. None of us knew what was going on with him. The substitute called the nurse instead, and we were all asked to leave the classroom. I grabbed my stuff and trudged out with a million thoughts banging against my brain. Was that a seizure? Why wasn’t he moving? Is he going to fall on his head and pass out? The other students moved chairs away from him, leaving the trumpet player senior on an isolated chair in the middle of the room.

Once I got outside, his sister was sobbing and being comforted by a clarinetist.  The whole hallway was silent. I sat on a choir riser and cursed the silence – it was too loud. The birds in the courtyard behind us were muted. I quietly begged for someone to speak. The tension was so great, it suffocated every living thing in that area, from bacteria on the floor, to the tallest student in the band. I walked up the ramp to potentially call attention to a staff member, but my impending tears choked me. I walked back to my spot defeated.

Worry, uneasiness, dark predictions and prayers were capital in that long moment. I didn’t want him to go to the hospital. I didn’t want to see any kid go to the hospital. I wanted this silence to stop. The nurse is already in there, why no news? Something has to happen. A word, any sound at all would relieve me. Someone, speak! My mind pleaded with a weak apostrophe. Speak! I walked back up the ramp again, and didn’t look back. There were no staff members in the hallway again. I lost hope trying to get extra help. I don’t exactly know how long it lasted. It felt longer than the usual lockdown drill. More silent than that. I could hear my heart pumping blood through my body. It was beating faster than a drum roll. I glared around the room, everyone was standing like statues. The doors to the band room were shut. I felt like the worst was here.

 Suddenly, the doors opened. The nurse escorted the trumpet player out the door casually. He looked normal with his hands in his hoodie, smiling. The atmosphere was finally thin again, and everyone let out a gasp. He later quipped that it was an anxiety attack. I knew anxiety was a common thing among teens, but I didn’t ever think that it would be this extreme. This memory has been stuck with me for a while, and I don’t know why it was so poignant. I barely did anything to help, but my heart was full of empathy. I am glad he is alright.