Delayed 30 minutes. That makes the original 8 hours left 8 and a half. Except it’ll probably end up being more like 10. This is a band contest after all.

Mason is asking me what I’m doing. So I explain the entire concept of observations to him. He didn’t know I was in journalism.

It’s so humid. Like the sticky, you-can-feel-the-water-in-the-air humid. I move my fingers around to feel the moisture as I type this. I’m surprised my hair bun has stayed as tight as it has.

All 300 of us are crammed on the stairs. The announcer told us to go down here because of lightning threats. So everyone is sitting here, sweating it up, our dark grey shirts turning black.

It’s disgusting.

All I can smell is band. Stale water and boy sweat and valve oil. It’s a very specific smell. I’d know it anywhere.

Maybe it’ll rain and they’ll cancel finals. I doubt it, though. If there’s one thing band is known for, it’s that they’ll stick it out no matter what.

Whatever it takes.