“I hate that I’m not wearing my hat.”
It was terrible to not be able to wear the hat like she was supposed to when in uniform, but the roof of the cab was just too low. For want of a nail, thought Helena, the kingdom was lost. You took off your hat to fit inside a cab, and next you’d leave it behind, and then somebody else in the marching band would take their hat off to match you and keep the line balanced, and then soon there would be no hats and no standards at all. Dyed and messy hair making a rainbow, uniforms half on and half off, each line drifting to follow each individual’s musical expression, and soon it wouldn’t even be a marching band at all. It would just be a bunch of hung over musicians who’d stumbled into the same field. At least she still had her clarinet in her hands, at the ready.
The boy next to her tried for the umpteenth time to pretend he wasn’t looking at her hands, but his pursed lips, furrowed brow and the way his nose stood aloof as he glanced out of the corner of his eye gave him away. Or maybe it was the smell of the cab giving him the universal expression of someone who has smelled something terrible but would really like to avoid commenting on it. He could have made some sort of comment in response to her outburst about her hat though, thought Helena to herself, if only to be polite. Catching his gaze on her fingers again Helena adjusted her sweaty grip on the clarinet and nervously ran over her fingering one more time. Maybe that was what was so interesting, that she could deftly work each key independently. Why hadn’t she just put the clarinet back in its case before leaving her room? Continue reading “Helena and Her Stupid Hat”
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