You are sitting in band practice and it is hot and sweaty and smells like spit. Clarinet sounds bad in the hands of unpracticed eleven year olds because, honestly, what doesn’t? But you think that what’s especially wrong is all the squeaking. You are regretting your decision to play clarinet because in third grade your friends had decided (without you) that clarinets are cool but you were never into wind instruments because they always seemed a lot harder than, say, a snare drum. You did not mention any of this to the group. That should have been a sign that none of this was going to work out.

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     Another sign was the time all four of your friends left you playing on the dumb Yellow Playground while they ran off, coordinated and giggling, to the better one. That was personal and it stuck with you through the turn of fourth to fifth grade, and you’re still clinging to it now. They did it because they didn't want you to follow. You wish they knew that now, given the chance, you wouldn’t have wanted to follow all on your own. 

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     Three chairs down, the girl you hate especially most is squeaking her way through an unearned solo, clawing at her clarinet like a taloned monster. The unholy sound that she is making is almost as horrible as her bright red hair and it hurts your eyes just the same. The bombardment of noise is cut off by your teacher raising his hands in a plea. It’s desperate, the fear in his eyes, and you understand him all too well. He makes her take a break, you thank God, but you know that you are only marginally better. At least you know to only mime the high notes. 

He tells the rest of you to take the song from the top.

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     You do. Instead of concentrating on the sheet music, because honestly, who can tell the difference between what’s written and the horrible performance your class is giving, you think about the Friend You Hate Especially in her true form. A monster. You imagine that she wouldn’t look too different, except her bright pink chipped acrylics would fit her better as claws, and you’d bet that when she spoke, all that would come out would be her terrible clarinet. Maybe she wouldn’t talk too much if her voice was annoying. However, you reasoned, her voice was annoying now and that didn’t stop her. Maybe she was already a monster. 

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     You are brought back to the present by the throbbing of your thumb. It’s starting to hurt in the area of contact between it and the back of the clarinet. And you are livid not only because of that but because everything is horrible and sweaty and smells like spit.