Look at you, strutting around the practice field like you own the place. Your Nike-clad feet slap the ground in a perfect roll-step, your body so in tune with the music that you�re almost a part of it. The aggressive precision of your steps shines in comparison to that rookie trombone player next to you--next to everyone else in the band, really--and you know it. You may be arrogant in calling yourself the king of the low brass section, but there�s no denying that�s what you are. You�re finally a senior, on the top rung for a short while, and you�re making the most of it. Your reputation for overblowing does not shame you; it makes you proud. So you stand there on the practice field, blowing your heart and soul through the cool metal mouthpiece while the sun glitters off your silver instrument, and you�re so loud I want to cover my ears, and you�re so beautiful that I�m helpless to stop the little shivers going up my spine. Then our director waves his arm, stopping the band, and begins to instruct us while the drum major smiles at you, thanking you for strong counting. You grin a little bit (my stomach clenches with involuntary jealousy) before returning the proper attention to the director, standing rigidly, face intent, baritone cradled safely in your arms. I lean against the xylophone, trying to pay attention but mostly forcing myself not to stare at you. It�s time to run the show again, one more time before we can go back in the building. I twirl my sticks awkwardly while you fall into line with the others, silent as usual in the midst of everyone�s bantering. The drum major calls us to attention, and as you raise your horn to your lips I discover that it is possible to be jealous of a piece of metal. I want to run out in the middle of the field, grab you (shoving your instrument aside, of course, I wouldn�t harm it), and kiss you with two years worth of pent-up frustration and love, but instead I just grip my mallets and bash them against the wooden keys. I can play my part to near perfection now... did you notice? I noticed at the away game last Friday, when you were the only one not to mess up your solo, but I didn't say anything because what's the point? You don't need me to tell you you're good. You don't need me at all.