A First

"Only Madison," I say as we walk through the doors, and the band director laughs and shrugs. His expression says, "You have a point," and I think, "At least he knows her."

But my assertion is not true. This gym and the halls and the classrooms turned competition rooms are filled with dozens of kids who could have just as easily clutched a sheet protector without realizing that the solo music had slipped out. It's just that it happened to her, more evidence that she lately seems charged like the polar ends of a magnet, repelling any and every thing of value. It must be some hormonal byproduct.

But today the search party adrenaline slips out of my system as she is rescued by a copier, and we make our way to the designated room. Her accompanist is there and no one else's is, so she plays early, without waiting, for the judge and me and a few other bundles of pubescent nerves. She plays easily and well, coming through when it matters. We applaud. I exhale.

In the minutes that we wait for her rating, we laugh at her band parent-concession stand breakfast of champions as she tells me of the check she may or may not have delivered and the thank you card she forgot to make. I question, but manage not to scold. And then we walk back to confirm what seems a given and see the "I" by her name for ourselves. This year she did it, and we are both proud.