My cousin's daughter, Sayaka, spent her junior year in a small city in Missouri. In Japan, she had played the clarinet in her school band for five years. Japanese school band is not a hobby. You practice 365 days a year. You bow to the music room when you walk in. Smiling during a concert is considered a little suspicious. The Missouri band did not need a clarinet. It needed a sousaphone. So on her second day, a sophomore named Colt wrapped a giant brass snake around a 95-pound Japanese girl and said, "You'll grow into it." She did not grow into it. She learned to march under it. Band camp was in August. In Missouri. Outside. She said the air felt like a wet dog was sitting on her. The tuba section had a name, a secret handshake and a rubber chicken that rode the bus to every away game. Nobody could explain the chicken. It was older than all of them. They didn't bow to their instruments. They named them. Hers was Gordon. At football games, the band yelled at the football team, the football team yelled back, and nobody could ever tell her who started it. Sometime in October, she stopped finding smiles suspicious. At the last home game, the halftime show was different. The band director only told her where to stand. Step here. Turn here. Stop here. She played her part, under Gordon, eyes on her music. From the field, you can't see the shape you're in. She found out later, from the drone video. A hundred and twelve kids had spelled one word across the 50-yard line. SAYAKA. She was the third A. She's back in Japan now, playing the clarinet again. Quietly. Perfectly. Like a professional. Her clarinet is named Gordon II.