JERRY: "When I left him he said he would give me seven years of freedom and then he would come and he would carve my heart out, like those teenage soldiers in Sierra Leone. (beat) It's been seven years, exactly."

Fall 2007. A public high school in Dartmouth, Nova Scotia. BEFORE: A high school band classroom. Four students wait in their own worlds. They have their instruments out. TRUMPET: I joined band to meet girls. PERCUSSION: I joined band to meet girls. KEYS: I joined band because our school doesn't have a drama program. Or a choir. Or a dance team. TROMBONE: I didn't join band. They asked me to join because they didn't have any low brass and I already played for the Cadet Tri-Service Band, so I--THE OTHERS: We know. BARI: I asked to play trumpet but they said they already had one and "I look strong enough" so I should play bari sax. Now I drag this to school using like a luggage cart and a bunch of bungee cords. Guess who didn't get asked to semi? ALL EXCEPT TROMBONE: Me. A shift. TROMBONE: I'm taking this girl to Halifax who goes to different--THE OTHERS: We know. KEYS: Where is he? TRUMPET: Maybe he bailed. PERCUSSION: Maybe he's fallen into one of the parking lot potholes. BARI: They'll never find him. TROMBONE noisily empties the spit valve of his trombone onto some paper towel on the floor. KEYS pretends to throw up. TRUMPET: Where's everybody else? BARI: (Sucking on her reed.) Oh, this is one hundred percent it. TRUMPET: Shit, eh. (TROMBONE plays a wha-whaaa slide. It sounds like disappointment. PERCUSSION tries to spin drumstick.) PERCUSSION: What's the rules, if he's not here by quarter after we can go, right? And not get docked for it? KEYS: Where're you trynna be? PERCUSSION: Anywhere he isn't fucking spraying. (TROMBONE empties more spit.) BARI: Were we supposed to prepare anything? TRUMPET: No. This school's so fucking relieved to have some actual artsy stuff going on, we can't go wrong. We're doing them a favour. I can't even play the trumpet. PERCUSSION: Actually? KEYS: C'mon. BARI: (Still sucking on her reed.) Are you being serious? TRUMPET: It's three buttons. How hard can it be? (Everyone stares at him.) TRUMPET: Oh my GOD, I'm kidding. I play. (TRUMPET plays a few notes. It isn't good.) KEYS: This was a terrible idea.