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The French Horn Case

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Picking up the French Horn case, my hands pushed it hard into its locker. The books I had put in there already crumpled as the strong case slid over it. I sighed from the effort that it took for my arms to pick it up over my head and push it in; heart beating slightly faster. My tired hands clasped the caged locker doors, and pushed it not ajar. The case looked as if it was in jail, because of the similarities between the door and the cell door. Eyes darting around the locker, I made sure that I had my music folder and my music book. Gadsden folder, check, and Essential Elements, check, I thought to myself. As soon as I made sure it was all there, my feet led me out of the brass locker room. It was almost time to leave the bandroom for sixth
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