Kalyna's Song

by Lisa Grekul

  English picked up a bit after Halloween, when we finished Hamlet and started Who Has Seen the Wind? Mrs. Webster wasn’t too impressed, though, when I kept commenting on how the town in the novel has no little girls and no Indians. What kind of prairie town is that? Mrs. Webster said that W.O. Mitchell is one of the finest writers in this country and we should think twice before we criticize one of our own.

  Band class should be the best time of day for me. I should be Mr. Schultz’s favourite. But Mr. Schultz has never liked me. In fact, long before I stepped into his classroom, I knew that there would be trouble. For as long as I can remember, my dad has been locking horns with Mr. Schultz over the way that he runs the music program at Regional. Mr. Schultz doesn’t like me because he doesn’t like my dad. The problem is that – with the exception of the percussionists, who are allowed to use the school drum kit – band students are required to buy their own instruments. If they can’t afford to buy their instruments, they can’t take music. Period. Dad says that there’s more than enough money in the music account for Mr. Schultz to provide instruments for every single band student. Students could even rent instruments from the school for a nominal fee. Or Mr. Schultz could set up a rental program with National Music in Edmonton, and he could use the music account funds to subsidize students who can’t afford rental fees. Mr. Schultz refuses. Every so often, at monthly staff meetings, he and my dad get into arguments about it. Dad says that Mr. Schultz is needlessly prohibiting a broad segment of the student population from taking music. He says that Mr. Schultz is making music a class for well-off students only. He’s making it a class for the elite. Mr. Schultz says that he’s keeping the riff-raff out of his classes. He doesn’t want students in his class who think that music is a free ride. Anyone who is really serious about music will find the money to buy an instrument.

  I think Mr. Schultz is a hypocrite. His class is a joke. I’m the most serious student in class, by far. I’m also the best. I could easily teach the theory part of the class each week because the theory we learn in grade eleven band is the theory I learned from my old piano teacher Simone when I was in grade six at school. I should be section leader of the trumpets. I should be the guest conductor when Mr. Schultz is away and the substitute teacher doesn’t know how to lead the class. But I definitely shouldn’t be penalized for coming to class two or three minutes late. What could I possibly be missing?

  •••

  After Mr. Kaushal gives me the brochure for the United World Colleges, I race across the school to Mr. Schultz’s room, cutting through the courtyard that separates the Social Studies Wing and the Music Wing, brushing past Dad and J.Y. as they talk together outside the gymnasium. I would stop and say hello except that Mr. Schultz is dying to catch me coming late again. I won’t give him the satisfaction.

  He’s about to close the door to the Music Room when I come flying around the corner of the Music Wing.

  “Wait!” I yell. “I’m coming!”

  If Mr. Schultz doesn’t see me, I’m sure that he hears me. But he’s closing the door nonetheless – slamming the door, in fact. At the last second before the door shuts completely, I lunge forward, slipping my music folder between the door and the door frame. Mr. Schultz, shaking his head in disgust, is forced to let me in.

  In my most cheerful voice, I say, “Thanks, Mr. Schultz.”

  “Last time, Miss Lutzak. Last time.”

  Mr. Schultz’s voice is drowned out by the sound of the clarinetists and the flautists tuning their instruments, the drummer alternately tightening and whacking his snare. There are almost sixty students in our band class – fourteen clarinets, thirteen flutes, eight alto saxes, five tenor saxes. Some of our trombonists double as tuba players, depending on the piece we’re playing. We have three percussionists, one bass guitarist. In the trumpet section, there are four of us split into firsts, seconds, and thirds. Two second trumpets, one first trumpet, one third. I play third.

  As I take my place among the trumpets, Oliver Morgan waves to me from across the section. While I yank my music out of my folder – the words “3rd Trumpet” printed at the top of each sheet – Oliver starts on his inane warm-ups. He puckers and unpuckers his lips, massages his cheeks. Rolls his head clockwise, counter-clockwise, up, down. Then he swings his arms at the shoulder, as if to stretch them. All of this is done, I know, for my benefit. Oliver is in love with me. He’s all but told me so with looks and smiles. The warm-ups are supposed to impress me, dazzle me. Make me swoon.

  It’s not that I dislike Oliver, really. He’s smart in school, and he’s not bad looking – blond, blue eyes, nice build. In fact, Oliver could be prime boyfriend-material if he weren’t so eager to please Mr. Schultz. At the end of every band class, Oliver stays behind to straighten the chairs in the Music Room, to tidy the instruments in the storage room. At the beginning of every band class, he chats to Mr. Schultz about famous brass players, famous brass songs, famous brass recordings. In every piece for the last two years, Mr. Schultz has given the first trumpet part to Oliver, who can’t play to save his life. It’s a sort of running joke in band class, a joke that everyone is in on. Everyone except Oliver and Mr. Schultz.

  Today, we’re working on our Christmas repertoire for the Christmas Concert. We’ve been working on our Christmas repertoire since the beginning of September. As always, we start with “Christmas in Tijuana.” Featuring Oliver’s sixteen-bar trumpet solo. It’s bad enough I had to sit through him squawking it out last Christmas, now I’ve got to endure it all over again. Mr. Schultz resurrects songs to save time and, of course, to put on a good show for the town. Only two or three of our Christmas pieces are new to us; the others are songs we learned for last year’s Christmas concert. “Rudolph the Red-Necked Reindeer” and “The Rock ’n’ Roll Noel” – those are new. But the “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus/O Holy Night Medley” – that’s old. “Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus for Band” – old. “A Classical Christmas,” “The Christ-Child Samba,” “A Christmas Tribute to Elvis” – old, old, old.

  Midway through the “Tijuana” trumpet solo, Oliver quits his bleating. He’s lost his place. Again. That’s my cue. I’ve got the whole solo memorized and I play it in my head along with him so that when he falls apart I’m there to pick up the pieces. Mr. Schultz shuts down the band but I keep playing, all by myself.

  “Quiet!” Mr. Schultz shrieks.

  Oliver apologizes profusely.

  I roll my eyes.

  Thirty-six bars into our second run at “Tijuana” – just after the flute trills and before the trombone swell – Mr. Schultz stops us again. I know what’s coming. I brace myself.

  “Third trumpets!”

  Why does he say third trumpets when we all know that there’s only one of us? “What are you doing?” he bellows.

  When Mr. Schultz gets annoyed or angry, his German accent comes out. It sounds more like, “Vot are you doing.” I give Mr. Schultz my most blank, most innocent look. I bat my eyelashes. Oliver smiles at me sympathetically, oblivious to vot I’m doing. Oliver has no ear for music so he has no idea that I’m playing my thoroughly uninteresting, entirely uninspired third-trumpet line three times louder than I should. Once in a while, I play loudly like this to remind Mr. Schultz that I’m the best trumpet player in the band and that I’ve been unjustly relegated to the bottom of the trumpet section. He says that my attitude is the problem. But it’s hard to change my attitude when I’m stuck playing third trumpet. Two years in the high school band and I haven’t even been promoted to second trumpet.

  “Softer!” says Mr. Schultz.

  All right. You want zovter, I’ll play zovter. We start the piece over. This time, I play my trumpet so quietly that it can’t be heard over the other trumpets. I have marvellous control over my instrument. I can do anything with it. Mr. Schultz stops us again. He points his Nazi baton in my direction.

  “Miss Lutzak, play louder!”

  “Oh,” I say, trying my best to look confused. “I’m so sor
ry, Mr. Schultz, I thought you wanted me to play softer. My mistake.”

  “You will play at the proper volume or you will not play at all!”

  I generally know how far to push him. I behave myself for the duration of “Tijuana.”

  After “Tijuana,” we muddle our way through “Elvis.” Then “The Rock ’n’ Roll Noel.” We’ve been playing “The Rock ’n’ Roll Noel” for three months now and we have yet to get past bar twelve. It’s the alto saxes. They can’t actually read music. Most of them have chosen to play saxophone because it’s cool. And Mr. Schultz doesn’t much care if any them – if any of us, really – can read music, he just wants us to sound good at concerts. Like clockwork, he silences the band after bar twelve. Time for the saxes’ daily section work. Mr. Schultz walks them through their line, note by note, over and over again. A few more classes and they’ll have their part more or less memorized. Enough to fake it at the concert, at least.

  We’re not permitted to make a sound while Mr. Schultz does section work, though I’m tempted to play the sax parts on my trumpet. I’ve heard them play their lines so often that I’ve got them memorized. But Michelle Glynn got bawled out in grade ten when she started practicing her xylophone as Mr. Schultz worked with the tubas. Since then we’ve all kept quiet. To the left of me, Kerri-Lynn Stratford opens her chemistry textbook. The clarinets pass notes back and forth between them. Oliver does more lip exercises, glancing in my direction to see if I’m watching. I pull out the brochure that Mr. Kaushal gave me.

  Kerri-Lynn drops a note in my lap, onto the brochure. She’s written in the margins of her periodic table. Oliver + Colleen, it says. Kerri-Lynn watches while I read. I roll my eyes, she smiles. In the margins of the United World Colleges brochure, I write, Mr. Schultz + Oliver is more like it!!!

  As Kerri-Lynn and I giggle, I feel a hand on my shoulder. My heart stops.

  There is silence, suddenly, in the Music Room – absolute silence. The saxes have stopped playing, the rest of the students in the room have stopped shuffling papers. Mr. Schultz leans over my shoulder, reaching for the brochure in front of me; I slide my hand over my lap to cover it. Mr. Schultz tugs, I press down hard with my hand.

  “Release it!”

  “It’s private.”

  “Lift your hand!”

  As Mr. Schultz scans the brochure, I turn my head slightly to the left, making eye contact with Oliver – half-expecting Oliver to speak up and try to take the blame. But there is no time for anyone to save me. Mr. Schultz crumples the brochure in his hand.

  “Miss Lutzak,” he says, “you have disrupted my class for the last time. You will take your books, you will take your trumpet – you will take everything and leave!”

  Mr. Schultz’s words get louder and louder, like a crescendo; his face starts to turn purplish as he says, “unt leave.” In front of me, the clarinets and flutes have all turned around in their seats to watch what’s going on. To my left, the saxophones are all leaning forward in their chairs, cocking their heads to the right. It occurs to me that I have an audience.

  “Do you mean leave today’s class? You know, just leave for the day, or do you mean leave forever?”

  I smile sweetly at Mr. Schultz. He picks up my music folder and throws it across the room, scattering third trumpet parts across the floor.

  Oliver gets up from his chair to pick up the scattered music but Mr. Schultz orders him to sit down. While I pack up my trumpet, Mr. Schultz warns me that my parents will be receiving a call, and that there will be a meeting arranged by the principal of the school. I mutter under my breath as he talks, taking in only half of what he says.

  “Do you hear me?” Mr. Schultz yells. “There will be a meeting with the principal! Do you hear me?”

  Pausing at the front of the class, on my way out the door of the Music Room, I twirl around to face Mr. Schultz. But it’s like I’m facing Mr. Maletski and Mrs. Webster, too. All of them, all at once. What have I got to lose?

  “Yes,” I say, my eyes blazing. “Yes, I hear you, loud and clear. You’re talking about how much you’re going to miss me in the trumpet section. How much you’re going to miss sticking me with the worst parts; how much you’re going to miss boring me with the easiest, crappiest, least important lines. Yes! I hear you!”

  On my way out, I slam the door to the Music Room. My knees are trembling, and my lips, and my hands. I’m in real trouble now. I’ve never spoken like this to a teacher. Will I be suspended? Oh God. For all I know, the principal could expel me. I should probably go to Dad’s classroom, and explain the whole incident from beginning to end, so that he doesn’t hear about it second-hand in the Staff Room. He’ll be sympathetic, I’m sure. He doesn’t have any use for Mr. Schultz. But Dad still won’t like the idea of meeting with the principal about it. And Mom will be horrified. I should call her to warn her, so that she’s expecting the news when it comes.

  Of course, there’s nothing I can do now. No way to change what I’ve done, take back what I’ve said. I doubt that an apology would do any good. And – say I did apologize. Say Mr. Schultz let me back into class. I’d be right back in the third trumpet chair. Right back where I started.

  I’ll go to the convent. Sister Maria will make me feel better, I know it. We’ll share a pot of tea and she’ll give me cookies. The thought of sitting in her music room makes my hands stop shaking. A feeling of calm washes over me. Like everything will be okay.

  With a deep breath, then, I knock on the Music Room door – once, twice; when Mr. Schultz swings open the door, I nearly rap his forehead with a third knock.

  “That piece of paper you took from me. That brochure.”

  I square my shoulders and put my hands on my hips.

  “I want it back.”

  Six

  Sunday morning – six days to my UWC scholarship interview – and I’m on my bed with my guitar, sifting through my Original Compositions. I’m trying to find the perfect song for the scholarship committee.

  It’s Mr. Kaushal’s idea, actually, that I bring my guitar to the interview. I’ve played a few of my songs for him at school, and he loves them. He’s asked me to perform a few times for our social studies class, and for his other classes. For the annual Earth Day concert that he organizes each spring to promote environmental awareness. In the letter that he wrote to the scholarship committee, supporting my application, he spent three paragraphs describing how I use music to speak the universal language of love. Mr. Kaushal says that if I can find a way to sing for the committee, I’ll be a shoo-in.

  When I told Sister Maria about Mr. Kaushal’s idea, she was a bit skeptical. Not that she doesn’t like my guitar playing or my singing. She just thinks that I’m a better pianist, and that I’d have a better chance of getting the scholarship if I showcased my abilities as a piano player. Sister Maria might be right about my playing, but I can’t exactly take a piano into the interview with me. Even if I could, I don’t see why the scholarship committee would be impressed by my playing. I’m not trying to get into a music school. As far as I can tell, the United World Colleges are schools for hippies. I should wear a tie-dyed t-shirt, and Jesus sandals, and John Lennon sunglasses.

  Everyone, though, has a different idea about how I should prepare for the interview – not just Mr. Kaushal and Sister Maria. Wes tells me that I should work on coming across like I’m well-rounded, like I’m not just interested in music. He thinks I should talk about sports, maybe mention the Stanley Cup playoffs, or World Cup soccer. Sophie thinks that my number one priority should be my outfit. She comes home from university one weekend to take me shopping for new clothes. We go to a half-dozen dress shops in St. Paul before we find the perfect pants and the perfect shirt – not too dressy, not too casual; not too flashy, not too drab.

  My parents were more excited about my application at the beginning, before I got an interview. We looked through the brochure together, and they were thrilled with the whole idea of me going away for a year to live with kids my age
from around the world. The application itself wasn’t too hard. I had to fill out a few forms, then write a couple of essays about why I’d be a good uwc candidate, and what my future goals are. Mom and Dad read through drafts of my essays, and they thought they were excellent. They thought the whole UWC movement was a wonderful thing.

  On one of the forms, though, I had to rank the six colleges from 1 to 6 – from the place I’d most like to go, to the place I’d least like to go. That’s where the trouble started. Mom and Dad assumed that I wanted to go to the college in Victoria. Victoria is in Canada. It’s one province away from St. Paul. They could drive there to visit me. I could fly home on long weekends. But I made Swaziland my first choice, the college in southern Africa.

  Actually, I made Swaziland my only choice.

  I didn’t even bother ranking the other colleges. If I’m going anywhere, I want it to be as far away as possible; a place that’s completely different from St. Paul. I want to put the whole world between me and Mr. Schultz, me and Mr. Maletski, me and my friends. I don’t have anything in common with Tanya and Kirsten anymore. I want to see a part of the world that’s strange and exotic and new, where I can be a new person, spread my wings. I’ve learned a lot about South Africa from Mr. Kaushal. I know all about apartheid and the suffering of the black people. This is my chance to make a difference – leave my mark in a positive, meaningful way. Victoria would never do. I might as well stay home. It’s Swaziland or nothing. Swaziland or bust.