by David Klass
Norman tilts his jaw, opens his mouth to a circumference that seems somehow wider than the total girth of his head, and tries to cough his way out of his dilemma with a throat-rattling tonsil-grinding explosion unlike any I have ever heard before. The soles of my feet actually feel the floor of our classroom vibrate.
But Mrs. Moonface is not impressed. I believe that the trumpet blast that shook down the walls of Jericho would not prevent her from demanding an answer to her antifreeze question. “Norman, I’m waiting for an answer and I’m running out of patience. I’m going to count to three.”
At this moment, a very strange thing happens. A most remarkable occurrence takes place. In my attempt to avoid making eye contact with the doomed, I have been looking away from Norman. At first I gazed on the lovely form of Glory Hallelujah, but lest she feel like I am staring at her, my eyes drift past her lovely countenance and, for lack of anything else to fix on, gaze blankly at the algebraic nonsense that Mrs. Moonface has written on the blackboard.
I am not thinking about antifreeze and mixture equations. I am thinking about Friday night, and what it will be like to pick Gloria up at her house, and how it will feel to take her soft hand in my own when we cross busy intersections. Suddenly I find that I am not only looking at the equations on the blackboard but actually understanding several of them. And then, to my horror, I find my right arm beginning to rise.
I try to clamp it to my side. It disobeys. With a supreme effort of will, I manage to halt its progress for several seconds, but then it breaks free and begins to rise again of its own accord. “Down, boy,” I hiss, “get down,” but my arm is already at a dangerously exposed angle, and soon, despite my very best efforts, my right hand is pointing toward the ceiling.
Mrs. Moonface sees my arm go up, but she ignores it because she knows that I cannot possibly have a contribution to make in this anti-math class. “Norman,” she says, “I’m losing patience.” But what she is really saying to him is: ‘A big fat ‘F’ for class participation in algebra is about five seconds away, and there is nothing you can do about it.”
While she torments Norman, Mrs. Moonface is giving me valuable time to recover, but I simply cannot get control of my rebellious limb. In desperation, I attempt to make a deal with my right arm. “Lower yourself, and I will buy shirts with lovely long sleeves. Lower yourself, and I will always sleep on my left side, so the weight of my body never rolls over on you.”
But not only does my right arm not accept the bribe—it actually begins to wave back and forth. Even Mrs. Moonface cannot ignore this. “John,” she says, “you may go to the rest room.”
I attempt to rise and exit, but to my shock my knees have taken up the rebellion. They do not swing out from under the desk and rise. Instead, my lips open and I hear my voice saying, “Thank you, Mrs. Gabriel, but I do not need to use the bathroom.”
“Then what do you want?” she asks, annoyed.
“I wish to make a mathematical observation.”
There are some laughs in the back of the class.
“Is this some kind of joke?” Mrs. Moonface asks.
I am fighting a losing battle to lock my lips and keep my vocal cords from twitching. My entire body is now in open rebellion. “No,” I hear myself say. “It’s just that Norman cannot possibly answer your question.”
“Oh? And why is that?”
“Because I believe you have made a calculation mistake in one of the examples you have given us.” The room has now gone completely silent. “Specifically, in example two, the third line of the solution. The two sides of the equation do not add up equally. No doubt this error is the source of Norman’s confusion.”
Norman makes a noncommittal sound deep in his throat. What he is saying is: “If you are right, and you save me from this antifreeze problem, I will follow you around for the rest of your life on my knees, knocking my head to the pavement at suitable intervals, but if you are wrong, prepare to meet your maker.”
Mrs. Moonface’s face turns so pale that I believe all the blood in her body has drained down to her big toe. “I don’t think I made a mistake,” she says, her eyes narrowing. “But let me check.” She turns back to the blackboard. Seconds tick by. The classroom is totally silent, except for Norman Cough’s deep, frightened breaths. Finally, slowly, she half turns back to face us and says, “Yes, yes, you’re right, there is a mistake. Thank you, John, for catching it.”
As she corrects the mistake, I hear something I have never heard before. It sounds like a breeze whistling around in the corners of the room. It takes me a second to realize what it is. Applause. My classmates are clapping for me.
Mrs. Moonface repairs her error. She turns back to us, breathing fire. “There, I have fixed the example, and now, Norman, why don’t you answer the antifreeze problem?”
But, just as the word “problem” escapes from her lips, the bell rings signaling the end of the period. “I would like to,” Norman tells her, “but I have to go to my next class now. I don’t want to be late. Sorry. Maybe next time.” And so saying, Norman gathers up his books and exits the classroom at the speed of light.
We all follow him out. I myself exit behind Glory Hallelujah, who gives me an admiring smile. The applause is still ringing in my ears as I smile back.
10
The Best day of My Life Gets Better
I am sitting in band practice, holding on to my tuba that is not a tuba, thinking that glee felt good for as long as it lasted. I sense I am in deep trouble now.
Not just because the giant frog who is posing as my tuba is in an unusually lethargic mood, whatever that means. He is either asleep or dead. Not just because we are about to get a new piece of music, which I will presumably not be able to play at all, since I have never been able to play any of the old pieces of music.
I surmise that I am in deep trouble because Mr. Steenwilly keeps looking at me.
Mr. Steenwilly, surely there are other directions you can direct that rather piercing gaze of yours. Surely your mustache can quiver at another member of our band family. Now that you have mounted that silly wooden podium in front of the band, from which you conduct, I suggest you turn your attention to Violent Hayes, who has succeeded in establishing what I believe in professional wrestling circles is termed a Mongolian death lock on the monitor lizard that is posing as her saxophone.
Mr. Steenwilly, why are you not starting to conduct? Why do you not wave your arms around and conjure music from silence? Why are you smiling and clearing your throat, and stealing one last look at me?
“It is time,” Mr. Steenwilly announces grandly, as if making a proclamation of biblical magnitude, “for a new piece of music by Arthur Flemingham Steenwilly.” He pulls a sheaf of papers out of a leather folio, hesitates, and then lowers his voice to a near whisper. “It’s not for me to say it, my friends and students, but I think this is my best work, and may well be what I am remembered for in years to come. I am proudest of the tuba solo, which I expect John to make shimmy and shine like an April rainbow.”
There are audible laughs from several of the less polite members of our band family. Unfortunately, I must agree with these skeptics.
Mr. Steenwilly, I am very sorry, but I do not believe there will be any April rainbows today in our band room. There may be a November sleet storm, but that is as close as I am likely to come. Why don’t you just get it over with and call the music police, and cart me away to the band gallows. “Guilty,” the high music judge will say, “of murdering each and every note in the Steenwilly masterpiece. String him up.”
But the music police do not arrive to cart me away in their van. Instead, I find myself flexing my fingers in some improvised and ridiculous fashion, as if I am warming up for a new Olympic event in competitive origami. The giant frog in my arms is slumbering peacefully and evinces no signs whatsoever of life. I believe that he has sunk to the bottom of whatever pond he thinks he lives in, and has entered some sort of hibernatory state.
Mr. Steenwill
y begins distributing the different musical parts to the different band sections, and when he hands mine to me, he winks, his mustache quivers, and he whispers, “Do me proud, John.”
I am afraid to look at this piece of music. But I am also aware that it is pointless even to try to play music without actually looking at the notes. So, with trembling hands, I turn Mr. Steenwilly’s masterpiece toward me and scan it. At first glance, it seems to be written in ancient Chinese ideographs. Mr. Steenwilly, you must have handed me the wrong manuscript. This appears to be a treatise on rice farming compiled by the eighth-century Shao Lin monk Ling Han.
I turn the paper on its head, and see that I am mistaken. It was not written by a Shao Lin monk. It is, in fact, a musical composition. I vaguely recognize several obscure musical symbols, and there are also several dozen notes that seem to be jumping about the page like fleas on a dog, playing hide-and-seek amid the musical bars.
Mr. Steenwilly, the notes in my solo will not stay still, so I cannot read them. It follows, as day follows night, that if I cannot read them, I cannot possibly play them. Therefore, Mr. Steenwilly, I suggest you cancel band practice today, go into your office, and have a nice snooze.
Mr. Steenwilly, you are not listening to my suggestion. You are climbing onto your podium. You are raising your baton. Your eyes are flashing like those of a man who expects his genius to be revealed to the world at any second. In your mind you are thinking, there was Mozart, there was Beethoven, there was Brahms, and now there will be Steenwilly! Your mustache is quivering with anticipation.
Down comes your arm, starting the piece. Violent Hayes attempts to play the opening interlude, but the monitor lizard that is pretending to be her saxophone has other ideas. It frees itself from her Mongolian death lock with a swipe of its claws, opens its razor-toothed jaws, and lets loose with a reptilian shriek that I believe has not been heard on this earth since the Jurassic era.
The sonic burst of saurian screech that emanates from Violent Hayes’s saxophone nearly knocks Mr. Steenwilly off his conducting podium. Suddenly, his glasses are askew, his hair mussed, his face flushed. He throws her a look, as if to say, “What you have just done to the opening interlude of my masterpiece is an insult not just to music, not just to art, but to every noble impulse in the human heart, and I am going to recommend that the music police roast you alive over hot coals.”
Violent Hayes does not say anything back to Mr. Steenwilly because she has not seen his look; she is too busy trying to protect her jugular against the fangs of the monitor lizard. The lizard also does not reply to Mr. Steenwilly in words, but it does let loose with a furious kee-waaa that I believe is akin to the hunting call sounded by raptors when they’ve grounded a pterodactyl, and begun moving in for the kill.
I cannot feel any sympathy for Violent Hayes, because my own moment of reckoning is nearly at hand. The tuba solo is approaching, swimming toward me through the composition like a hungry giant octopus.
There is nothing in the known universe that can save me now. Our school has thick walls, so it is unlikely an alien spacecraft will be able to beam me up from this basement band room. Nor is our school likely to catch fire in the next seventeen seconds. Nor, I am sorry to report, are we in an earthquake zone. I am doomed.
I remember Mr. Steenwilly’s advice that I should try to think of a musical composition as a kind of story. But what story, and how will this help? Desperate for any assistance, I look up the page to see what Mr. Steenwilly has titled this piece. I had not done this previously, out of fear that Mr. Steenwilly had continued his propensity to give his musical works preposterous titles. After “The Gambol of the Caribou” and “The War Cry of the Ostrich,” I was afraid to see what part of nature he had drawn upon for his newest inspiration.
But now I look. Suddenly my whole body goes numb. I have always been confident that Mr. Steenwilly, like everyone else in my miserable life, does not know me at all. But perhaps he does know me a little bit. Or perhaps he is telepathic and invisible waves from my mind have been picked up by the satellite-dish receptor of his quivering mustache. However it came about, the name of Arthur Flemingham Steenwilly’s masterpiece is “The Love Song of the Bullfrog.”
As soon as I read this, I feel the giant frog that is pretending to be my tuba wake up and stretch. The start of my tuba solo is now only a few seconds away. Desperate, I try to turn “The Love Song of the Bullfrog” into a story.
“Once upon a time,” I tell my tuba, “there was a lonely bullfrog who lived at the bottom of a pond, and nobody knew who he was. One day, a beautiful princess came to the pond and sat on a rock, and began to cry tears like pearls. The bullfrog swam up to her and asked why she was crying.
“ ‘I am actually not a princess,’ she said, ‘even though I walk like a princess, talk like a princess, and smell like a princess. I am actually a beautiful frog babe that a jealous witch has turned into a princess. As you may guess, it is no fun being a princess. It is much more fun to be a frog babe. But I can reverse the spell only if a handsome frog will kiss me.’
“The bullfrog jumped up onto a lily pad, from thence hopped to her shoulder, and kissed her on the right ear. Instantly, the princess morphed into the most beautiful frog babe in the history of ponds. She had glistening slimy skin, a long, bright red tongue, and great legs, fore and hind. When the bullfrog saw her, he opened his mouth and spontaneously began to croak a song to her . . .”
It is now time for me to begin my tuba solo. To my surprise, the giant frog who is pretending to be my tuba suddenly comes very much to life. Perhaps my story has gotten his amphibian juices flowing. He opens his mouth and lets loose with the deepest, richest, sexiest sound that has ever floated across a pond at dusk. The sound filters into our band room like a fog.
I am not playing my tuba. I am merely trying to hang on. I see Mr. Steenwilly throwing me excited glances. His mustache appears to be whirling like a helicopter rotor. In fact, he is in danger of lifting off. Hang on to something, Mr. Steenwilly. Do not lift off. This hurricane or whatever it is will pass quickly.
In fact, my tuba solo is already half over. But suddenly the notes begin jumping around the page more and more swiftly. They are no longer like fleas on a dog. They are now like electrons during a lightning storm. I am forced to spice up my story, just to keep up with the crazed notes that Arthur Flemingham Steenwilly has written.
“When she heard the bullfrog’s love song,” I tell my tuba, “the frog babe hopped up onto a lily pad of her own, and began dancing a four-legged cancan, slowly stripping off her princess dress. Soon she was dancing in the buff, as only a frog babe can. The bullfrog watched her dance, with the sun glinting golden behind her, and his love song suddenly turned into a rock-and-roll number that woke up every pond animal right down to the old beaver snoring at the bottom of the dam!”
The giant frog pretending to be my tuba needs no more coaxing. He begins doing what I believe is a frog version of the twist, thrusting out his pelvis like a young Elvis. I am hanging on to my tuba with both hands and one leg. Sounds are coming out of it that I have never heard before. “Calm down, boy,” I tell it. “Chill. You’ll rupture your throat.” I enfold my tuba in my arms. The rock song slows down to a final chorus, and then one last, loving, guttural frog note.
And then silence.
The piece is over. I expect to hear applause for the second time in one day, but this time there is no clapping. Instead, several members of our band family are looking at me.
Is that a tear in your eye, Mr. Steenwilly? Is that another tear? Are you now clearing your throat? “Thank you,” Mr. Steenwilly says. “That’s all for today. But”—and suddenly he is looking right at me—“may I just say that it is a moving thing to hear a gifted young musician find his true sound. A great and moving thing. And”—his voice cracks—“that’s all. I humbly thank you.”
I put my tuba into its case. Andy Pearce comes up to me. “Hey, John, you really nailed that solo.”
“Thank y
ou,” I say, modestly. “Actually, I don’t know how I got through it.”
“You got through it by playing it,” Andy says, in his inimitable logical fashion, whatever that means. And then he asks, “Have you heard about Billy?”
“Just that he was grounded.”
“Well, there’s good news. His parents are showing some mercy. They’re letting him out for the Fremont game on Friday. Isn’t that cool of them? You know what a big B-ball fan he is.”
“Yes,” I say, snapping my case closed, “I know.”
“Why don’t you come to the game with us?” he suggests.
“I can’t,” I tell him. “But I am going to the game. So I’ll see you there.”
Andy Pearce leaves, and several other members of the band come up and congratulate me. Of course, I am the soul of modesty, whatever that means.
I put my tuba case on its shelf. I am ready to head out.
But suddenly, unexpectedly, a shadow falls over me. I find my way blocked by Violent Hayes. I do not mean to be unkind, but she is a big girl. Tall. Big-boned. Wide in the shoulders. “John,” she says. There is nothing musical about the way Violent Hayes pronounces my name. She says it as if we are on a sports field and she is choosing me for her rugby team.
“Violet,” I respond in kind.
“You got down with that solo,” she says.
“Thank you,” I say, and attempt to walk around her.
Somehow she manages to remain directly in front of me. “I mean you really got down. You were hot, John.”