Jay Versus the Saxophone of Doom

by Kara Kootstra

  Also, I feel like I’m finally learning how to correctly do embouchure.

  Also, I learned how to say the word “embouchure.”

  Things might actually be starting to turn around for Jay Roberts!

  “Jay can’t do Thursday at lunch, so let’s plan to meet again on Friday to work on our project, since we have the day off from school.”

  Do a school project? ON A DAY OFF FROM SCHOOL???

  Things might actually be getting worse for Jay Roberts.

  CHAPTER 8

  I try to find Ben at school on Wednesday, but I don’t see him, and I have to leave right after school for hockey practice. So, my Thursday tutoring session will be the first time I see him since the awkwardness that was our last session.

  I take a deep breath and walk into the music room, ready to offer my lengthy, prepared apology, but Ben is nowhere to be seen. The room is empty. My heart beats faster. He’s not coming. He quit. I have forever ruined my chances of not completely embarrassing myself because I refused to practice my embouchure and then freaked out on Ben. I mean, I totally deserve it. With my attitude, I would have quit on me too. But I thought, maybe if I apologized, maybe if I showed Ben I was ready to work hard, he might just give me one more chance…

  “Hey! Sorry I’m late. I had a dentist appointment this morning that ran late. I just got back a couple of minutes ago.” Ben is quickly walking toward his chair, looking a little out of sorts.

  I don’t say anything for a moment, trying to absorb the fact that Ben hasn’t quit on me after all. “Oh…that…that’s great…I mean, that you’re here. I thought maybe…you’d decided not to tutor me any more,” I stammer.

  “Huh? What would make you think that?” Ben looks genuinely confused.

  “Well, it’s just…last time, I got really frustrated and I said that stuff to you and I’m super sorry…and then you weren’t here…”

  Ben lets out a small chuckle and smiles. “Look, I know this isn’t easy for you. I expect that you will have moments of frustration, it’s part of the learning process. But if you’re still willing to learn the saxophone, I’m still willing to teach you. Assuming, of course, that you’re ready to work.”

  “Definitely. I’ve even been practicing my embouchure. For real this time! Check this out.” I do my best grandpa face, trying to remember to keep my mouth relaxed.

  “Hey, good job! Not bad at all!”

  I give a kind of half-smile. This is definitely the first time someone has given me praise for making a silly face. But, as strange as it sounds, getting this one thing right feels almost as good as it does when I make a great play on the ice. No. I take that back. It doesn’t feel like that at all. But it also doesn’t feel terrible to be able do something I couldn’t before.

  “Okay, now that you’ve just about got that down, you ready to move on?” I nod, and Ben continues. “So, let’s see you hold the instrument again.”

  I put the strap around my neck and hold the saxophone the way Ben taught me.

  “All right, we’re getting there. I can tell you’re really concentrating on where the hands need to go, but you need to start getting a feel for it. It’s kind of like…like, holding a hockey stick. You play, right?”

  Surprised, I stare at Ben for a minute. “Yeah, I play.” Why is Ben “I like a challenge” talking about hockey?

  “All right, so when you pick up a stick, do you have to remember where each hand goes?” Ben asks.

  I laugh. “No, I just…know how to do it.”

  “But you didn’t always know. Someone showed you how to hold it, and at some point, it became natural. And now, I bet you can’t imagine how it felt before you could hold a stick. Do you shoot right or left?” Ben is taking off his saxophone and standing up.

  “I shoot left. Wait…what does this have to do with—?”

  “Just follow me for a second. Let’s say you’re getting ready to take a shot. Where are your hands?”

  “Um, my right hand would be at the top of the stick and the—”

  “No, show me.”

  This tutoring class is going in a strange direction, but I would rather be doing anything other than awkwardly holding this saxophone, so I play along. I stand up and pretend to grip my hockey stick.

  “Okay, let’s say I put this hand up here instead. What would that do?”

  “Make me look totally lame?”

  Ben is rolling his eyes. “I mean, how would that affect, say, how you shoot a puck?”

  “I guess, I don’t know…without the right grip, I wouldn’t be able to shoot the same.”

  “Exactly! Playing a musical instrument is just like that. You have to have the proper grip in order to play it right.” Ben seems excited, and even I have to admit that this tutoring thing isn’t so bad now that hockey is involved. That being said, these past couple of chapters have had an alarming amount of saxophone and not enough hockey. So, just to keep you interested, here’s a random hockey picture:

  “Okay, so having the right grip is the first step. But what else could affect your shot?”

  “A lot of things. I mean, my stance, how I control the puck…”

  “Good, good! So you have to have the proper grip on your stick to be able to shoot correctly, just like you have to hold your instrument the right way in order to play music. And in hockey, you have to have a proper stance, which is kind of like having the right embouchure in music.”

  That makes sense.

  “So once you have the right grip,” Ben adjusts my hands slightly, “and the right stance, the last thing you need to do is hit the note. In hockey, just before you let a shot go you have to pull back the stick, right? Well, to play the saxophone, pulling back the stick would be equivalent to breathing in air. You breathe in, then blow out on the mouthpiece. How you blow on the mouthpiece will determine how the note sounds, similar to how you connect with the puck. Get it?”

  “Okaaay…so…what’s the best way to do it?”

  “Honestly, the best way is for you to just start trying it. I mean, your coaches give you tips about how to shoot better, but don’t you find a lot of your improvement comes from just trying out stuff on the ice?”

  I see his point. “So I should just…give it a go?”

  “Make sure to moisten the reed for a bit and then, yeah, just let ’er rip!” Ben exclaims.

  I follow his instructions, taking a few minutes to moisten the reed. (Side note: Someone really needs to think about inventing flavored reeds. This whole process would be a whole lot less terrible if I got to put a BERRY BLAST reed in my mouth. Just a thought.)

  All right then.

  I make sure the saxophone is held correctly, attempt to recreate the weird mouth position, breathe in and…

  SQUEAK!

  I am reminded of my Music class embarrassment and immediately put the saxophone back down in my lap.

  “That was awesome!” Ben exclaims, and I shoot him a glare. Is he making fun of me?

  “No, seriously! It took me a while to even make a noise on the saxophone. That was great, keep going!”

  I squeak and squeal my way through the remaining twenty minutes, and Ben says “Good job!” or “You’re almost there!” with every terrible note. But even I have to admit that by the end of the session I no longer sound like a combination of screeching cat and nails on a chalkboard. I think I can confidently put myself entirely in the screeching cat category now.

  I call that progress.

  Ben starts taking his saxophone apart, each piece finding its way into the proper compartment of his case. I follow his lead, and both of our cases fasten at the same time with a “click.”

  “So just make sure you keep practicing at home, and by next week you’ll see a huge improvement. Practicing is the key.”

  “Yeah, I will. Uh…thanks, eh?”

  I’m not sure if Ben expects us to shake hands again, so I put my hand in a kind of strange slap/shake position, but Ben just gives me a friendly grin and says, “No pr
oblem, see you Tuesday!” as he heads out the door.

  You know the phrase, “Don’t leave me hanging”? This would be me. Hanging.

  But I barely mind the awkward moment. Because, for the first time, it appears that I might just figure out this saxophone thing yet.

  CHAPTER 9

  I decide to head to my dad’s store after school to do some of my homework, and perhaps even try a few more squeaks on the saxophone if the store is empty. I push open the front door and a small jingle from the bell above signals my entrance. My dad bounds into the store from the back room carrying a large stack of maps, which he carefully places beside the cash register when he sees me.

  “Perfect timing, Jason. Come help me put some of these maps in the front display, will ya?”

  I set down my saxophone case and slide off my backpack, and grab a few of the maps from the front counter.

  “How was school today? Did you learn lots of amazing and interesting things that you just can’t wait to share with your dear old dad?”

  “Oh yeah, Dad, school was absolutely riveting,” I respond, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

  My dad grins at me. “Well, it was worth a try. At least it’s almost the weekend. Any big plans?” he asks as we make our way to the front of the store.

  “Tomorrow we have the day off from school, but I have to meet my group to work on our science project, and we have a game on Saturday.”

  “Is it safe to assume that you will be looking forward to only one out of those two events?” he asks, sticking the first corner of a large map onto a display board in the front window.

  “Wow, Dad. You should really think about giving up the map business and trying your hand at being a psychic,” I respond, handing him a piece of sticky tack when he puts out his hand.

  “What can I say? It’s a gift.” He finishes fastening the last corner, smooths the surface with his hands, and steps down from his stool. “Well, without being overly sappy, I just want to say that I am very proud of you. I know you’ve got some added stuff on your plate with the whole saxophone thing and…I’m just glad you’re giving it an honest go.”

  “Thanks, Dad. But I’m not sure my ‘honest go’ is going to be enough to pass my Music test, or not look like a total idiot.”

  It appears that my dad has stopped listening as he is now rummaging through the pile of maps in front of him, muttering things like, “Now where is that…? I know I had it here somewhere…” Sensing our little father-son talk has come to an end, I start to walk toward my backpack when suddenly my father shouts out “AHA!” and holds up a map triumphantly. “I knew I had it. Come look at something for a minute, Jay.” I follow him to the counter and he unfolds the map, placing a heavy paperweight on each corner.

  “Do you remember that trip we took up north to visit your cousins a few summers ago?”

  “Um, let me think…thirteen hours in a car with Dylan and Jodie? Yes, I have a vague memory of that trip.”

  “Okay, so do you remember the route we took to get there?” my dad asks, ignoring the comment about my siblings.

  “Yeah, Dad. I mean, you only went over it with us a million times.” One thing about having a father that works in a map store is, well, the guy loves maps. Every trip is carefully planned and plotted with a highlighter, and he marks the spots where we’ll stop to eat or to see a landmark. Weeks before the trip, my dad shows us, in excruciating detail, our planned route, along with a bunch of other trip information we couldn’t possibly need. Approximate stop times. Packing tips. Road trip snack ideas. The list goes on.

  “All right, so we started here,” my dad begins, tracing the route on the map with his finger, “and we stopped right…here. Do you remember what we did?”

  I look down at the map. “That’s where we stopped to eat, right? At that diner, the one with the big bear in the entrance.”

  “That’s right. Do you remember anything else about that stop?”

  “We had to wait forever for our food, so you made a target out of the sugar packs and we took turns using spitballs and straws to try to hit the bull’s-eye.”

  “And then, Dylan…”

  “His spitball landed right on Mom’s face,” I burst out, suddenly remembering my mom’s death glare accompanying the soggy paper stuck to her forehead.

  “I thought your mother was going to kill me right there and then,” my dad recalls, laughing. I join in, and when we have sufficiently collected ourselves, my dad looks back at the map and continues following the route upwards.

  “And what about here?” He taps on a small red dot.

  “That’s…that’s where we stopped to see the goose, right?”

  “Good memory, that’s right. We all took pictures with the giant goose. Your picture is still hung up in your room somewhere, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, it’s above my desk.” I’m wondering where this trip down nostalgia lane is headed.

  “Now, what do you remember about the actual vacation up north, with your cousins?” He’s removing the paperweights and rolling up the map.

  “I don’t know…I mean, we hung out, played together…just…normal stuff, I guess,” I answer, still confused.

  “Exactly. When you guys came home you hardly said two words about how you spent your time with your cousins. What you talked about were all the funny things that happened on the way there.” My dad puts a bit of Scotch tape on the edge of the map to keep it from unrolling and turns toward me. “Son, some things in life aren’t about making it to the destination. Some things are about the journey.” He tousles my hair, and walks to the front of the store to finish up his display.

  I’m not exactly sure what he means. To be honest with you, half of the things my dad says make little to no sense to me. But for some reason, our talk has made me feel a bit better, knowing that, in his own way, my dad is trying to say that he is on my side.

  I finish up my homework, feeling relieved that I will only have my project to work on over the weekend. My dad locks up the store and the two of us walk home for dinner, and I notice that he’s wearing a slight grin, possibly still thinking about our trip up north. I find myself thinking about the trip as well, and realize that I’m also smiling.

  “What are you thinking about, Jay?” my dad asks, turning to look at me.

  “Nothin’,” I reply.

  “Yeah, me too,” he says, still grinning as we reach the walkway to our house.

  CHAPTER 10

  My dad and I are just hanging up our coats when my mom shouts from the kitchen that dinner is ready.

  Let me tell you a few things about dinnertime in the Roberts family.

  First of all, my mother, bless her soul, is the WORST COOK IN THE ENTIRE WORLD. I mean, it’s bad. It’s REALLY bad. There are days when she puts something on your plate and you can’t tell what kind of meat it is, or if it’s even meat at all. In fact, there are only three things in this world that my mother can cook.

  1. Spaghetti.

  2. Spaghetti with meat sauce.

  3. Spaghetti with meatballs (although, the meatballs are sometimes questionable).

  What’s even worse is that my mom has no idea she can’t cook. She thinks that it’s normal to “eat around the burnt parts” and that “sauces are supposed to be lumpy…that’s how you know they’re homemade.” So we all have to play along, as though my mom is a gourmet cook, and let me tell you, it is not easy. Usually, when we’ve had a few particularly terrible meals in a row, my dad will offer to pick up pizza so that he can give my mother “a break from cooking.” But we all know it’s really an attempt to give our stomachs a break from having to digest yet another questionable, dry, and/or rock-hard meal. (My father has also, on occasion, attempted to make dinner, but the only thing worse than my mom’s cooking is my dad’s cooking.)

  Tonight we are on day three of a seriously bad streak: Mom’s “meatloaf” (more like a hockey puck than actual food). I try to push things around on my plate to make it look as though I’ve eaten m
ore than I actually have.

  “There’s plenty left in the kitchen, so go grab a second helping if you want,” my mom encourages us. I catch Dylan’s eye and I can tell he is attempting to hold in a smirk.

  “I can’t eat this, Mom. I’ve decided to become a vegetarian,” Jodie announces, pushing her plate away from her and crossing her arms. Jodie is always joining a cause, or attempting to make life-altering decisions she thinks will shock my family. We’ve all grown accustomed to her outbursts, so it doesn’t faze us much.

  “You do know what a vegetarian is, right?” Dylan says. “It means you can’t eat meat. I’ve seen you stick, like, seven pieces of pepperoni pizza in your mouth in one sitting. It’s pretty gross. Come to think of it, I’m feeling sick just picturing it.” Dylan makes gagging sounds and puts his his hand over his mouth.

  “Honestly, Dylan. Not at the dinner table. Jodie, dear, there’s plenty of salad and mashed potatoes in the kitchen as well,” my mom says, barely acknowledging Jodie’s cause of the week.

  “How am I supposed to survive on salad? No one in this family takes me seriously,” Jodie grumbles, and she takes her plate to the kitchen, presumably to replace her meatloaf with some leafy greens. I momentarily wonder if becoming a vegetarian would get me out of eating my dinner as well, but this leads me to imagine what concoctions my mother would come up with using meat substitutes, and I decide it’s not worth the risk.

  “Five bucks says Jodie won’t last until tomorrow night,” Dylan says as soon as she’s out of earshot.

  “I’ll take that bet. It’ll take at least until Monday before she realizes that no one cares,” I chime in, shoveling a spoonful of lumpy mashed potatoes into my mouth to look as though I’m making progress.

  “Stop it, you two. We need to support each other’s decisions and convictions,” my mother scolds, just as my father says, “Put me down for Saturday. I was planning on picking up pepperoni pizza on the way home from Jay’s game.”