by Mike Grosso
Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Morris. This is Daniel Pullman from Kennedy Middle School calling about a lunchroom incident this afternoon that involved your daughter. Please call me back whenever it is convenient to do so. I can be reached at—
Dr. Pullman rattles off a number, but I’m not really listening. He wants to have a personal conversation with my mom and dad. That’s not good. They’ll be mad just for being inconvenienced. Not my mom so much, but my dad—oh, man, you don’t want him mad. You pretty much lose every privilege you can imagine, even if it’s only a little bit your fault. Even if you just lost control for a split second.
Even if you felt totally humiliated.
There’s a loud beep, signaling that Dr. Pullman’s message is over, followed by a computerized female voice that says, “Press seven to save this message. Press nine to delete this message.”
I pull the phone away from my ear and try to come up with a way to explain this to my dad. I don’t want him any madder at me than he already is. He’s spent the whole school year fielding calls about how I’m falling behind and not taking middle school seriously and how I still think I’m a fifth-grader or something. It’s late March—a little over two months from now, it will be summer, and I will be free from the pressure and agony of school. Free to enjoy Kristen’s annual pool party in early June and a summer full of wild, crazy fun after that. Can’t I manage to make it two more months without getting into more trouble with my dad?
The computerized voice says, “Please make a selection. Press seven to save this message. Press nine to delete this message.”
My hand shakes, but I slowly bring my index finger down. It lands on the number 9.
“Your message has been deleted.”
I hang up the phone and run back upstairs, trying to forget the message ever existed, because as far as anyone besides me and Dr. Pullman knows, it never really did.
“Sam?” my mom says.
I gaze into my bagel, my eyes struggling to stay open as they trace the knife lines of cream cheese. The second hand on the wall clock ticks, and in my head a million other household items tap along, blending into one imaginary percussive orchestra.
“Sam!” my mom shouts, and my body jumps into alertness to find her staring me down like a wild animal.
“What?” I say.
“I said your name three times.”
“Sorry. Can’t I eat my bagel in peace?”
“You need to listen better.”
I slump my shoulders. “I’m just tired this morning.”
“Then you need to go to bed earlier.”
Sure, Mom. I’ll just fall asleep earlier. I’ll tell my mind to stop dreaming of drums, and the tossing and turning in the middle of the night while giant pounding rhythms play in my head will magically disappear. I’ll never be distracted by sleep again.
“I’m having trouble sleeping,” I say.
“Why?” she asks. “Is something the matter?”
“I don’t know. No, not really. I’m just thinking a lot.”
“You’re such a dreamer.”
You want to know what’s weird about being called a dreamer? Each person who says it means something different. It’s hard to tell sometimes if it’s an insult—are they admiring you or making fun of you for being naïve?
My mom calls me a dreamer constantly, but not in a mean way. It’s like she admires me and feels sorry for me at the same time. She’s waiting for the sky to fall so she can tell me how silly I am for not realizing such a thing could happen. Poor Sam. She doesn’t even realize the world is collapsing all around her.
My dad is another story. Lately he’s kind of like a ticking time bomb. He can be totally okay, and then BOOM! He explodes at the slightest bother. I love him and all, but it’s hard sometimes to know what’s going to set him off.
My father walks into the kitchen, tying his tie as he grumbles to himself.
“Why doesn’t this shirt ever iron right?” he says.
“Because you don’t know how to iron,” my mom says.
“I know how to iron just fine. It’s because the iron needs to be replaced.”
He fidgets with his tie for a few minutes before my mom comes over and says, “Calm down and let me help.” She grabs both ends of his tie and starts crossing and looping until a perfect knot is formed.
“It’s not like I don’t know how to do it,” my dad says.
“Sure, honey,” my mom says.
My dad watches my mom’s hands as they adjust his collar. “You still haven’t found it?” he asks.
My mom shakes her head. Her wedding ring went missing several days ago, and my dad is trying hard not to be upset about it. He knows how bad my mom feels.
“I can keep an eye out for it,” I say.
“Thanks, Sam. I’m sure it’ll turn up soon.” But the look on her face tells me she’s not so sure.
“And you, Sam,” my dad says, pointing at me like I’ve personally offended him, “you’d better be ready in five minutes. You’re not making me late for work again.”
“She didn’t make you late, honey,” my mom says.
My dad takes a breath, scratches his head, and says, “I know. I just need to get there early today. No dawdling, Sam. I mean it! Be ready in five minutes!”
I tell him I will be, but he only waits two minutes before he starts losing his mind and saying, “I told you to be ready in five minutes!”
I consider correcting him before remembering that he doesn’t respond well to back talk, especially when he’s already stressed. Sometimes I wonder if even that headphone jack could help me with my father.
“Just go to work, Dale,” my mom says. “I’ll take her.”
My dad scoffs, grabs his keys, and leaves without saying goodbye. My mom just sighs and says, “Take your time, honey.” When I don’t say anything in response, she says, “He’s under a lot of stress. The new job isn’t exactly what they told him it would be.”
“I know,” I say.
I don’t really blame my dad for being in a twenty-four-hour bad mood the last few months. He lost his job last year, so my parents were making ends meet on Mom’s small salary and Dad’s even smaller unemployment check until he finally landed a new job a couple of months ago. He barely makes half of what he used to and hates what he does, but Mom and Dad seem unsure what else to do.
That’s why I only asked for a drum set once. And I had the miserable luck of asking for it the day my dad came home with the news that he’d been laid off. He totally blew a gasket when I asked. It was like I was the one who’d lost his job.
Great timing, Sam.
My mom and I head into the garage and jump inside the old Caravan. The engine makes a weird whistling noise and the tires wobble a bit, but it gets us where we want to go.
“Can I ask you something, Sam?” my mom says.
“I guess,” I say.
“How do all those books on your desk work?”
Chills run up my spine. The mention of my desk set gets me all defensive. I feel like a four-year-old playing pretend. “Why are you asking?”
“I don’t know. Mothers are curious by nature.”
“It’s just a way to practice.”
My mom glances toward me and smiles. “Practice what? Your drum parts for the school band?”
My throat clenches, the top and bottom sticking together as everything goes dry. Why is it so hard to talk to her about this? Maybe because my mom doesn’t understand that it’s about more than just my parts for the school band.
Maybe because drums shouldn’t disappear when the school bell rings.
Maybe because I’m worried I’ll never be any good without a real kit and a teacher who isn’t distracted by sixty other students.
Maybe because the last time I talked to my parents about drums, my dad freaked out because he’d just lost his job and didn’t want his daughter to have an “expensive hobby.”
When I don’t answer, my mom looks offended a
nd says, “I’m just asking a question.”
“I just mess around,” I say quickly. “It’s not a big deal.”
She’s quiet as a tomb for a few more seconds before speaking again. “You don’t need to be embarrassed, Sam. You can be whatever you want to be. The sky’s the limit.”
I nod as if I understand, but it’s not that simple. If she was truly okay with the person I want to be, I wouldn’t be drumming on Calvin and Hobbes, afraid to tell her the truth about the rhythms in my head that won’t let me sleep at night.
I can’t help noticing the indentation in her ring finger as it curls around the steering wheel. It’s like someone else’s finger without that plain gold band on it. It wasn’t fancy or anything, but something about a missing wedding ring makes me sad.
“Will it cost a lot to replace?” I ask.
“You don’t need to worry about that,” she says, “but yes, it will.”
That’s a nice way of saying replacement isn’t an option.
The rest of the car ride feels longer than it ever has before.
Today isn’t all bad, though. I manage to show up early for once, drop my things off at my locker in the sixth-grade wing, and sneak down to the music room as I sometimes do to ogle the instruments while the room is empty.
This morning, however, the room is most certainly not empty.
There’s a band rehearsing. I snag an empty chair just inside the music room where the clarinets sit and watch a group of seventh- and eighth-graders who make up Kennedy’s jazz band. There are trumpets, saxophones, flutes, and trombones. I’m thrilled to see there is one guy in the back playing the sousaphone, the biggest instrument I’ve ever seen. It’s like a gigantic tuba that wraps around his whole body before ending in a black hole atop his head where a low-pitched honk comes out.
Next to him is an eighth-grader sitting at our school’s piano. He’s the only nonteacher allowed to even touch it, much less play it. I swear he’s playing all eighty-eight keys at once.
The Kennedy jazz band is the almighty pinnacle of middle school music. I heard them play a few times earlier in the year, and I’ve been waiting for my chance to audition ever since. They sound even better now. I haven’t heard a lot of jazz, but I know what it sounds like and can spot a few things about it. The music they play isn’t really jazz, but I guess you could call it that if you wanted to. It’s all rock songs redone with swingy beats. I like it. It has so much more energy than the songs we play in the symphonic band and some of the craziest rhythms I’ve ever heard. Plus, it’s the only school music program that uses a full drum set. Every other music program cuts percussion into pieces. You want to play the set, eh? Why don’t you just play snare instead? Or hit a cymbal once every three hours? It’s cruel and unusual punishment for someone like me.
There’s a bass player on the left side of the group, and he’s not playing one of those big acoustic upright basses. He has an electric bass! He’s grooving in perfect time with the drums.
Yes! The drums!
The Holy Grail of school music programs! It has everything—crash and ride cymbals, a hi-hat that isn’t totally broken, a snare, three toms, and a big fat bass drum. A tall guy is sitting on the throne. Johnny Parker, king of drums at Kennedy Middle School. He has dark hair that’s wavy all over except in the front, where he spikes it up. I imagine myself in his place, behind the kit, landing every beat and fill in perfect time.
I listen to their rehearsal and feel my stomach vibrate each time the rhythm kicks in. The horns blare the melody. The bass swings the band along. And the drums twist and writhe and wiggle their way through the song. I don’t even know if I like the song itself, but man, do I love listening to it. So many instruments and so much noise.
And there’s a full drum set. I really want to join a band where I get to play one. My desk set at home seems so lame when I’m watching people more talented than I’ll ever be go to town on their instruments.
They finish playing, and the students start storming out of the room. I sit quietly and pretend to be uninterested, all the while hoping no one notices the big dork who wishes she could be sitting behind the drum kit.
“You’re Sam,” a voice says.
I spin around and see a familiar girl’s face staring at me, surprised and intrigued at the same time. She carries a trumpet. She’s tall enough to be an eighth-grader, easily.
“My little brother knows you,” she says. “You’re in symphonic band together.”
That’s when it clicks why she’s so familiar. “You’re Scott’s sister!” I say, trying not to sound too excited. I can’t believe I didn’t realize it earlier—they look almost exactly the same, except for the obvious. “You’re Jessica! Scott never told me you played the trumpet in jazz band!”
“That’s me.”
“Cool. I tried the trumpet once, but it just sounded like bad gas.” Oh my God, Sam! Please just shut up!
But Jessica gives a small chuckle, and I feel a little better about my silly joke. “Are you joining jazz band?”
“Um,” I say, not knowing what to say.
“Oh, wait,” she says. “You’re still in sixth grade. Can’t audition until next year.”
“Yeah,” I say. “And anyways, I want to join as a drummer. That’s a little weird, I know.”
“Why is that weird?”
I freeze up. I thought it was obvious. “Well, you know. Being a girl, and all.”
“Not a lot of girls play trumpet either,” Jessica says. “Except they do, because I said they do. Just something to think about.” Then Jessica waves goodbye and says, “Keep my brother in line, okay?” She starts to take her trumpet apart to pack it up.
Talking with Jessica gives me a new burst of courage. My eyes turn to Johnny Parker. He’s busy breaking down the drum set, collapsing cymbals and stands and putting the toms into bags. I take a deep breath and try to think of something really clever to say as I approach him—something that will make me sound like a real musician. The best I can come up with is “Do you need any help?”
He stops, gives me a shocked look, and shakes his head. Not a word in response.
“I’m not trying to interrupt. I just wanted to let you know that you sound awesome on the drums.”
“Um, yeah, I know,” he says.
“Really good.”
“Yeah, I already said I know.”
He starts giving me this look. It’s the kind of look adults give to three-year-olds. I’m not liking it.
“How did you learn to play?” I ask.
“Private lessons and a lot of natural skill. I’ve always had a top-notch sense of rhythm.”
Private lessons. How I wish I had those. There’s only so much you can learn by yourself. And even though I know it’s going to hurt to hear the answer, I ask anyway. “Who gives you lessons?”
“The same teacher every good drummer goes to,” he says. “Pete Taylor.”
Pete Taylor. Why did it have to be him? The coolest music teacher, with the coolest house and the coolest sounds coming out of the coolest basement. Not that I’ve seen his basement before, but I swear it has to be the greatest thing I’ve never seen. I wonder if Johnny knows how lucky he is.
“Is there something else you need?” Johnny asks, starting to look impatient.
“I play drums too,” I say. I’m really proud to say it until Johnny starts laughing his head off, like I just said the funniest thing he’s ever heard in his life. Jessica must hear him, because she looks in our direction.
“Keep up the hard work,” he says, obviously being sarcastic.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Just forget it.”
“Is there a problem?” Jessica says from behind me. I turn around and see her, trumpet mouthpiece in her hand, clenched a bit too tight.
“Of course not!” Johnny says, though his tone makes it clear there is definitely something wrong. “Now leave me alone so I can finish packing these up.”
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Jessica is about to respond, but I stop her. “It’s okay. I was just telling him that I enjoyed his drumming.”
“I hope he listened,” Jessica says, “because you’re going to take his spot next year.”
“Whatever you say,” Johnny says. “It’s just that, well, none of the girls in the drum section are very good.”
I feel a hot rush, like a flaming bee sting running through me. I’m not mad at Johnny. Just hurt. Really hurt. He couldn’t have meant it.
“Some of them have to be good,” I mumble.
“Maybe they are, maybe they aren’t,” he says. “I was just kidding, anyways. Seriously, though? None of them made jazz band, and none of them ever will.”
“Then maybe I’ll be the first to change that.”
“Yeah, whatever.” Johnny shrugs, turns to Jessica, and says, “See you in science class, Jess. And good luck with the drums, Sarah.”
“It’s Sam,” I say.
“Whatever, Sam.”
Jessica says nothing else. She gives me a sympathetic look and returns to packing up her trumpet.
I’m about to leave when Ms. Rinalli taps me on the shoulder. I turn to see her standing next to me with a slight grin. “Thinking of trying out next year, Samantha?”
“It’s Sam,” I say, wishing a second later I’d resisted correcting her. Stubbornness isn’t going to get me into jazz band.
Thankfully, Ms. Rinalli doesn’t take offense. She says, “If you can develop your drumming chops by seventh grade, I’ll call you whatever you want.”
She tells me to get to class and leaves my side as quickly as she appeared. Is it really possible? Could I make it into jazz band next year? It’s only a matter of time until I get a chance to truly show Ms. Rinalli what I can do, which admittedly isn’t much. The drumbeats in my head are so much better than what I can play on my desk set. Another reason why I wish I had that headphone jack.
I can hardly wait to talk to Scott. I’m excited enough that I manage to forget about Johnny Parker for most of the morning before arriving at the lunch table. I find a seat next to Scott and away from Danny.