by Mike Grosso
“I met your sister today,” I say.
I expect him to be at least a little surprised, so it’s an extra bummer when he casually says, “She told me. I ran into her before lunch.”
“She’s pretty cool.”
“She’s cool if she’s not your sister. All she does is boss me around.”
“You never told me she played the trumpet in jazz band.”
Scott just shrugs and stares at his lunch, which looks unappetizing as usual.
We’re both quiet for a few seconds while I try to think of something else to say. If I don’t make Scott talk, he’ll spend the entirety of lunch staring into his sandwich, pretending the rest of the world doesn’t exist. He’s a good friend, but he gets really nervous in crowded places, especially the lunch table. That’s probably why I never see him outside of school.
Scott looks down the table at Danny, who’s totally distracted by whatever cronies he’s blabbing to.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’m not going to start anything with him today.”
“It’s not you I’m worried about,” Scott says.
I try to change the subject to something more comfortable. “Are you interested in jazz band? Considering your sister is in it and all?”
He shrugs and says, “I heard it’s way too hard. Not interested.”
“What about Zeke?” Zeke is another drummer in band. He’s really friendly, but he does seem to spend more time giggling than actually playing the drums. Out of all the kids in band, he’s the most likely to show up to school dressed as a clown.
“Zeke might join if it gets him out of math next year.”
Danny is apparently listening to us, because he starts shouting across the table, “The sax players in jazz band suck! The only ones worse are the trumpet players!”
I clench my fists but keep my mouth shut. He’s just trying to get a rise out of us. I won’t let him get me into trouble again.
Scott, the calm and quiet one, for once doesn’t seem capable of this. The comment about the trumpet players must have set him off, because he shouts, “Go stick your saxophone in a toilet! It would probably sound better!”
The table erupts with laughter. Danny scowls and says, “Whatever. Have fun talking to your girlfriend. Or is that your pet ape?”
I grab Scott’s hand before he can smash his sandwich inside it. “He’s not worth it,” I say, and hold tight as Scott settles down and resumes eating his lunch.
I give Scott a smile and receive a small, embarrassed one in return. That’s Scott for you. At times he doesn’t want anyone to know what he’s feeling. One second he’s complaining about his bossy sister, and the next he’s defending her honor at the sixth-grade lunch table. At least he’s not freaking out about sitting next to me after Danny’s comment.
Danny wasn’t always this way. He was a pretty cool kid in elementary school. He wasn’t my best friend or anything, but we played with some of the same kids at recess. We also had a lot of fun whenever we worked as partners in fifth-grade science, which we were both equally bad at. Sixth grade changed a lot of that, and I’m not sure why.
I’m almost finished with my lunch when a very large black suit appears next to our lunch table.
“Can I talk to you, Samantha?” Dr. Pullman says in that awful deep voice.
“Sam,” I say, but I get the worst evil eye imaginable and stand up without another word. I catch Danny giggling as I walk to the end of the lunchroom, right next to the principal.
“You were supposed to be in lunch detention today,” Dr. Pullman says.
Was that today? He never told me the specific days. “I didn’t know those had already started.”
“They have,” he says. “Do you understand how serious this is?”
I nod.
“Then don’t try to skip out tomorrow, or the consequences will be worse.” Dr. Pullman folds his arms. “I left a voice mail for your parents yesterday. I’m still waiting to hear back from them.”
I swallow hard. “They’re pretty busy lately. My dad has a tough new job. He works late most days of the week. Even Saturdays now.”
“Did they receive the message?”
My voice wavers as I say, “I’ll make sure to ask them.”
“I’d appreciate that.” Dr. Pullman unfolds his arms and gives me another stern look. “I expect to see you in my office this time tomorrow. The moment the bell rings, and not a second later.”
Dr. Pullman seems to walk away in slow motion. My throat is dry, and the hairs on my arms are like quills. What am I going to do about that erased message?
So much has happened today that it doesn’t really hit me how mean Johnny Parker was after jazz rehearsal until I’m doing my homework that night. I’m sitting at my drum desk, going through mixed numbers and ratios, when I say, out loud, “You know what? You’re not awesome!
“In fact,” I continue, talking aloud to the wall, “you play the drums like a baboon! I’m surprised you didn’t drool all over the snare drum!” And even though I’m pretty sure baboons don’t drool any more than humans do, I am entirely sure this describes Johnny Parker to a T.
I remember what he said about no girls ever making it into jazz band. If I could prove him wrong, I’d be the first girl ever on the drums. How weird is that?
Not that I’ve ever played jazz. I haven’t even heard much of it. But the middle school jazz band brought the house down this morning, and that was only their rehearsal. Imagine what their live performance must be like. They have a full set! Everyone who makes it in is serious about their craft, like Jessica on the trumpet. It isn’t like symphonic band, where half the kids just want an extra period to goof off. I’d play any style they wanted just to get a chance to rock out on a real set with serious players instead of on a stupid desk to a crowd of nobody.
Jazz band is the perfect opportunity.
The next morning, my dad is in a really good mood. He has breakfast ready for all of us—me, Brian, and my mom—when we get downstairs. He slips some eggs and bacon onto my plate as he gives me a peck on the head and says, “I’m sorry I’ve been such a grouch lately. I love you guys.”
I want to plug him right into my headphone jack, right there, and let him hear what happens to my heart when he says things like that. And then I want him to hear that I’m scared he’ll be a grouch all over again by dinnertime.
That’s the thing about my dad. He can be so angry or so nice, but it’s hard to know which one he’ll be at any given time. An olive can look a lot like a grape until you bite into it and want to barf from the taste.
School starts out great. I have all my homework done for a change, so I get to show up to every class without being afraid of a lecture. I remember to head to Dr. Pullman’s office for my first lunch detention and even make it on time. It’s not as bad as I was expecting—a lot of class work I need to catch up on and an eerie silence from Dr. Pullman, sitting behind his computer and typing away the whole time. The only bad part is at the end of lunch, when he says, “See you tomorrow.” Apparently I’m not out of the woods yet.
When I show up to symphonic band, our final period of the day, we’re scheduled to practice all of my favorite pieces.
The band room is an interesting place during that final period. There’s sixty-plus kids with instruments at their sides crammed into a rehearsal room made for about forty.
I’m lucky enough to be in the percussion section. It can get boring when the band is practicing a song you’re not scheduled to play, but at least I get to talk with the other drummers. I like Scott and Zeke the best. Scott becomes a different person back here. He actually talks without being spoken to first. It did take a while—he didn’t talk to anybody the first few months. Mostly he just slept in one of the chairs, until earlier this year when Zeke woke him up by crashing cymbals an inch from his ear. They somehow became best friends after that.
Zeke is kind of bizarre, but in a hilarious way. That’s more than I can say a
bout Danny Lenix, who sits pleasantly far away from me in the saxophone section.
Danny and I participated in the same instrument fitting last year when the band teacher before Ms. Rinalli visited our elementary school. Kids interested in band took turns heading to the music room to try out several instruments. Danny was pretty excited about percussion beforehand, but he ended up liking the saxophone instead.
When my turn came to head to the music room, the teacher made me try a bunch of instruments just to be sure I wasn’t missing out on any hidden talents. Maybe she wanted me to fall in love with a surprise instrument like Danny, but I knew the other instruments were wrong for me the moment I held them. I told her I loved John Bonham and wanted to be in the percussion section, so she gave me a simple rhythm test. It wasn’t too complicated—she made sure I could count to four and play basic quarter and eighth notes. Every kid in the percussion section had to pass it.
“I’m bored,” Scott says.
“You’re always bored,” I say back, because he always is.
“That’s because I don’t get to play anything.”
Zeke and I are both thinking, You never want to play anything.
“You should pee in the timpani,” Zeke says.
“That’s nasty,” Scott says, making a sour face.
“You’re nasty. That’s why you should do it.”
“You guys are weird,” I say, and they both look at me for a few seconds and resume their conversation. It’s weird the way they look at me—like I’m another boy. That’s something you learn quickly when you’re the girl in the percussion section—you don’t get to be a girl when you’re playing drums.
“I would totally pee in the timpani,” Zeke says.
“How exactly would you pee in the timpani?” I ask.
Zeke looks at me, dumbfounded, so I add, “The only way to pee inside the timpani is to take off the drum head, and I’m betting you don’t have a drum key to get that done.”
“I’d steal Ms. Rinalli’s drum key,” Zeke says.
“Even if you knew where it was—which you don’t—you’d have to stand up to steal it, and good luck doing that without Ms. Rinalli seeing you.”
Zeke shrugs and then says, “I would still pee in it.”
“I would still pee on your head,” Scott says. Like I said, it’s weird how much he opens up when we’re in the drum section. It’s like he’s safe to be himself here.
“Both of you be quiet,” I say.
“Why don’t you pee on something, Sam?” Zeke asks.
“Smell your bag,” I say.
For a second, he’s almost going to do it. Then Scott and I laugh, and he waves us away like he knew the whole time. He’s pretty gullible for a self-described prankster.
But you want to know something crazy? I really like these guys. Not in a weird way or anything. I just like being around them—it makes the time spent waiting to play more bearable.
The band stops playing as the current piece ends. Ms. Rinalli announces the next song, and the class starts shuffling papers, searching for the right sheet music.
“You’re up, Sam,” Zeke says. “You’re on the marimba.”
Finally! It’s never a good idea to have too much downtime, or Ms. Rinalli might think you’re one of her time wasters—a kid who joins band to get out of class. The percussion section is full of them.
That’s when I panic. Dr. Pullman gave my marimba mallets to Ms. Rinalli. Unless I try hitting the marimba with my head, I can’t play my part without them.
I raise a nervous, shaking hand.
“Yes, Sam?” Ms. Rinalli says.
I don’t know what to say. If I remind her that she has my mallets, the entire room of sixty-plus music students will know they were confiscated by the principal. It will only be a matter of time before kids from every section start mumbling about why.
“You have my marimba mallets,” I say, hating myself as I do it. I catch Danny smirking over in the sax section. Please, please, please don’t make me say why in front of the entire class!
Ms. Rinalli sighs and says, “They’re in the bin in my office. Go grab them while the rest of us get started.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. Get a pair of marimba mallets out of her office. Seems straightforward enough. It’s right behind the conductor’s podium, at the front of the rehearsal room. Her office is the size of a Porta-Potty, so finding anything in there should be easy.
What I don’t think about, because I never think about things like this, is how I’m going to get out of the percussion section. It seems so simple, but we rehearse in a room that is not designed for sixty kids, some of them with tubas the size of Great Danes. Everyone is starting the song without me, so I can’t exactly tap them on the shoulder and ask them to move. So I do what any kid might do—I tiptoe as carefully as I can between people and instruments in an attempt to get through the crowd and over to Ms. Rinalli’s office.
I don’t know how it happens. Some part of my arm—probably my elbow—bumps into a flute. A shrill tweet pierces the air, followed by the sound of another kid shouting “ouch!” as she clenches her bloody lip.
My drumsticks fall out of my back pocket. I didn’t even know I had them. I would have left them in the drum section if I’d remembered. My right foot slips on one of them, sending my whole body forward. I collapse into the saxophone section, right into Danny Lenix himself, and together we domino into the trombones, whose long tubes stab the woodwinds in the backs of their heads.
Within seconds, the entire band is in chaos, and I’ve personally assaulted kids from almost every instrument classification.
“What is wrong with you?” Danny says from the bottom of a crumpled pile of saxophone players splayed on the floor.
I stand up and survey the staring faces and damage I’ve caused. I nervously smile back, as if somehow that will affirm my innocence and keep me out of trouble for taking out half of the band.
Ms. Rinalli sees me standing in the middle of musical wreckage, freaked out, surrounded by shoved and squished kids with instruments wedged in their faces.
“In my office, Samantha!” Ms. Rinalli says. “Now! We’ll talk after class!”
I don’t even bother telling her to call me Sam. I slump my shoulders and pick up my sticks to bring with me.
“Leave the sticks here!”
Man! I really wanted them with me. It’s so boring sitting in there with nothing to do.
I walk all the way behind the podium and into Ms. Rinalli’s office—a closet-size space with stacks of sheet music and half-destroyed instruments. I get sent here a lot, especially when I’m in the middle of playing. I don’t know how, but I think I get in trouble more often when I have more band responsibility.
I shut the door behind me and listen as the sound of rehearsal muffles. There used to be a few cellos and an upright bass squeezed into this little space that I used to mess around with, but Ms. Rinalli caught me plucking the strings and put them in another room. Now there’s nothing but me and four walls and the dampened sound of the band in the classroom outside. It sucks pretty bad. Zeke is the only one who gets put in here more often than me, and he just falls asleep. I don’t know how anyone can fall asleep when there’s music playing.
It’s weird, too, because it’s not like I get put in here because I want to goof off. I take band seriously. I really do. It’s just that I’m not sure it’s the kind of seriousness people talk about in all the other classes. I mean, are we really supposed to sit still in those plastic chairs and be silent when it’s not our turn to play? And when it is our turn, do we always have to play the notes on the page? What if I come up with a better part? What if there’s a better beat, or a better rhythm? And what if it really is better and it’s not just me being a brat and wanting to do things my own way all the time?
Isn’t it possible that a dreamer like me might actually know what she’s talking about every once in a while?
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Twenty minutes later, the walls of Ms. Rinalli’s office are darker, and the band is gone. I stay still. I learned the hard way that when certain teachers tell you to stay put, you do exactly what they asked until you’re released.
I’m sitting in the one chair Ms. Rinalli keeps in her office, waiting for her to come get me and tell me that the “Planet of the Apes”—her nickname for the percussion section—has been released and I’m free to head to my locker and leave for the day.
But no one comes to get me. And that’s when I hear the sound of something that scares the crap out of me like I never thought possible. Someone crying. It’s Ms. Rinalli.
Now I’m really scared to leave. I have no idea what Ms. Rinalli will do if she finds out I’m still here. Walking in on a teacher crying is like walking into the wrong bathroom. You just don’t do it. Not even as a joke.
I hear the door to the rehearsal room open. Someone else is in here with Ms. Rinalli.
“I’m sorry, Grace,” a deep male voice says. It sounds like another teacher. “I heard about the board’s decision.”
“They’re letting all first-year teachers go,” Ms. Rinalli says. “That includes me.”
“It’s just budget cuts,” the man says. “It’s nothing personal. Everyone here wants you to stay. They’re probably going to call you back over the summer when they get updated enrollment numbers.”
“No, Phil. They won’t.”
“Of course they will. They always do.”
I can hear Ms. Rinalli let out a sigh. “You don’t get it. They’re cutting the whole program.”
Cutting the program? What program? What is Ms. Rinalli talking about?
“They can’t do that,” the man says.
“They already have,” Ms. Rinalli says. “I was just informed during lunch. Come next year, there will be no music program at Kennedy. Not at any of the middle schools.”
Within seconds I feel like I’m going to burst. A tear leaves my eye, and it takes everything in me to keep from sobbing.
My heart falls into my chest. I start to sweat. My skin crawls with goose bumps and my chest feels like it’s going to explode.