by Mike Grosso
They’re cutting the music program. When I return to Kennedy Middle School as a seventh-grader next year, there will be no music classes.
There will be no symphonic band.
There will be no orchestra or jazz band.
And there will definitely be no full drum set.
Even though the only thing worse than crying at school is getting caught crying at school, I just can’t help it. The tears fall. And when it gets so bad that I can’t even bear to fight back, I start sobbing.
As soon as I start crying, Ms. Rinalli stops. The man she was speaking with has gone quiet as well. They heard me.
“Oh no,” Ms. Rinalli says. “Samantha.”
“You have a student in your office?” the man asks, surprised.
The door to her office opens, and I cover my face in my hands. I see Ms. Rinalli’s shadow through the cracks of my fingers as she approaches and says, “Are you okay, Sam?”
Sam. She remembered to call me Sam.
“It’s nothing,” I say, my voice muffled by my hands. “I’m fine.”
“I’ll take care of this,” Ms. Rinalli says to the man.
I hear the heavy footsteps of the man leaving. I see Ms. Rinalli through the cracks of my fingers, coming closer and grabbing a folding chair from the corner and placing it on the floor next to me. I finally take my hands off my face to see her with a box of tissues in her hand. She pulls one out and offers it to me. When I don’t accept it, she crumples it up and puts it in her pocket.
“Are you upset that you had to sit in my office today?” she asks.
“No,” I say, and even though I was at one point, it seems pretty meaningless right now.
“Do you know the social worker here at Kennedy Middle School?” she asks.
“No,” I say, annoying myself with my redundant, one-word answers. The truth is I know exactly who the social worker is. I went to see him a few times at the beginning of the year when I was having trouble turning in my homework on time. His office is the last place I want to be right now.
“If you’re not comfortable telling me why you’re upset, there are other adults you can talk to.”
“I don’t want to talk to anyone.”
“Then is there anything else I can do to help?”
I wipe my eyes and nose, embarrassed. There is one thing she can do, but I don’t know if she will.
“Tell me why the music program was cut,” I say. “Why are they getting rid of music, and keeping all the subjects I hate?”
Ms. Rinalli sighs, as if she knew this was the reason I was crying all along. “It’s just money, Sam. Everything costs money, and there’s not enough to fund the music program next year.”
Money. I don’t have a real drum set because there’s no money. I can’t take private lessons because there’s no money. My parents are always stressed and angry and fighting with each other because there’s no money. Why is everything always about money? Is there anything in this awful world other than money?
“What happens to you next year?” I ask.
“I find a job somewhere else,” she says.
Find a job somewhere else. She says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world. My father had to find a job somewhere else. How well has that turned out for him?
I wipe my face with my sleeve and say, “Do I have to leave the music room right away?”
“I can buy you a couple of minutes to cool down,” Ms. Rinalli says.
I put my face back in my hands. Ms. Rinalli exits her office. I hear her sorting music sheets outside, but I still feel left alone, which is what I need right now.
I wait a couple minutes for the tears on my face to dry. Then I walk out of her office and into the rehearsal room. Ms. Rinalli sees me and leads me out.
I head over to the sixth-grade wing and find Scott and Zeke roughhousing by their lockers. Zeke has Scott in a headlock while Scott is trying to lift Zeke off the ground.
“Will you two cut it out for once!” I shout. “I need to tell you something.”
Zeke lets go of Scott’s head and says, “Scott’s busy telling me he’s in love with Ms. Rinalli!”
Scott’s face is red, an apparent side effect of smelling Zeke’s armpit. “Shut up! You’re in love with Ms. Rinalli’s mom!”
“You’re the one who can walk on his head while farting the word hello!”
“Both of you stop it!” I shout, and they look at me, scared and confused.
“Um, what did we do?” Scott asks nervously.
“Yeah, we didn’t steal your marimba mallets, you know,” Zeke says.
“I know you didn’t,” I say. “This is much more serious.”
They look at each other, shrug, and look back at me.
“Music is getting cut next year,” I say. I wait for this to sink in. I get another shrug from Zeke, and a dumbfounded look from Scott.
“That means band is over!” I say. “No symphonic band. No orchestra. Not even jazz band.”
Scott’s eyes open wide. He shakes his head. “Oh man, my sister is going to be mad!”
“Why are they getting rid of it?” Zeke asks. “Music classes never hurt anybody.”
“Ms. Rinalli says it’s all about money,” I say.
Zeke and Scott look at me like my face is melting. Then Zeke says, “You found out from Ms. Rinalli?”
“Of course. Who else would know?”
I’m scared they’re going to ask for more details, like how the conversation started and all the embarrassing crying that led to it. Thankfully, they don’t.
“I guess I’ll take applied arts next year,” Zeke says.
“Applied arts?” I say, nearly shouting. “You think applied arts can replace music?”
Zeke holds up a hand as if to keep me from bulldozing him. “Settle down, Sam. It’s not the end of the world.”
“Yes, it is!”
I look at Scott, hoping for support, but he just shrugs and says, “I’m with Zeke, Sam. I agree it stinks to lose band, but there are plenty of other classes. Maybe the three of us can get into another elective together.”
My heart sinks. My blood boils. I would expect this from my dad, or my brother, or someone like Danny Lenix, who is better at being my own personal percussion instrument than playing the sax. But Scott and Zeke? I expected them to understand. I didn’t think I’d need a headphone jack to make them understand something we have in common.
“How can you guys be like that?” I ask. “We don’t get to have music class in seventh grade! Or eighth grade! No playing in bigger and better bands with cooler percussion parts! No playing on a full drum set!”
“Look, Sam,” Zeke says, concerned all of a sudden. “I get how much you like music. You take things seriously.”
“But Zeke and I aren’t like you,” Scott says. “Band class can be a lot of fun sometimes, but we don’t really care if we’re good.”
“We took drums because most of the parts are one note played over and over again. You can have fun playing without getting too stressed out about messing something up.”
The tears are coming back, but I push them down. I’m not letting another drummer see me cry. But that doesn’t mean I can’t be really, really angry at them.
“Are you guys serious?” I say. “You might as well not care at all! What did all that time we spent together in band mean? Was it all just an excuse to get out of class?”
The nervous way they look at each other tells me everything I need to know. They don’t care. They never did, and they never will. They see drums as the easy instrument. But it’s not easy. I’ve seen what good drummers can do. It’s just that the material we play in band is, admittedly, really easy. Especially the percussion parts.
“So you guys don’t think you know how to play,” I say. “What about me? Do you think I know how to play?”
There’s an uncomfortable silence. Finally, Scott speaks up. “Honestly?”
“Dude, don’t. Just don’t,” Zeke says.
But he’s too late. Scott already has the words locked and ready to go. “You’re probably the worst one in the band.”
Zeke sighs and throws his hands in the air while making a mock slapping motion at Scott. I kind of wish he really would slap him.
“Don’t take that the wrong way,” Scott continues. “You play some really fast patterns, and learn new parts quicker than anyone. But you’re kind of sloppy, especially for symphonic band.”
“Sloppy?” I say. “Like I’m playing on a garbage can?”
Scott’s face turns several colors. “That’s not what I meant! Your drumming is just messy sometimes.” He hesitates before saying, “All the time, actually.”
My eyes are burning. I’m blinking in disbelief, my eyelids banging together like two gongs.
“I didn’t mean you were the worst drummer in the school,” Scott says. “You could’ve been a leading player in beginning concert band.”
But I don’t belong in symphonic band. That’s what he’s really saying—I’ve been out of my league this entire school year.
“Sorry, Sam,” Scott says. “I’m just being honest.”
I want to say something back. Something really clever that will bite him right where it hurts. It’s one thing to hear Danny tell me how terrible I am, but Scott is supposed to be my friend. Does he agree with Danny? Does he think I have no rhythm, and that I sound like I’m playing on a garbage can?
“Whatever” is all I manage to say.
Maybe Scott is right. Maybe Danny and Johnny Parker are right. Maybe everybody is right.
Except me.
I could probably accept that and move on to other things. Normal things. I could try harder in math. Try making more friends. Maybe even break into my mom’s makeup and smear it all over my face like Laura Wilson did when we were in third grade.
But it doesn’t work that way. Not for me. I want it to. But I can’t accept that music is over. I can’t settle for applied arts like Scott and Zeke. I don’t like anything else.
Turning a page in a book sounds like drums.
Mr. Warner writing algebraic equations on the board sounds like drums.
The sound of our feet slamming against the gym floor when we run laps sounds like drums.
When I’m so angry at Scott for hurting my feelings that my head starts to pound, I swear the pounding sounds like drums.
Even silence sounds like drums. They play in my head when I lie awake at night and listen to the hum of nothing.
Quitting drums is not an option. I have to figure out a way to keep playing, and teaching myself isn’t good enough anymore. I need to reach higher. If there won’t be any music classes next year, I’ll need private lessons. And if I need private lessons, I need money. I can’t get money from my parents, or my school, or anyone else. I can only get it myself.
I grab a sheet of paper and a pencil and bring it to my drum desk, shoving aside the encyclopedias and the Calvin and Hobbes snare drum. At the top of the paper, I write Ways to Make Money. Almost immediately, I know my title is incomplete. Private lessons are an ongoing expense. If Pete Taylor’s lessons are thirty dollars for a half hour, it’s a good bet most other teachers willing to have me as a pupil will ask for something similar. That means my goal should be thirty dollars a week, if not more. I look at the words Ways to Make Money and scribble below it, in big bold letters, EVERY WEEK. Then I underline it to remind myself how important it is.
What are things that need to be done every week? My chores, of course, but I rarely get my allowance since my dad lost his job, and it wasn’t much anyway. Even if it was a ton of money, I can’t rely on something so inconsistent.
So what kinds of things do other people need? Neighbors, friends, or relatives? I think back to winter when I spent the day after a big snowstorm shoveling snow. I made about twenty dollars that day—not quite enough, but a good start. It’s been a warm start to spring, though, so snow shoveling is out of the question at this point.
Brian barges into my room with tape on his face, toilet paper wrapped around his torso, and a baseball glove on one hand, and says, “What are you doing?”
“I should ask the same,” I say.
“I’m trying to start the first mummy baseball league. What are you doing?”
“Nothing you need to know about.” I sigh and turn my attention back to my sheet of paper. Brian creeps up behind me, boosts himself up so he can be tall enough to look over my shoulder, and says, yet again, “What are you doing?”
I cover the title at the top of the paper with my hand. “Why do you keep asking?”
“Because you keep not telling.”
“And I’m not going to, no matter how many times you ask.”
My brother scratches his head. “What if I start singing Beethoven?”
“You don’t even know who Beethoven was.”
“I’ll find out who he was and sing his songs at the top of my lungs.”
“Beethoven is mostly instrumental, and the lyrics he did write weren’t even in English. You can’t sing his songs.”
“I’ll find a way.”
He probably will. And it will be horrifying when he does. My brother isn’t going anywhere until I talk, so I come up with an idea. “Tell you what, Brian. Let’s make a deal.”
He smiles innocently.
“I’ll tell you what I’m doing if—and only if—you help me think of a way to do it,” I say.
Brian nods and gives me a thumbs-up. “Yes! Just call me Idea Man!”
I shake my head and continue, “I need to make some money. Thirty dollars a week or more. You have any ideas?”
“What do you need it for?”
“Not so fast! You need to come up with a good idea first.”
Brian pouts, but doesn’t push it any further. He sits cross-legged on the floor of my room, puts his head in his hands, and makes a face like a baby trying to concentrate really hard on—well, you know what I mean.
Then he stands up quickly and says, “I’ve got nothing. What about you?”
I uncover the sheet of paper with the words Ways to Make Money EVERY WEEK at the top. Brian looks at it, makes an ugly face, and points at the center where I wrote Shovel Snow and crossed it out.
“There’s no snow anymore,” Brian says.
“No kidding,” I say. “That’s why it’s crossed out.”
“Okay, so what does a snow shoveler do in warm weather?”
“A snow shoveler doesn’t do anything.”
“No way! They have to do something.”
“Yeah, they wait for the winter.”
“That’s all?”
I shrug.
Brian’s eyes light up. “Lawn mowing! You could mow lawns!”
I ponder the idea. Brian does have a point. Lawn mowing is a good idea. It’s something I could easily do if Dad will let me use his mower.
That leads me to my next problem.
“Okay,” I say. “Good thinking.”
“Of course,” he says. “I’m Idea Man, remember?”
“There’s just one more thing you can help with.”
Brian shakes his head. “No way. Pay up first.”
“I’m not telling everything,” I say. “I’ll show you something that will give you a hint. Then I’ll tell you more if you can help me with an idea again.”
“Deal,” he says. He tries to get me to pinky promise, but I swat his hand away.
I grab my drumsticks out from under my desk and show them to him. He laughs and says, “You eat with chopsticks?”
“Of course not!” I say. “They’re drumsticks!”
He gives me a weird look, like I’m some sort of space alien. “You play the drums?”
I want to scream. Why is it so weird for me to play the drums? Or want to, at least. “You’ve never heard me playing on the encyclopedias?”
“Is that what that was? I thought you were trying to juggle or something.”
“I hate juggling.”
>
“Juggling hates you, too.”
“Maybe it does. Anyway, that’s all you get to know until you help me get Dad to let me borrow the lawn mower.”
Brian’s face tightens. His mouth droops into a frown. “Uh-uh. Dad will never let you.”
“Come on, Brian!”
“Dad won’t even let me have an extra glass of juice with dinner. Forget it.”
Brian tries to leave, but I grab him by the shoulders and anchor him in place. “Please! You have to help me think of a way! If you do, I’ll tell you everything.”
“Nope. No way. I’m outta here!”
Brian leaves my room. My anger surges the moment he closes the door, and I throw my drumsticks across the room. They hit the wall with a smack and collapse to the floor, landing in the lap of an old stuffed tiger I’ve had since I was four. I can’t seem to get rid of him.
Brian’s right. Dad will never let me borrow the lawn mower. I can imagine a million ways the conversation will end, and none of them will be in my favor.
But I have to try. It’s the only way.
During breakfast a few mornings later, I finally gather the courage to ask about the lawn mower. I’ve practiced reciting all sorts of reasons and excuses for why I need to borrow it. I even wrote a speech by hand and delivered my soliloquy to the mirror until I’d almost convinced myself to lend out the lawn mower.
It’s just my dad and me in the kitchen when I finally go for it. My mom is upstairs somewhere, arguing with Brian about the shirt he wants to wear. I don’t even want to know which one they’re talking about. My dad is pouring a cup of coffee when I say, “Could I ask a favor?”
His eyes perk open and glare at me. His pupils sag. He always looks like this if he’s grouchy and tired. Not a good beginning to our conversation.
“I was wondering if I could borrow the lawn mower,” I say. “Just a couple of days a week.”
“What were you planning on doing with it?” he asks.
“Mowing lawns.”
“Don’t be a smart aleck, Sam.”
A cold feeling passes through me. I’m screwing this up already. “Sorry. I just wanted to make a little extra money mowing lawns for some of our neighbors.”