by Mike Grosso
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he says. “You have plenty of time to think about college.”
“Is Juilliard a good school for music?” I ask.
“It’s the good school for music. In the States, at least.”
“Do you think I could get accepted there?”
Pete sighs and shakes his head. “I told you not to get ahead of yourself.”
The rest of the ride is longer than I expected. We leave the town of Eastmont and head into the city, taking the Eisenhower Expressway into downtown Chicago before heading off in a new direction. The Kirkwood Music Academy is at the end of a really crowded street and is noticeable only by a faded black sign that looks like it’s going to fall down any second. We park the car in what I hope is a legal space and make our way inside.
“Let me do the talking,” he says. “If Ms. Stanky asks you any questions, keep your answers short and polite. This isn’t the time to showcase your inner firecracker. Save that for the recital.”
“Her name is Ms. Stanky?” I ask. “Seriously?”
Pete gives me the worst evil eye I’ve ever seen. “Don’t you dare crack up in front of her! She’s heard it plenty of times, and she’s not interested in being laughed at by a twelve-year-old.”
I slump my shoulders. “Okay! I won’t say anything.”
Our conversation has made me nervous, so I grab a stick of gum out of my pocket and pop it in my mouth. I follow Pete through a few empty hallways. There’s no one here, except for a few people in offices and a faint smell of books left out in the rain. Almost everything is made of a dark wood and squeaks when touched.
My clothes are uncomfortable. They rub against me in weird ways, and my body feels like a prisoner inside them. The dress shoes are probably the worst. Every step on the hard wood floor hurts my heels.
“Is that gum?” Pete asks.
I nod.
“Spit it out,” he says, then looks around at the old wood and lack of garbage cans and says, “No no no, swallow it.”
“I’m not swallowing it,” I say. “That’s gross.”
Pete grunts and runs his hands over his beard. “Okay, just don’t let her see you chewing. She once found chewed-up gum all over the instruments in her storage room. Gum has been a banned substance in here ever since.”
“Fine,” I say. “I won’t chew it.” I press the gum against the side of my bottom teeth, wedging it in. Then I open my mouth and stick out my tongue, showing Pete there’s nothing there. He waves me away and continues on.
We walk up a set of stairs and enter a very small office. A woman with crazy curly hair and faded clothes sits at a desk, giving us a tired smile as we enter.
“Nice to see you, Pete,” she says. “It’s been a while.”
“It has, Pam,” he says. “Didn’t feel like coming around after last time.”
“Understandable. Nevertheless, it’s good to see you. What brings you here today?”
Pete points to me. “This is Sam. She’s my newest student.”
Pam looks closely at me, squinting her eyes. “So Pete dragged you all the way down here, did he? How are you enjoying your lessons, Sam?”
“They’re good,” I say. “I like your office, Ms. Stanky.”
Pete winces, then quickly looks us both over. Pam looks back at him—nothing in her gaze shows offense at me using her last name. She says, “She’s polite. I like that.”
Pete laughs and says, “I’m not so sure it came from me.”
Pam cocks her head and looks at me again. “I assume you brought her here because she’s good?”
“Yes, she still has plenty of work to do, but she’s up and coming.”
“And her attitude?”
“Decent for a twelve-year-old.”
“What’s wrong with being twelve?” I ask.
“Nothing, in most cases,” Pam says. “In others, everything is wrong with being twelve. And it stays wrong at thirteen, and fourteen, and sometimes even at forty-seven, like me.” She leans forward and taps the top of my hand. “Don’t you dare tell anyone my real age.”
“I won’t,” I say.
She laughs and turns back to Pete. “What do you expect me to do with her?”
Pete sits back in his chair and folds his arms against his chest. “Put her in the recital you’re hosting three weeks from now.”
Pam laughs. “I can’t do that, Pete. There’s no room.”
“There’s always room. I know how you work. You always have a few empty spots for complaining parents.”
“Is that what you are now?”
“No. I’m much worse.”
Pam exhales and opens a drawer in her desk. She pulls out a small notebook and flips open the pages, scanning through it. Then she closes it, holds it out in front of her, and says, “You haven’t told me why. Why should I put her in the recital?”
“Because she’s worth it,” Pete says.
“That’s up to me to decide. All you can do is dress her up and pray I don’t spot her flaws at first glance. And you know I’ll find them soon enough, just as quickly as I found those of that last little charmer you sent here.”
“I don’t teach Johnny anymore. You know that.”
Johnny? Does he mean Johnny Parker? That means it’s true that Pete kicked him off his roster.
“You’re a good music teacher,” she says. “I’ll give you that. But I never had problems with respect until I started taking your students.”
“That was only one student.”
“Yes. One student with the foulest mouth I’d ever heard. Do you remember what he said to my violinists? Do you have any idea what I went through after they told their parents?”
Pete’s fists tighten, and so do my own when I see his temper flaring up. “She’s not Johnny! She’s only twelve, and she’ll be wiping the floor with him before she’s thirteen!”
“Then come back when she’s thirteen, and maybe I’ll reconsider.”
That makes my blood boil. Another person in my life who thinks I can’t do anything, and she’s a musician. She should know better.
Pete looks desperate as he says, “Her school is cutting its music program! She doesn’t have anywhere else to go!”
Pam shakes her head. “You think that’s only happening to her?”
It must be a nervous reaction. I don’t even notice my tongue flicking at the gum wedged against my bottom teeth, detaching it and flinging it back onto my tongue. I’m chewing frantically, trying to wear down my anger before I explode at this woman with a few words Johnny probably wanted to use when he was standing right where I am now.
Pam shakes her head, disappointed. Then she glares at Pete and says, “You didn’t even tell her my rule about gum? Come on, Pete. Are you even trying?”
Pete looks at the floor, motionless. If I couldn’t see his chest rising and falling, I’d think he’d stopped breathing.
“Let’s go, Sam,” Pete says. “It was a mistake to come here.”
Pete rises and walks out of Pam’s office. He leaves the door open for me to follow, but I don’t move. I stay where I am, still as a board and meeting Pam’s gaze. Her eyes never turn away from me. Something tells me she is very good at staring contests.
“You seem like a nice enough kid,” she says, “and I’ll bet you’re pretty good. But I swore to my superiors that I’d never work with your teacher again, and I meant it. I’m sorry you’re caught in the middle.”
My first instinct is to defend Pete, but I suspect I have nothing to say that she hasn’t already heard. And maybe part of me believes she’s right—the almighty Pete Taylor isn’t the greatest drum teacher in the world, like I’ve always believed. He has flaws just like everyone else. Like me.
When I don’t leave, Pam’s face softens, but her voice remains just as stern. “I really am sorry. I wish I could help, but I can’t.”
“I know,” I say. “I just wanted to ask if I could borrow a napkin.”
“Don’t have any.�
�
“How about a tissue?”
Pam reaches beside her desk and pulls a tissue out of a big red box of Kleenex and holds it out for me.
“Any way I can bother you for two?” I ask.
She grabs a second tissue and offers both. I take them from her, cup them in my hand, one on top of the other, and reach into my mouth to pull out the gum I’ve been hiding.
“Garbage?” I say.
Pam points to the corner behind the door where there’s an empty metal wastebasket.
“I know Pete can be a real pain,” I say, “but he’s the only person in my life who doesn’t make me feel stupid for wanting this.”
My thumb presses into the tissue and smashes the gum into a tight ball.
“I’m glad I met you,” I say. “You don’t make me feel stupid for wanting this either.”
I throw my gum in the garbage. It hits the bottom with a loud thud.
“Thank you for seeing us,” I say, “and sorry about the gum.”
I turn around and walk out of her office. Pete is waiting for me but not looking in my direction. I don't blame him. It stinks when a good idea ends up a total waste.
The walk outside feels longer than the walk in. Everything I see is something I’m going to miss out on. Open doors filled with instruments I will never play. Rehearsal spaces where I will never rehearse. Recital rooms where I will never perform. It doesn’t make me sad, exactly; yesterday I didn’t even know this place existed. But it doesn’t make me feel great, either.
As if things weren’t bad enough, I notice something out of the corner of my eye—a father and son entering the building, headed our way. The father wears a suit that shines under the dim light inside the building. The son wears a button-down shirt and wrinkled tie, and he holds a saxophone in his arms.
It’s Danny Lenix. With his father.
Our eyes meet for a split second, and we both turn away as fast as possible. Good. I don’t want to talk to him right now, especially in this unlikely and unlucky place to meet. Danny’s father, on the other hand, must be the social type—he recognizes me right away, approaches Pete with an outstretched hand, and says, “Nice to finally meet you. I ran into your wife a few times last year when our children were in fifth grade together.”
Pete sees Mr. Lenix’s extended hand and reluctantly shakes it, but doesn’t correct him.
“I suppose you’ve also spoken with the principal at Kennedy about our children not getting along?” Mr. Lenix says.
Half of Danny’s face is hidden behind his father, ready to explode with embarrassment. I look at Pete and cringe as I try to read his expression. It’s surprisingly emotionless as he says, “I’m actually Sam’s drum teacher, but I’m sure her father knows all about the situation.”
Mr. Lenix looks surprised. He wrinkles his lips like he’s not sure how to react. “I suppose I’ll save my lecture for him. Let’s go, Daniel.”
Danny and his father walk past us without saying goodbye. I wait for Danny to turn around and give me his typical last-minute sneer while his dad’s not looking, but even he finds this moment too embarrassing to harass me.
Pete and I walk outside to pouring rain. We find his car where he parked it, thankfully. At least one thing didn’t go wrong today.
He unlocks the passenger-side door and lets me in. He’s walking around to the driver’s side with rain pelting down on him when I imagine Danny performing in Kirkwood. Smug face with a saxophone shoved in his mouth, his father in the audience, clapping the whole time. Something breaks inside me, and I start to cry. Pete enters silently, allowing me a few minutes to let it all out. He pulls a tissue from his pocket and offers it to me, but it’s covered in lint, and I don’t want one anyway.
When I finally get myself under control, he says, “You want to tell me what that was all about?”
I take a deep breath and tell him everything. About the mallet incident, and about Dr. Pullman’s phone calls, and about stealing the lawn mower every Saturday to pay for lessons. Pete is silent the whole way through.
When he senses I’m finished, he says, “I suspected something was up, but nothing like this. You need to tell your parents, Sam.”
He’s the second person to tell me that today. The second person who doesn’t get it. “I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. You can’t hide how much you love drums. If it’s that important, you need to share it with your family.”
I wish Pete knew what that actually meant. Did his family understand when he made music his life?
“Promise me you’re going to tell them,” he says. “I can’t keep teaching you in secret.”
I wipe the damp hair out of my face and nod in agreement. “Just give me some time to figure out how.”
“Deal.”
Pete is starting up his car when his cell phone rings, causing us both to jump. He takes one look at the display and gets out of the car, leaving his keys in the ignition. His back faces me as he speaks to whoever is on the other end. I try to listen while he talks for a good five minutes, but all I hear is muffled words spoken barely above a whisper. I hope his cell doesn’t get too wet—we’ve had enough bad news for one day.
He hangs up and gets into the car, soaking wet all over, and sits without a word as we listen to his engine rumble. After thirty seconds of uncomfortable silence, he finally speaks.
“I don’t know how you do it, kid,” he says.
“Do what?” I ask.
“Everything I can’t do. Talk to people like you don’t want to punch them, mostly.”
“I do want to punch people sometimes. I just prefer marimba mallets over my fists.”
Pete laughs. “Well, you have an amazing poker face, then.”
I look him in the face, and it’s weird. I’ve never seen him like this. I’ve seen him angry. Stubborn. Most of the time directed at me. Now, for once, he actually seems happy.
“What’s going on?” I say. “Is something wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong, kid,” he says. “That was Her Royal Highness, Ms. Pam Stanky, on the phone. You’re in the recital.”
The rain has stopped long before we’re out of the city and back at Pete’s house. Pete tells me to think about what sort of style I might like to try for the recital. I thank him for taking me to Kirkwood, and he says a million times not to thank him—the best way to show my appreciation is to practice. He even refuses his weekly fifteen dollars, arguing that he didn’t really teach me anything today. I disagree.
Pete offers to drop me off, but I decide to walk home from his house. I’m supposed to be coming home from Kristen’s. It would look pretty weird if my parents caught sight of Pete’s car while I’m walking in the door.
I’m just arriving home when I hear the phone ringing. I dash through the front hall to pick it up. “Hello?”
“Sam?” It’s Kristen.
Then another voice on the line says, “Sam can’t come to the phone right now. She’s too busy picking her nose.” My brother, the little brat, must have grabbed the phone at the same time I did. “I can have her call you back once she’s dug out all the—”
“Get off the phone!” I yell.
There’s a high-pitched scream, then a click, and then silence.
“Um, Sam?” Kristen says.
“Yeah, I’m right here,” I say. “And I haven’t been picking my nose or anything.”
“As long as you’re wiping them on his pillow.” We both laugh. “Everything okay?”
“Fine. You could have gotten us busted calling here.”
“You were supposed to call me when you got back. It’s, like, eight thirty. I was starting to get worried.”
I check the clock on the wall. She’s right. “Sorry. I just got in. Everything’s fine. Did my parents call to check up on me?”
“Nope. All clear.” Her voice goes quiet as she says, “I haven’t heard from you about my pool party.”
That’s right. I’d almost forgotten. Dr. Pul
lman never contacted my parents, so I’m not officially grounded. I should be clear to go. “When is it again?”
“It’s on Saturday, about three weeks from now.”
“I’ll be there,” I say at first. Then my mouth drops open and the hairs on my neck stand up. “Wait, I can’t.”
Silence at first. Then she says, “Why not?”
“I have a—” Careful with the way you say it, Sam. “I have a drum thing going on.”
“A drum thing?”
“Yeah, it’s like a recital. Only way cooler. I mean, not as cool as your party, but—”
“It’s no big deal. Whatever.”
I hear her breath quickening through the phone. She says it’s okay, but I can tell when she’s mad, and she’s mad right now. She wouldn’t be if I had that headphone jack to make her understand it’s nothing personal. “It is a big deal, Kristen! I totally want to come. It’s just that this drum thing is a music academy. I went to meet the person in charge tonight. That’s why I needed you to cover for me. It’s really important.”
“More important than my party. I get it.”
“Wait, Kristen. Listen.”
“It’s okay, Sam. I’ll just talk to you later.” The line clicks, and the phone is silent. Kristen is gone. I let the phone drop to the ground with a clang, not bothering to hang it up.
My brother appears in the nearest doorway and says, “Back to picking your nose?”
I can’t even bear to look at him, so I cradle my head in my forearms to cover my eyes.
“Why did Kristen call? Weren’t you just at her house? All you guys do is talk all day long.” When I still don’t say anything, his voice becomes quieter. “Sam? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say through my arms.
The phone starts bleating its familiar off-the-hook warning. “Do you want me to hang that up for you?”
“No. I’ll do it.”
“I was just kidding about the nose-picking thing, and I don’t really care how long you talk on the phone.”
I press my eyes harder into my arms and say, “I know. I just want to be left alone.”