Revenge Of A Band Geek Gone Bad

by Rabinowitz, Naomi

  REVENGE OF A BAND GEEK GONE BAD

  By Naomi Rabinowitz

  CHAPTER 1

  A light September breeze swept through Sequoia High, filling the quiet hallways with the scent of cut grass and falling leaves. As the seventh period bell rang, those halls suddenly swarmed with students anxious to finish their day and begin the first weekend of the school year. A group of juniors rushed by, chatting about last night's math homework. The cheerleaders giggled and tossed their glossy hair as they made plans for their annual "Back To School" party. The drama club members hung posters inviting students to try out for this year's musical, A Chorus Line, and compared notes on who'd had the best summer at theater camp. And the football players shouted to one another and gave each other high-fives as they vowed that Sequoia would beat Smithfield at the homecoming game.

  Meanwhile, I staggered and stumbled down the hallway holding my largest textbook —- history —- behind me, in a vain attempt to cover my ass. Literally. I'd busted right through my jeans. In the back. And now everybody had a full view of my purple flowered underpants.

  ###

  My mom warned me against buying these jeans. She was pretty sure that after having spent my summer guzzling down sodas and scarfing potato chips that I was no longer a size 10 and had moved up to a 12. But after spending my break listening to her lecture me about the dangers of eating too much junk food, I was determined to prove her wrong about my weight. So in an act of sheer stubbornness and with my best friend Lana cheering me on, I purchased The Jeans, even though they squeezed my thighs like a sausage casing and nearly cut off my circulation. Still, they fit -- technically -- and I did manage to get into them after spending about 10 minutes lying flat on my bed zipping them up. I then proved to my mom that I’m not as fat as she thinks I am.

  "See, Mom?" I said, twirling around —- make that hobbling around —- to show off my skin-tight pants. "They fit fine."

  Mom looked up from where she was sitting at our round, wooden kitchen table and took a long sip of coffee from the "Musicians Duet Better" mug I'd given her for her birthday. Unlike me, she was wearing a very sensible tan tweed skirt and cream silk blouse, looking every bit like the professional violinist she is. She eyed The Jeans and crinkled her brow in disgust.

  "No they don't fit," she argued, putting down her coffee. She reached over to feel my pants in the back and I swatted her hand away. Really, who wants Mom touching her butt? "They're way too tight. You can hardly move in them, Melinda!"

  "But they look nice," I lied, ignoring the way my flesh spilled out in rolls over the top of the waistband. "And I can move fine." I slowly lowered myself into one of our chairs, trying not to let her hear me grunt in pain. I was all set to dig into a bagel and cream cheese, but my mom stopped me. "Cream cheese is fattening. Why don't you have some of my cereal and skim milk instead?"

  "Fine. Whatever." I wasn't about to argue with her over my breakfast when I was still trying to get her to approve my outfit. I poured myself a bowl of her disgusting bran cereal and gagged as I added the skim milk. It looked transparent, unlike normal milk which is a rich white color.

  "As I was saying, those pants look ridiculous," she went on. "But if this is how you want to go out in public, I'm not going to stop you." She sighed and pushed a wisp of her brown bob out of her eyes. "Just don't come crying to me when the other kids make fun of you for looking like a clown."

  Suddenly I didn't have an appetite. I pushed the cereal away, grabbed my book bag and flute, and stormed out of the room. "Believe me," I hissed to myself before slamming the front door shut. "Nothing they ever say will be worse than what comes out of your mouth."

  ###

  Unfortunately my fellow classmates can be pretty observant and before I knew it, I had a whole entourage following me down the hallway. Guess the history book wasn't doing the trick. "Nice pants, Mel!" called out Ryan Barsky, who like me, is a sophomore. His small, round body shook as he pointed and laughed. "I didn't realize we'd be getting a free peep show today." He made kissing noises. "And I love the flowers! I think my grandma has the same undies."

  It figures that Ryan would be the first to say something to me about them. He's always mouthing off to people. Like when he called Lana a slut on Facebook after her ex-boyfriend Ken Samuels bragged that they'd had sex in a movie theater. Only they've never even slept together; Ken made that up. But Ryan didn't care and to this day, still tries to get in Lana's pants.

  Ryan was soon joined by Tamara Guest, our school's Bitch Extraordinaire. "Smellinda, what is the deal with the granny pants?" she cackled as she fell into step behind me. She was also wearing skin-tight jeans but on her tiny frame they fit fine. Actually, it's virtually impossible for her to not look spectacular. She's got very short, dark spiky hair, perfect skin and large, brown doe eyes that always make teachers think she's Miss Innocent. But Tamara, innocent? Hardly! Just ask the football players. There’s a good reason why she’s known as “Be Our Guest.”

  Right then, Tamara was waving her hand around and making a face as if she smelled something bad. "Whew, are those skid marks I see on your undies, Mel?" she asked. She laughed. "You know, maybe you ought to look into wearing some adult diapers. Is that why you're wearing your grandmother's underwear, because you're in-cog-ni-cent?"

  I didn't bother to tell her that the right word for not being able to hold it is incontinent. Instead, I quickened my pace and bowed my head, wondering how the hall suddenly became 10 miles long. Tamara wasn't yet finished. "You know, you just need to give it up already and start shopping in those big girl stores," she said. "Go out and find some clothes that actually fit, that are made for a fat cow like you!"

  I'd had enough. I know you're supposed to ignore bullies and all that, but she just wasn't giving it up. Whirling around to face her, I snapped, "Shut up, already!" Yeah, I know, real cutting, right? But I hate confrontations and would rather that people just leave me alone.

  Tamara obviously wasn’t impressed and just kept smirking at me. That's when I realized that I'd moved my textbook and my underwear was more visible than ever. I went to put it back in place, but Tamara snatched it out of my hands and threw it on the floor. Now I was forced to bend over to get it, giving everyone the full view of the purple flowers ... not to mention my enormous behind.

  "Moooooo!" someone yelled behind me. "Moooo-liiinda!"

  "Moooo-liiinda!" yelled Ryan and Tamara.

  "MOOOOO-LIIIINDA!" shouted a bunch of other students.

  I put my book back into place and ran, trying to pretend that I couldn't hear them. It didn't work. I knew that even after I'd escaped, they'd still be laughing at me. And I knew that their words and my mom's would echo through my head for a long time to come.

  ###

  I finally made it to my last period, wind ensemble. There I could sit down and hide my ripped pants, at least until I had to race for my bus. Breathing a sigh of relief, I slid into one of the fold-out chairs, tied my brown hair into a bun and unpacked my flute. I love band mainly because I'm naturally good at music. I was even named first chair flute last year. Now I'm thinking of going to a music school like Juilliard for college. I like the idea of being in a place where I can play my flute all day and not have to deal with idiots like Tamara.

  Unfortunately, even in wind ensemble I couldn't entirely escape Tamara. Her best friend, Kathy Meadows, is second chair flute and is dying to steal my seat away from me.

  ###

  I'm not sure why Kathy is so obsessed with being first chair. Don't get me wrong; she's a very talented player. She was even selected along with me to play in the regional band last year. But she also seems to have it going on in every other aspect of her life. She'
s tall and thin (which I'm not), has long, red hair and almond-shaped eyes (which I don't), and is even dating a guy in college (which I am so totally not given that I'm 15 and still haven't even kissed a boy). Anyway, since Kathy's basically Sequoia High's version of Miss America, I don't understand why she cares so much about band of all classes.

  But Kathy's one of those annoying, super-competitive types who's head of the yearbook, class treasurer and well, has to be the best at everything. She's made it very clear that she intends to win my coveted seat. She even told me to my face that she hates me after I won my chair last year. Seriously. Talk about a sore loser.

  It didn't surprise me that she was waiting to pounce. As soon as I sat down, she leaned in toward me, her pink iPhone in hand. Obviously, she and Tamara had been texting each other about me. "I heard about your little 'accident,' Mel, that you blew right through your pants," she said, smoothing out her black mini skirt. She turned the music stand, the one that we're supposed to be sharing, so that it faced only her. "This is wind ensemble, not breaking wind ensemble."

  Not bothering to answer her, I grabbed the stand and moved it back to my side. I then put my flute together. Playing an instrument is a lot like singing; you don't want to jump right into it without doing some exercises first, especially when you have a 20-year-old secondhand flute like I do. So at the start of each rehearsal I like to run through my scales and musical drills. Our auditions were scheduled for the next week and there was no way that I was going to lose my chair to her. Kathy may be popular and post obnoxious things about me online, but I refused to let her take this one thing for me. I already practice two or three hours a day, but every bit counts –- which is why I was able to beat her out of the seat last year. Sometimes not having a life is a good thing.

  Kathy was still rambling on. "I don't see the point in you warming up," she said. She shrugged and twirled a red curl around her finger, then tapped her flute. "I've been practicing my butt off this summer. I'm going to kick your ass during auditions."

  “Good luck with that,” I muttered, for once confident in myself.

  ###

  A few minutes later, Mr. Francis waddled in and approached his conductor's podium. He was wearing one of his trademark outfits: a light blue short-sleeved shirt with a big yellow stain on it and yellow pants (to match the stain, I guess). No one dared laugh. Instead, the room immediately quieted down as he rapped his baton against the stand to get our attention. "Let's run some drills!" he barked. He pushed his comb-over out of his eyes. "Then we'll start auditions.” A murmur spread around the classroom. Auditions?! They were supposed to be the next week! As if reading our minds, Mr. Francis grinned –- actually it looked more like he was baring his teeth -- and said, “Yeah, I know, I’m catching some of you off guard. But you should’ve been practicing your instruments all summer. This music is not tough at all. So spare me any complaints; anyone who’s going to be a crybaby can leave now. And I expect everyone to be good,” he added, “not like the last rehearsal where most of you sounded like zoo animals!" His wide bulbous forehead was already dripping with sweat and his mouth was now arranged into a frown. This was not good. He was in a bad mood.

  Mr. Francis' reign of terror is something of a legend in Sequoia High, hell on all of Long Island. Play a wrong note and he won't just criticize you; he'll scream until he turns beet red. Mess up right before a concert and forget about it, he'll throw a music stand at you. Rumor even has it that he once tried to strangle a player with a saxophone neck strap after the poor student dropped his instrument during a performance. But if this is true, the school doesn't seem to care since Mr. Francis is still employed. It could be because his band has won top honors in the New York state competition for 12 years running.

  For the most part, he likes me since I practice and get the notes right. Still, the last thing I wanted to do was get on his bad side. None of us did. So without hesitating we lifted our instruments, getting ready to play.

  It was then that one of the trumpet players raised his hand. "Mr. Francis, I hope you're really not planning to make us audition today," the person said. "These competitions inhibit our creativity and individuality." Mr. Francis's eyes bulged, while the rest of us groaned. Joshua Kowalski was at it again.

  ###

  Josh is a junior and is pretty cute with his shaggy, light-brown hair and deep blue eyes. But the feature that stands out -— at least to his many female admirers —- is the lopsided grin he flashes whenever something amuses him.

  When it comes to Josh, though, he thinks everything is a joke. He's a musical prodigy and plays trumpet even better than Mr. Francis does, but insists on sitting last chair. If our conductor forces him to audition, Josh will purposely make mistakes. He claims that it's because he doesn't believe in the auditioning process, but I think he just enjoys getting a rise out of Mr. Francis.

  Meantime, Josh shows about the same amount of respect in the rest of his classes. Though he aced his PSATs and gets straight A's without studying, he often skips classes. When he is there, he's always pulling pranks on his teachers. One time he brought a lawn chair to math, then plopped down in it holding a beer as if he were at the beach (he got a week's suspension for that). Another time he locked his English sub out of the room when she was clueless enough to step outside (that only got him a week's detention). Last year, he even got us a day off from school. When workers began fixing the roof, several students complained about the fumes but the school refused to let us go home. So what did Josh do? He alerted the media about our "plight." Not wanting to look bad, Principal Muller was forced to let us stay home until the roof was fixed. Needless to say, Josh became the school's hero. Now he's never without a girl on his arm and gets invited to the jocks' parties, even though he's not on any sports teams.

  Anyway, we all collectively sighed as Josh went on about the unfairness of auditions. "Music's supposed to be something that we can all enjoy, right?" he was saying. "I mean, we deal with enough of 'The Man' keeping us down. You don't want to be 'The Man' now, do you Mr. Francis? It's anti-American." Josh stood up and hopped onto his chair, which is in the back of the room with the other trumpets, and began to loudly play The Star-Spangled Banner. I cringed as I waited for Mr. Francis to react.

  The inevitable explosion took place in about two seconds. "Kowalski, must you always interrupt my class?" shouted Mr. Francis.

  Josh stopped playing for a moment. "I'm just being patriotic, sir," he said, giving Mr. Francis a little salute. "They always start with the National Anthem before ball games, right? I figured you'd want us to show the same respect in your class since music seems to be nothing but a game to you."

  Mr. Francis clenched his baton so hard, it snapped. He reached for another from his black briefcase. "You will play what I ask you to play and when I ask you to play!" he declared. Only the way he said it, he sounded as if he were growling.

  Josh wasn't fazed. He knew that Mr. Francis wanted to keep him around because he's the best trumpet player. "Fine, suit yourself. But I think I have a good idea here. Don't blame me if the students don't have any respect for this country."

  "The only thing I want them showing respect for is ME!" our conductor hollered. He slammed his fist against his podium. "This is MY class and I'm sick and tired of your interruptions. I don't know why I allow you to come back here since you obviously don't want to be here in the first place. Get out, get out, GET OUT!" As he finished his tirade, another baton was snapped in half.

  "Okay, I'm going," Josh said. He slowly began to pack up his trumpet. "But don't miss me too much."

  A chair was thrown on the floor. "I SAID GET OUT!"

  Josh didn't argue with him this time. But as he sauntered out of the band room, I could’ve sworn that I caught Josh looking right at me.

  ###

  “Was I imagining things?” I wondered, feeling a blush creep over my face. “Why would a good-looking upperclassman like Josh even give me the time of day? He was probably just looking at the rest o
f the band to gauge our reactions, I told myself, and returned to the music. By now, Mr. Francis was so riled up he could barely get out any words. Instead, he grunted and muttered as he pointed his baton at various students and choked out things like, "YOU! First measure!" or "First clarinet —- D scale!" Each player he picked would widen his or her eyes in horror and do what he asked, no questions. Yet Mr. Francis was never satisfied.

  "Mr. Samuels, is that a trumpet or a dying frog?" he asked Ken, who's first chair since Josh won't challenge him for it. Lana's ex, Ken, is a football player and towers over our conductor, but he slumped down as Mr. Francis's words hit him.

  "Greenhouse! What's that noise coming out of your French horn? Are those supposed to be notes or do you have a bad case of gas?" he bellowed to Amy Greenhouse, a sophomore. She turned an alarming shade of crimson and her eyes filled with tears.

  As he made the rounds, I prayed that he wouldn't pick me for a while so I could study the music. The pieces we're playing aren't too difficult. Our fall concert's theme is Broadway so we're performing selections from a bunch of musicals. Mr. Francis mostly had everyone play excerpts from the medley, Broadway For The Band, which includes tunes from Annie, Sweeney Todd and Les Miserables. I'm not sure what orphans, murderers and the French Revolution have in common, but the music itself isn't too hard, definitely a lot easier than the Hindemith Sonata, which is the piece I played for the last recital. Even though I hadn't been expecting to audition, I was sure that I could pull it off and keep my chair.

  Toward the end of the period, Mr. Francis finally turned to me. "Miss Rhodes," he said in a voice that was slightly more gentle than earlier. "Why don't you serenade us with the sweet sounds of 'On My Own.' "

  I nodded and turned to the Les Mis section of the piece, then picked up my flute and planned to blow him away.

  A bunch of squeaks escaped from the instrument.

  Mr. Francis looked at me and raised an eyebrow. He wasn't expecting me to be the one to screw up.