by Cary Fagan
The limousine pulled up in front of the school just as the bell rang. Jeremiah sprang out, his briefcase in one hand and his banjo bag on his shoulder.
No sooner had he begun walking up the stairs when someone called out, “What’s in that giant purse of yours, Birnbaum?” It was Damien Mills. “Let me guess. Your portable crib?”
Luella came up to him as he was putting the bag inside his locker.
“Gee, thanks for the idea of bringing the banjo to school,” he said. “I’m Mr. Popularity.”
“That’s because they don’t know what’s in it,” Luella said. “Just wait till lunch time. You can play outside.”
“No way. I’m not completely insane.”
“Come on. You want people to hear. Otherwise you wouldn’t have brought it.”
Jeremiah sighed. The truth was he did — kind of — want people to see his homemade banjo and hear him play.
“Okay,” he said. “But I’ll probably have to transfer to a different school afterwards. Maybe even a different planet.”
Usually lunch time seemed to take forever to arrive, but today it came all too quickly. Luella and Jeremiah ate in the cafeteria. Then they went to get the Flower Power bag out of his locker.
Spring was ready to become summer and the trees were green and full. Flowers filled the air with their scents. Bees hummed as they winged by. Students in their uniforms sat on the lush grass. Some threw Frisbees on the lawn.
Jeremiah and Luella walked to a maple tree and sat on the ground. Jeremiah undid the zipper on the side of the bag and pulled out the banjo. He started to tune it.
“What the heck is that? A garbage can on a stick?”
Of course Damien Mills would have to show up.
A few people on the lawn laughed.
Jeremiah started to put the banjo back in the bag.
Luella smacked Jeremiah on the arm to make him stop.
“Don’t you have anything better to do, Damien? Like set the science lab on fire again?”
“That was an accident.” He turned to Jeremiah. “So what is that anyway?”
“A banjo,” Jeremiah said quietly.
“Can you play it?”
“A little.”
Luella looked at him. Jeremiah put the pot on his right knee and positioned his hands. He started to play “Barlow Knife.” He made a couple of mistakes, but then he got into the rhythm of it.
People stopped talking to listen. He played it a few times and finished with a brush of his fingers across the strings.
There was a scattering of applause. Someone even hooted.
Jeremiah didn’t dare look up. Instead he started to play “Shady Grove.” He didn’t have the nerve to sing the words. Out of the corner of his eye he could see three or four kids move closer.
“Cool.” He looked up and saw Damien Mills. “Can you play something else?”
Jeremiah played “Little Gray Mule.” It was a fast tune with a lot of double-thumbing. He played it a little too fast and it almost got away from him, but he got to the end.
The bell rang. His heart now racing, Jeremiah put the banjo back in the bag. For the first time he felt like a real musician.
Luella nudged him with her elbow as she stood up.
“Nice going, Hayseed.”
“Hayseed! ” cried Damien. “That’s a good name for you. Hayseed Birnbaum. See you at the square dance, Hayseed.”
A couple of kids laughed. He heard somebody repeat the name Hayseed.
Jeremiah just shook his head. He knew the moment had been too good to be true.
9
Something by Bach
“WHAT ARE YOU having for lunch, Hayseed? Grits?”
“Hey, Hayseed, it’s time to milk the cows!”
“Hayseed, your grandpa just fell out of the rocking chair and lost his false teeth!”
Jeremiah didn’t know what grits were. But it didn’t matter. Even some of the kids who had liked his playing were calling him Hayseed. Jeremiah just kept his head down and didn’t answer. But if Luella was around it was a different story.
“How would you like me to knock the hay out of you?”
“Just what I need,” Jeremiah said to her at their lockers. “My own personal defender. Why don’t you put on a mask and cape?”
“I know it’s my fault,” Luella said. “But you know what? It’s not a bad nickname. I kind of like it, actually.”
“If my parents hear it they’ll totally flip out. They think nicknames are low-class.”
“Then you got yourself a mess of trouble, Hayseed,” Luella said, closing her locker.
What Jeremiah did like about the nickname was that it wasn’t about the color of his hair, or the fact that his family was rich. It was because of something he wanted to be. A banjo player.
After a few days people asked him when he was going to bring his banjo back to school. So he did, and at lunch time he played all the tunes he’d played before. He also played a new one, “Cripple Creek.” It had a high, bouncy first part and then a lower part with some slides that sounded like long waahs.
He even screwed up his courage to sing “Little Birdy,” although not very loud. Three or four people came to eat their lunch nearby. Some teachers stopped to listen. A couple of younger girls even hooked their arms together and laughed as they skipped in a circle.
It was strange how playing the banjo made Jeremiah feel different. He was no longer just a kid who didn’t have many friends. He was the kid who could build a musical instrument and learn to play it.
He was a musician.
•••
“I HOPE YOU’RE practicing enough,” Jeremiah’s mother said at dinner. “That Bach is pretty tricky. And I know how much you want to redeem yourself after the last talent night. Don’t you, sweetie-pie?”
“Actually,” Jeremiah said, pushing his shrimp creole around on his plate, “I was thinking maybe of not being in talent night this time. Just for a break.”
“We understand,” said his father. “We really do. It’s just like your mother and me with some of our other inventions. Remember that combination toaster and peanut butter spreader that we invented? We thought it was going to be a big hit.”
“And it would have been,” said his mother. “If it weren’t for the small issue of the electric shocks.”
“Fortunately, no one got hurt.”
“Well, there was that one incident…”
“Singed might be the word for it.”
“Oh, yes, we were in despair,” his mother said.
“And look at us now. You have to get back on that stage, Jeremiah.”
Jeremiah didn’t want to let his parents down, especially when he was feeling guilty for not telling them about the banjo. But Maestro Boris was less thrilled by Jeremiah playing Bach.
“I don’t think the boy is up to it,” he said, taking a gulp from the glass of fine French wine that Jeremiah’s mother had just handed him. “One of my easier studies might be more suitable. Perhaps ‘Pedagogical Study Number Two.’”
“Please, Maestro Boris. Jeremiah is very eager.”
“If you insist.”
“Do you hear, Jeremiah? You must be so excited.”
No, Jeremiah thought. “Yes,” Jeremiah said.
Jeremiah did not want to have another fiasco up on the stage of Fernwood Academy, so he practiced the piano until the keys swam before his eyes. And then for his own pleasure he went upstairs to his room and played the banjo. The notes that were so hard to find on the piano just appeared under his fingers on the banjo.
He didn’t want his parents to hear, and his playing had become louder. So he devised a barrier to keep the sound from leaking beyond his door. He built a wall of pillows from floor to ceiling and another wall of his old stuffed animals, held in place by three pairs of skis
leaning against them.
On the evening of talent night, Jeremiah had dinner with his parents. In the middle of the meal he turned so cold that his teeth actually chattered. Then he grew hot and felt that he might faint. He didn’t want his parents to see, so he pretended to tie his shoelaces, keeping his head down and breathing slowly.
“I must say, this is a night your father and I have been looking forward to,” said his mother. “The truth is, for a while there we thought we were pushing you too hard.”
“Yes, all that time you’ve been spending in your room had us wondering.”
“Wondering?” Jeremiah said, sitting up.
“Wondering why you needed all that rest.”
Jeremiah blushed and took a sip of water from his crystal glass.
“I’d better get ready,” he said.
In his room, Jeremiah put on a new shirt, a freshly ironed school tie, his blazer and gray pants and silk socks and polished shoes. When he went downstairs his parents were waiting, his mother in a shimmering evening gown and his father in a tuxedo.
“Come here, son,” said his father. “We’ve got a little something for you.”
“Really, that’s not necessary.”
“But we insist. Bring it here, will you, Monroe?”
The chauffeur appeared holding a bulky package. He put it on a side table and looked sympathetically at the younger Birnbaum.
Jeremiah undid the wrapping. Inside was a marble head on a stand. Long curls. Prominent nose and round cheeks. A scowl on its face.
“It’s Johann Sebastian Bach himself,” said his mother. “You can sit it right on the Hoosendorfer to inspire you.”
“That’s…really great,” Jeremiah said. “Thanks a lot.”
“Look at the time!” said his father, glancing at his watch. “We don’t want to be late.”
Monroe drove them to the Academy. There was a line of cars in the circular drive and they waited their turn to reach the front doors. Some of the students carried violin or trombone cases. Some wore dance costumes under their coats. Others carried sheet music under their arms.
Mr. and Mrs. Birnbaum walked with their son up the stairs, greeting other parents on their way to the auditorium.
There were still a few seats near the front. Jeremiah saw Luella come in with her parents. Her mother and father weren’t dressed up like Jeremiah’s parents. Luella herself wore a T-shirt with a skull on it above a frilly skirt, leggings and black boots.
She waved like mad when she saw Jeremiah.
He saw Maestro Boris enter, sniffing the air and raising one eyebrow. He saw Damien Mills nervously winding his tie around his fingers.
Soon the auditorium was packed. The lights dimmed, and a spotlight appeared on the stage. Principal Markworthy came out, tripped over a music stand, caught himself from falling, and smacked his chin against the microphone.
“Welcome progenitors, disciples and pedagogues,” the principal intoned. “We have reached the breadth and compass of our school year and find ourselves at this crowning night. As you know, at Fernwood Academy we strive to produce students with manifold talents and accomplishments. Being able to brazenly present yourself before an audience is a valuable skill. And now, let the manifestation begin!”
“He’s a fine speaker,” whispered Jeremiah’s father.
“Yes, a most impressive vocabulary,” agreed his mother.
Principal Markworthy called out the name of each student in turn. One by one they came up and played the piano, the cello, the flute. Jeremiah could tell where each student’s family sat in the audience, because the cheering from that spot was always the loudest.
Luella played a piece by Schubert on her violin. She liked what she was playing — Jeremiah could see that by the way she swayed to the music. It sounded good to him, too.
Damien Mills came up with the saxophone. He didn’t play very well. In fact, at one point he sounded like a honking car. Jeremiah couldn’t help feeling just a little bad for him. But Damien’s friends whistled and hooted anyway.
At that moment Jeremiah wished that he had done something — hand out ten-dollar bills, maybe — to make more friends who would cheer for him.
Jeremiah waited for his name to be called, hoping all the while that somehow Principal Markworthy would forget him. But before long the principal skipped up to the microphone again, being careful not to hit his chin this time. Instead, he grabbed it and pulled it so close to his mouth that a feedback squeal made everyone cover their ears.
“Sorry about that,” the principal said. “And now, Jeremiah Birnbaum.”
As Jeremiah stood up, he felt his legs wobble. He walked slowly up the aisle and then up the steps to the stage. He sat down on the bench and stared at the piano keys.
He couldn’t remember anything about playing the piano. He couldn’t even remember which note the piece started on.
He felt beads of sweat on his forehead. He put out his hands but still he couldn’t remember.
He gently touched a key. No, it wasn’t that one. Nor that one, either.
A bead of sweat rolled down Jeremiah’s forehead, along his nose, hovered a moment at the tip, and dropped onto a key. Maybe it was a sign, Jeremiah thought. He pressed the key.
But it wasn’t that one, either. He stood up. He didn’t know he was going to stand up. He just did. The lights shone down on him. He couldn’t see any faces. Just a vast audience staring at him. He tried to say something, to apologize or excuse himself, but no words came out of his mouth.
And then he ran.
•••
HE RAN to the edge of the stage and hopped down. He ran up the aisle, past his parents and all the other shocked faces. He heard exclamations of surprise, gasps and even laughter. But none of it made him slow down. He hit the door with both hands, making it swing open, and sprinted down the hall and out the front door.
Jeremiah didn’t stop until he was under the maple tree. It was dark, with only some winking stars above. He slumped down to the ground, letting his back slide against the bark of the tree.
What had he just done? His parents were going to be humiliated. He’d made himself into the school freak.
At the same time he had to admit that he was glad to be off that stage and away from the piano. Jeremiah breathed in the cool air and felt the familiar ground under him. He heard a lone cricket chirping nearby. He looked up and saw a moving pinprick of light — a shooting star or distant airplane.
How was he going to make himself find his parents and go home?
In a minute, he told himself, closing his eyes. Or maybe two.
And then he heard a voice.
“Okay, so it wasn’t your finest moment.” It was Luella.
“It didn’t take you long to find me,” he said.
“Yeah, I’m a real genius. Or maybe it’s because I sit with you here every day.”
“As long as no one else finds me. Ever.”
“Ever is a long time, Hayseed.”
“You can call me Hayseed. You can call me Loser. Nothing could make me feel worse.”
“Maybe. But I’ve got something that could make you feel better.”
Jeremiah saw her pull something from behind her back. Even in the dark he could recognize the Flower Power gig bag. She held it out to him.
“How did you get that?” he asked.
“I asked Monroe to bring it. He put it in the trunk. He’s a good guy, Monroe.”
“I know he’s a good guy. But why did you bring it? The concert must be over any minute.”
“I didn’t bring it for you to dazzle the Fernwood community. I brought it for you to play. For yourself. It always makes you feel better when you play, doesn’t it?”
“I guess so.”
“So, play something.”
Jeremiah closed his eyes again, hoping
as he once had as a little kid, that when he opened them everything would be different. But when he did open his eyes it was still dark. He was still sitting under the tree, and Luella was still holding out the Flower Power gig bag.
So he took it from her. He unzipped the bag and pulled out his banjo. He stuck it on his lap and tuned up. He sighed deeply. Then he began “Barlow Knife.”
And as he picked and strummed, as the fingers of his left hand deftly found the notes in the dark, he felt a little better.
He picked up the tempo and added some double-thumbing to add melodic notes. Then he played “Salt River,” and after that “Cluck Old Hen.”
He stopped and took a deep breath of the night air. And then he heard another voice.
“How did you ever learn to play like that?”
It was his father.
Jeremiah looked up. Just beyond the overreaching branches of the tree he saw his parents standing and watching him. And near them were Luella and Monroe and Maestro Boris.
“Dad, Mom,” he said, quickly putting down the banjo. “I’m sorry I ran out like that.”
“Did you really build that yourself?” his mother asked. “Monroe said you did.”
“The shop teacher helped.”
“You know,” his father said, “until now I’ve never actually heard someone play the banjo. It’s a pretty nice sound.”
“You really think so?”
“Absolutely.”
Maestro Boris stepped forward.
“May I see your instrument?” he asked.
Jeremiah held it out and Maestro Boris took it gingerly by the neck. He peered at it closely in the darkness, turning it upside down and around.
“A very interesting, if primitive, instrument. Of course many great composers were influenced by folk music. Beethoven. Dvorak. Real music always touches the soul. Even music from a...cookie tin.”
He gave the banjo back to Jeremiah.
“Play another, Jeremiah,” his mother said.
“I don’t think — ”
“Please,” said his father. “For us.”
Jeremiah sat down and began to play his latest tune, “Wildwood Flower.” He didn’t play it too quickly, but let the first low notes vibrate like someone twanging a fat elastic band. Then he let the bright, high notes of the second part ring out like tiny bells.