“But singing is a good sound, isn’t it?” Mom insists.
“When everyone is in tune,” Dad says with a grin.
A truck rumbles down the street, and I scrunch my shoulders up. When it’s quiet enough to talk again, Mom thankfully starts telling a story about dealing with a room mix-up at the hotel.
Voices out of tune are not the problem. I look across the street to where Jax lives and remember how nice his voice sounded. If I only had to listen to him instead of fifteen voices, maybe choir would be okay. But choir isn’t about listening. Mrs. Spitz will expect me to sing. I promised to try. But I can’t.
Learning music will be the fourth way—after turning ten, after getting a CharlieCard, after no more headphones—that I am different this year. And maybe that’s one thing too many for fifth grade.
Finally the evening chill sends us inside. Brushing my teeth, I decide what to do. I won’t say anything to Mom and Dad. I don’t want an argument. I will fix my choir problem by myself.
CHAPTER 5
From the first bell the next day, I start counting how long until choir. Ten minutes of silent reading plus fifty of math plus fifty of social studies before music class, equals one hundred and ten minutes. I keep hearing in my head Mrs. Spitz’s opening chords like the march of doom. I can’t go again.
At ten fifteen, the bell rings. Everyone gets up. I am stuck in my chair.
“I can’t go to choir anymore,” I say when Mr. Fabian realizes I am still in room twelve.
“Is there something wrong?” he asks.
“I couldn’t sing yesterday,” I whisper. “Everyone else was already singing so loudly.”
He erases the board slowly, then says, “I could use a helper next period, just this one time.”
I exhale. I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath. “Can I boycott music class for the rest of the year?” I add, hoping to win a smile for using a spelling word.
He puts the eraser down. “And see Mr. Skerritt instead?”
The thought makes me go still. “I’ll try an instrument. Anything but choir.”
“Why was it so terrible?”
I touch the purple fluff on my head. “Mrs. Spitz won’t let me wear earmuffs.”
“You’ll have to tell Ms. Parker,” Mr. Fabian says. “And, Amelia, Mrs. Spitz was probably trying to help you not wear earmuffs too much.”
I nod, but he doesn’t understand. Mrs. Spitz doesn’t either. I have to wear the earmuffs every day. Stubbornly, I keep them on, even though it’s perfectly quiet in the classroom now. The only sound is the rhythmic thunk, thunk, thunk as I staple math worksheets, three pages for twenty-one students. Sixty-three pages. Sometimes I stop to pull out a bent one and neatly stack the pages again to staple them just right.
* * *
At lunch, I wait at the cafeteria entrance until the first rush of sound drops. That’s when I notice people coming straight from flute or trumpet class and sitting together at new tables. More girls are sitting with Deb-and-Kiki.
I walk over and sit in my usual spot, unwrap my sandwich, and focus on Alanna’s story. But even though I am sitting at my same table with my same lunch and the same book the way I like, something feels not right.
I touch my head. My earmuffs are on snugly. No one looks over at me or interrupts my reading. For once, I wish they would, so I could tell them about the decision I have to make. I won’t be in choir with Jax anymore. What should I choose? Flutes are small but squeaky. Trumpets are medium-size but loud. Trombones are mellower but large. Will everyone playing together sound like a twenty-car traffic jam?
Outside, across the playground, I see the one tall pine tree, branches lifted above the school’s brick wall. Its green needles stand out among the yellow-and-orange maple trees. That’s me. That’s where I’d like to be, floating high above the noise.
* * *
Still undecided, I go to talk to Ms. Parker at the end of the day. The music room is not empty. A few people are picking up instruments to take home. Deb-and-Kiki are showing Ms. Parker a new piece they learned, blowing rippling notes like jungle birds.
I wait, muffs over ears.
Madge, who won’t be upstaged, unpacks her trombone and blows one blat like a big fart, and my hands fly to my ears. Noah laughs so hard that spit flies off his lips.
“Gross!” Deb says, and I realize I’d rather play a sweet instrument than a gross one.
At last, when the room is empty, I stand in front of Ms. Parker’s desk. “I don’t want to be in choir,” I say. I wish I could tell her I want no music class at all. But I promised Mr. Skerritt. And Mom. And Mr. Fabian.
She sighs but doesn’t look surprised. “You still have to learn to read music,” she says. “Which instrument do you want to try?”
I remember the trills Deb made, fingers light on her flute. They sounded like birds, and I think of Dad, counting the birds in the trees.
While I’m thinking, Ms. Parker adds, “I have some older ones you can borrow for free if you want to try them out before renting.”
“Thanks.” I hadn’t thought about the cost.
Maybe the flute teacher is different from Mrs. Spitz. I ask, “Will Ms. Min let me wear my earmuffs sometimes?”
“I could ask.” Ms. Parker pauses. “But only when it gets to be too much.”
“Flute,” I say. “I’ll try flute.”
* * *
The next day in room twelve, Mr. Fabian has on a Red Sox cap. “Today we will figure out Mookie Betts’s batting average,” he says.
Jax’s hand is up. “It’s two ninety-nine!” If math were about the Red Sox, Jax would know all the answers.
“True!” Mr. Fabian says. “Today, though, we’re going to pretend these are his statistics.” He writes on the board career hits = 150 and at-bats = 500.
He turns back to the class. “Batting averages are determined by number of hits divided by at-bats.”
I wrinkle my nose, thinking. I take off the zeros and see fifteen over fifty. To make the fraction smaller, I know that both numbers are multiples of five. Seven and twenty-one, and seven goes into twenty-one three times.
“That’s too hard,” Madge protests.
“Can we use a calculator?” Jax asks.
“Anyone?” Mr. Fabian waits.
I slide down my earmuffs and raise my hand. “There are three fives in fifteen, and five fives in fifty. The answer is three over ten, which is three hundred, right?”
Mr. Fabian writes 3/10 equals point three hundred on the board.
Madge is amazed. “Whoa! How did you know so fast?”
“I’m not surprised,” Deb announces. “Amelia’s always talking numbers.”
I’m happy Deb says that; it’s a little sign that she still knows me. I doodle my name backward: Ailema, Ailema, Ailema, sounding it out in my head, becoming someone else, a flute player, someone who fits in.
* * *
The flute is silver, heavy in my hands. I stretch to put fingers on the right keys. The metal is cold.
Ms. Min stands in front of the eleven of us—I counted—all girls, standing and ready to play. Ms. Min wears black and a serious expression, as if she has just come from a concert performance.
“Put your lower lip under the hole and roll it up and blow,” she says. Then she quickly adds “Just Amelia,” but it’s too late—the room swells with shrieks, toots, wails, and whistles.
I press one earmuffed ear against my shoulder and manage not to flee or drop the flute. Ms. Min holds up her hand. Everyone stops.
“Watch how I hold my flute, Amelia,” she says. “Don’t kiss it!”
Deb-and-Kiki giggle. I concentrate on the placement of my fingers. Ms. Min tells me which finger goes on which key.
“Good. Now leave your lips open and blow a steady stream of air across the hole like this.” Ms. Min does it, and the sound is sweet and full.
Ms. Min and I blow together, one finger up. All I hear from mine is air. I adjust my lips and try again. This ti
me, I don’t sound too bad. Deb smiles encouragement when Kiki isn’t looking. Next to me, Lina plays a perfect note, mimicking Ms. Min. I try again, and it sounds a little less breathy.
Maybe I can make this flute sing like a happy bird, after all.
* * *
At the end of the day I wait by the school steps, hand tight on the handle of my small flute case. I watch everyone leaving, some walking, some waiting for rides. Kiki says good-bye to Deb, and then I follow as Deb and Jax head down our street.
I swing my black case, two steps behind them the whole way. Jax is talking about how the popcorn at Fenway is better than homemade. I’m listening, but I also hear rushing cars, wind blowing leaves from trees. All ninety-six lines home, I practice a question for Deb in my head.
“Want to play catch?” I hear Jax say as we get close to our apartment buildings.
Deb tosses him a dismissive look. “I’ve outgrown that, Jax.”
“Whatever,” he says, shrugging. You can tell that Deb’s answer doesn’t bother him. Jax crosses the street to his building. I like throwing a baseball back and forth, but not today. I’m glad Deb said no, because now I can ask her my question.
When Deb and I are safe inside the lobby, I lower my earmuffs and take a deep breath. “Want to practice flute together?”
She pauses for one beat, two beats. “Sure, why not?”
“Great,” I say. “Let’s go to my apartment.”
My plan worked! It feels like we are in third grade again, pre-Kiki. We get off on my floor, and I unlock the door to home. This is the beginning of the new me.
I drop my backpack and earmuffs onto the sofa. “Hello, Finway,” I say, and shake a few food flakes on top. Deb gets close to the bowl and says hi too. She remembers not to startle him.
In my room, we screw together flute pieces: mouthpiece into body into tail.
“Lina is the best player. Have you noticed?” Deb says. “Kiki and I are trying to be as good as she is.”
“I hope I can catch up fast,” I say. I put my fingers in the right places and blow across the hole. The sound comes out soft and breathy.
“That’s not right,” Deb says. “Blow harder, like this.” She sends strong air across the silver hole, rippling her fingers up and down the keys like lightning.
Her too-close trill jolts me like thunder. I throw my flute onto the bed, crush my hands against my ears.
Deb stops. I’m hunched over as I try to recover. She studies me. “What happened to those big airport headphones you used to wear?”
The ringing in my ears wanes. I remove my hands, drop my shoulders. I’m sorry I left my earmuffs by my backpack.
“I don’t need them anymore,” I say, and pick up the flute again. I blow one low note to convince myself.
“If you say so.” She runs through “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” I try to keep from wincing. I start at the beginning, and we play the song together. I count three mistakes I make. Deb makes zero mistakes.
“I’m hungry. Are you?” she asks, as if she’s done.
I’m fine with only five minutes of practice, especially when I’m so bad in comparison. In the kitchen, we slice peeled bananas the long way and smear peanut butter onto the flat sides like glue.
“I’ll get better,” I say. “At flute playing, I mean.”
“Kiki and I usually practice with each other,” Deb says. “She’s shopping with her mom today.”
I press my banana halves together. “Maybe I can practice with both of you,” I suggest quietly.
Deb licks peanut butter off her finger before answering. “Her house is far, and Kiki has a dog who barks a lot. You wouldn’t like it.”
Deb isn’t looking at me when she says this. I push on my banana slices again, too hard this time, and peanut butter squirts out. No words come to mind, so I take a bite and make banana-filled chipmunk cheeks.
“Don’t be so babyish,” Deb says, disgusted. She takes a small bite of her peanut butter banana.
I swallow. My throat closes up and I blink hard. I can’t cry. Then I’ll really be a baby.
Deb keeps talking about Kiki’s big house and how they always have cookies and pretzels and ice cream to eat. I keep trying to come up with something to say, but nothing seems right, and I reject so many words I end up staying silent. Once we’ve eaten our bananas, Deb goes home.
When the door closes behind her, I’m not sorry to be alone again, me and Finway, who never makes trouble.
CHAPTER 6
The door opens, Dad blows me a kiss, and then he heads straight to the kitchen. “We’re bringing Mom her dinner tonight.”
I get up off the sofa slowly. So much for a quiet night at home. “She has to stay?”
He nods. “Help me make egg sandwiches.”
I fill a pot of water and add in five eggs. When the water boils, I set the timer for twelve minutes. I line up six slices of bread and toast them, two at a time in the toaster.
“Why does Mom have to work late?” I butter the bread when the slices pop up.
“She took an extra shift,” Dad says. He dices celery and scallions. “Anything new at school today?”
“Nope.” With a start, I remember the flute case on my bed, right out in the open. If Dad sees it, he’s going to wonder why. I’m not ready to talk about my solution to the choir problem. What if they are disappointed? I need to hide the flute.
“Are we taking the T?” I ask.
He nods. “Do you have your CharlieCard?”
“In my backpack.” I zip to my room and slide the flute case under my bed. I’m not sure how I am going to tell them about choir. I find my CharlieCard and put it in my pocket.
When the eggs are done, Dad and I mash everything together with mayonnaise and mustard. We wrap the sandwiches in tinfoil, I snap on my earmuffs, and we head for the elevator.
It’s dark and cold out. My earmuffs are perfect for the weather. We walk quickly, the warm sandwiches in a bag. At the turnstile, I insert my CharlieCard, push through, and take it out on the other side. It feels great to have my own, but I am worried. This is my first time on the T without noise-canceling headphones.
As the train pulls into the station, the squeal of the brakes makes me bury my head into Dad’s side. We find seats on the downtown-bound train. The doors close, and the subway rocks and screeches along the tracks. The announcements are so loud that Dad and I both put our hands to our ears, me crushing fluff against my head. At Longwood Station, we take the steps fast out into the night air.
When we enter the fancy hotel where Mom works, I relax in the hushed lobby with the twinkling chandelier. Cautiously I lower my earmuffs. Mom is behind the registration desk. She looks official, with her name pinned to her dark jacket. She finishes helping a customer, then waves us into the staff room.
“My two favorite people!” she greets us. “Thank you for bringing me food and smiles.” She kisses Dad.
“Amelia and I had a fine time riding the T,” he says. “She broke in her new CharlieCard.”
“The subway was loud,” I add.
“Not too bad, I hope,” Mom says. She brings us fizzy drinks from the staff refrigerator as a treat and slips out of her shoes. She sighs.
We unwrap our sandwiches and eat. It’s like a picnic, sort of, except we are sitting at a round table under bright lights that buzz.
“Do you know why it’s called a CharlieCard?” Mom asks me after a moment.
I shake my head.
Mom begins to sing: “Did he ever return? No, he never returned, and his fate is still unlearned. He may ride forever ’neath the streets of Boston.”
“Mom!” I say, and cover my ears. It’s embarrassing, and I wonder if anyone in the hotel hears her.
Dad laughs. “It’s an old folk song. Charlie didn’t have enough money to get off the T.”
Mom snaps her fingers. “And his wife brings him a sandwich! Just like you brought to me!”
“That’s cool.” I like knowing the story beh
ind my CharlieCard.
“Maybe Mrs. Spitz knows the song about Charlie and the MBTA,” Mom continues. “Why don’t you ask her?”
I take a big drink of soda, stalling. Mom lets the moment grow, waiting patiently for me to answer the question at my own pace. But that’s not why I’m hesitating this time—I’m trying to think what to say. Finally I decide to tell the truth.
“I quit choir,” I mumble.
“What? Why?” Dad asks.
Mom stiffens. “We told Mr. Fabian and Mr. Skerritt you would go to music class.”
I straighten up in my seat. “Mrs. Spitz didn’t understand me, that’s why!” Now I don’t care if anyone hears. “She didn’t let me wear earmuffs.”
“But you can’t wear your earmuffs all the time—”
Dad holds up his hands, like a referee. He asks, “Amelia, you have to take music, right?”
“I already told Ms. Parker about choir,” I say. “I picked flute instead.”
Mom and Dad exchange glances. Dad asks, “Do we have to rent an instrument?”
I shake my head. “Ms. Parker has a donated one I’m using.”
Dad exhales, and Mom announces, “Then, that’s wonderful. Now you’ll be in flute class with Deb.”
“You mean Deb-and-Kiki,” I say.
“You still know Deb, though,” Mom says. “You’ve been friends forever!”
I shove my earmuffs back on and don’t say: Deb practices with Kiki. At her big house. With a dog.
“Look at the time.” Dad stands up. “Amelia, let’s go home so Mom can work.”
Dad and I walk silently back to the station. We let the clackety-clack of the T drown out any chance for conversation. The train whistle reminds me of the tooting sounds I made today. I can’t give up on flute. Maybe I don’t have to give up on Deb, either.
* * *
In flute class on Friday, I watch Deb and try to follow her fingers and look at the notes at the same time. The flaps on the flute hinge up and down like manhole covers blowing off steam. And I’m surrounded by squeaks so high, they pierce through my earmuffs.
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