Muffled

by Jennifer Gennari

  We’re learning a new piece, “Ode to Joy.” Ms. Min stands next to me and points to where I should be on the page, her foot tapping, making me flustered. I can’t remember which fingers cover which holes. I can’t keep up.

  For once, it’s a relief when the bell rings. Dizzy from blowing, I pack my flute away. The only thing I do right is to nestle the three silver pieces into the correct spaces in the velvet case.

  At lunch, Deb-and-Kiki head to the table where they always sit. I hesitate, my lunch bag in my hand. One part of me wants my quiet table time. But now I am a flute player, and maybe Mom is right. I lower my earmuffs and slide in next to Deb. She makes room.

  “What are you eating?” Deb pulls out a tin, unsnaps the lid. Inside are tidy piles of hummus, carrot sticks, and edamame beans.

  “Grilled cheese,” I say. I unwrap the once-warm sandwich. “I made it myself.”

  “Cold?” Kiki asks, laughing. Emma and Lina giggle. Deb joins in, then covers her mouth.

  I’m stuck like cheese to bread with Deb-and-Kiki who are not-that-nice. I miss Deb-minus-Kiki. Except then I remember that all Deb talked about when we were practicing was Kiki.

  I am at the wrong table. I glance over at my corner. It’s empty. Two tables away, Jax and Noah and Madge are giggling and whispering, their heads almost touching.

  I take another bite of my sandwich.

  “I love playing our new song,” Deb says. “All those sixteenth notes!”

  “It’s better when no one makes mistakes,” Kiki adds.

  I know she is looking at me. I keep my eyes down, chewing, pretending not to hear—

  HONK blasts into my un-muffed ears.

  We all scream. I jerk my hands to my head, knocking juice all over the table and onto Kiki’s lap. She leaps up, shouting, “Look what you did!”

  “Why do you always have to be so jumpy, Amelia!” Deb cries.

  I turn away and see Noah holding his trumpet, Jax laughing. Madge is watching us, with a strange, solemn expression.

  Kiki whirls and yells at Noah and Jax what I now know is the worst insult: “You are all such babies!”

  My earmuffs are on fast, as fast as my feet taking me away from the Deb-and-Kiki table, away from everyone. I head outside, straight for my tube tunnel. Two steps times six is twelve. Twelve times two is twenty-four steps to safety.

  I curl against the hard plastic. What if there is no right place for me in the cafeteria?

  Footsteps on the ladder startle me. It’s Madge.

  “Noah didn’t mean to make you spill. It was supposed to be a joke.” She crawls in, forcing me to move over so she can join me.

  Get out of my tunnel, I want to scream.

  “You can sit with us sometime,” Madge says. “Noah shares his snacks.”

  She keeps talking, even though I give her the silent treatment.

  “That’s his way of saying sorry, too.” She pulls a candy bar from her pocket and holds it out. “He asked me to give you this.”

  I stare at the candy, not sure if I want to accept the peace offering.

  “Go on, take it,” Madge says. “At least he tries to apologize, unlike some people we know.”

  Is she thinking of Kiki, who never says sorry? I start to ask her what she means, but she scoots over more, and suddenly her hand is too close to my face and I shift away.

  Madge lets out a long frustrated sigh. She stuffs the candy bar back into her pocket. “I don’t know why you can’t let people be nice to you, Amelia.” She backs up, pushes herself out of the tunnel. She says, so loud that it echoes down the sides, “I guess you don’t even want friends!”

  And then she’s gone, which is what I wanted, but somehow I am as hollow as my tube.

  CHAPTER 7

  It’s Saturday morning, and already Dad has asked twice if I’m going to practice my flute today, and Mom has asked me three times if I want to get together with anyone.

  I do not want to play flute. I do not want to run into Deb in the elevator. I do not want to be home with my parents and their pestering questions.

  I know what I need—a new friend, waiting for me on a bookshelf at the Boston Public Library. After I do my homework, Mom says it’s fine for me to go, although she complains a little about not getting to spend the day with me.

  She walks me to the T station. “How is flute going?”

  I shrug. I’m not ready to talk about anything.

  Mom offers a few more conversation starters, but when I don’t answer, she gives up. We walk the rest of the way without talking.

  Outside the station, she asks, “Are you sure you don’t want company?”

  “I’m ten,” I remind her. I am ready to go alone for the first time.

  I swipe my CharlieCard and go through the turnstile. The next inbound green line train comes, and I step on board. I take a window seat, press against the glass.

  Earmuffs barely reduce the clackety-clack noise. Teenagers talk in show-offy voices. An old man is blowing his nose. I keep my eyes on the stop map: Brookline, Longwood, Fenway. Six, five, four, I count down.

  I tighten the headband on my earmuffs. I wish I had told Madge I do have friends. Hermione is one, and Alanna of Trebond. There is Miranda and Abilene and Esperanza and India Opal. If you don’t know them, your loss, I should have said to Madge.

  Friends in books are the best. They sleep in the pages when I don’t want to talk, and they share their days with me soundlessly when I lift their covers. I know what makes them sad or scared or happy.

  Buildings, trees, and signs zoom by. Then we are underground and I count two more stations: Kenmore, Hynes. The doors slide open, and I step onto the platform of the Copley Square stop. It’s crowded and noisy, but I still feel a shiver of excitement.

  I am here, I think, by myself.

  I climb quickly up the dark stairs from underground, with its stinky smells and hissing subway cars, and cross the street onto the plaza. I greet the two large statues of draped women sitting in long skirts outside the library: Art, holding a paintbrush, and Science, holding the world.

  In no time I am up the stairs and through the doors. Inside, I walk lightly on the pink marble, say hello to the lions, as silent as stones. At last it is safe to take my earmuffs off.

  The first time my parents took me to the Boston Public Library, I was four and crying from subway screeches, trucks, car horns, loud-talking people, wind blasting around skyscrapers. We stepped through the revolving door into the marble lobby, and whoosh, the silence stopped my tears.

  “Welcome to the BPL,” Mom said.

  “Welcome to the quietest place we know,” Dad whispered, and lifted me up to touch the lion.

  I touch the lion’s paw again today, as I do every time. I go upstairs, through the old building and its room full of lamp-lit tables and people softly turning pages or asking hushed research questions, reading glasses on noses. I enter the bright Johnson Building, pass by the marble drinking fountains, and walk into the purple-paned children’s section.

  I work my way down the just-my-height shelves, through the alphabet—Alexander, Blume, Choldenko, DiCamillo—until a new spine attracts me and I pull it out. I read the description and the first sentence or two. When I meet characters I can’t wait to get to know, I stack their stories in my arms, take my pile, and fall into one of the comfy chairs.

  The library is perfect. There are no other sounds but words heard between my ears. I read about Raymie straight through without stopping. Her story makes me sigh and ache in a good way. Sometimes a book is so good, I want to tell someone right away.

  I close the cover and look up. The librarian is at her computer. Two little kids chase each other by the lion cub model, annoying an older boy doing homework. A babysitter reads books to a squirmy child. No one looks at me.

  Deb and I used to talk about books. Not now. I no longer want to be her backup friend or part of the flute-playing girls. Maybe fifth grade will be the year of earmuffs and the second year without a fri
end who is not a fish or in a book.

  The thought of no more Ms. Min, or Deb-and-Kiki, or Lina’s perfect high notes makes me happy. But if I quit flute, I’ll have to find a music class that works for me. I don’t want to go to Mr. Skerritt again. Trumpet and trombone are the only choices left.

  I think of Madge then, and how she didn’t choose flute like all the other girls. On the library computer, I search the catalog for books about girls and trombones. There’s a story called Little Melba and Her Big Trombone, and the library has it. And even though it’s a picture book for little kids, I read it from cover to cover, including the notes at the end.

  Melba Liston was not shy. At seven, she began playing the trombone, and when she was grown, she played jazz in bands that had never allowed a woman trombonist to perform with them before.

  Melba reminds me of Madge, the way she asks questions and doesn’t do what’s expected either. I add the book to my pile to take home.

  “Find everything you wanted?” the librarian at checkout asks me.

  “Yes.” I hold up Raymie’s book after she scans it. “This story is great. It’s about a girl who wants to win a competition and saves a dog and makes two friends—”

  The phone rings. “Excuse me,” the librarian says. She continues checking out my books while she tells the person on the phone about how to rent a movie from the library online.

  I put my books in my backpack after they’ve been scanned. She’s still talking. There’s no reason for me to stand there anymore. And anyway, I am not brave like Raymie. Or Melba.

  I place my earmuffs on and walk to the outbound station entrance to take me home. At the bottom of the stairs I hear a sound—a soothing horn sound echoing off the station walls. The melody lifts me even though it is blue and slow, like the mourning dove’s call that Dad and I heard once.

  I stop and stare. It’s a girl playing a trombone, like Melba. She is older than a teenager and yet not quite grown-up. She’s gliding the slide down like her arm is part of the brass, her lips flat against the mouthpiece. Even though she’s making music and can’t talk, her eyes are welcoming.

  I find a quarter in my backpack and drop it into her open case.

  She finishes her song, wets her lips, and grins. “Thanks.”

  Before I lose my nerve, I say in a rush: “Only one girl at my school plays trombone.” I add, “I chose flute, but I think I made a mistake.”

  “T-bone is the best!” The girl raises her horn, and before she starts again, she says, “It’s great to practice with a friend.”

  I nod. I want to ask her more—when did she start and how many girl trombone players does she know and has she ever heard of Melba—but my train arrives, and suddenly the station is too loud.

  I adjust my earmuffs so my ears are completely covered, and find a seat. My backpack is heavy with books. My CharlieCard is in my pocket. In the darkness between stations, I catalog the trip—lion’s paw, new books, time in the comfy chair. Somehow I feel a little empty. I turn to the sureness of math. I count the windows as we emerge from underground: seven windows times two sides times five-car train is seventy windows.

  The multiplication helps a little, but the sad horn song sticks in my head. If I quit flute, maybe I should try trombone, even if that means being in the same class with too-loud Madge. Trees, buildings, cars blur by outside the subway window. I remember it was Madge who gave me back my book. And Madge who tried to apologize for Noah’s trumpet joke. Maybe trombone players are nice, like the girl in the station, like Melba. Like Madge.

  The subway stops at my station, and I get off alone. I tap my CharlieCard and pass through the turnstile like a marathon winner, hands raised. I look around to see if anyone notices, and my excitement fades. I did it—I made the trip by myself—but there’s no one to share it with.

  CHAPTER 8

  On Sunday, in the middle of page ninety-two of my new book, the doorbell rings unexpectedly.

  It makes me jump. Dad too. We’re both sitting on the sofa. He gives me a quick reassuring smile. Mom goes to answer the door.

  “Hi, Sue!” she says, greeting Deb’s mom.

  “Do you have two eggs we can borrow?” Sue asks. “We’re making muffins, and we’re out.”

  “Of course!” Mom leads Sue into the kitchen, the two of them chattering.

  Dad folds the newspaper on his lap and closes his eyes. I can tell he’s waiting for their conversation to end, because there is no concentrating on anything until it’s over.

  I flip a few pages in my book. I can’t read either, so I might as well listen. It’s impossible not to listen, anyway.

  “I heard Amelia’s in flute class now! How great.” Deb’s mom sounds like a TV announcer, cheerful even when they don’t want to be.

  “Yes,” Mom says. “We think it’s a better fit than choir.”

  “Deb just loves it. She is such a natural!”

  Guilt rushes through me. I haven’t told Mom and Dad that I want to quit flute, and now Sue and Mom are talking about music class.

  The two return from the kitchen and stand in the living room. Mom hands her a plastic container with two eggs snug inside so they don’t break. “Maybe Deb and Amelia can practice together,” Mom says.

  “I heard they already did, after school last week.” Deb’s mom glances in my direction. I look down quickly at my page again. The words float meaninglessly.

  “Oh, that’s wonderful.” I can sense that Mom is looking at me too. “Amelia didn’t mention it.”

  I keep pretending that I’m reading. Deb and I will not practice together again, but I can’t say that without admitting my plan to quit the flute. I wish Mom and Sue would hurry up and finish talking so I can go back to my book.

  “I better get back to muffin-making. Before you know it, we’ll be carving pumpkins,” Sue says. “Deb is going as a princess.”

  “That’s nice,” Mom murmurs. “We haven’t talked about costumes yet.”

  The thought of Halloween makes me sink deeper into the sofa. I glance at Dad, who now has his eyes open and is taking deep breaths. He winks and inhales, lifting his hands and dropping them on the exhale. I know he wants me to breathe too. But I don’t feel like breathing or counting.

  At last, the door closes. Dad breathes out one last time, hugely, and drops his hands dramatically, which makes me giggle.

  Mom looks at the two of us. “What?” she says. “Can’t I have a friend come over to chat?”

  “I didn’t say anything,” Dad says mildly.

  “You could try to be more friendly,” she says, “instead of sitting there, making a show of breathing. Both of you.”

  “It’s hard to read when people are talking,” I say. I don’t know why she is impatient with us today. We just like quiet more than she does. Is that so hard to understand?

  “I needed a break anyway,” Dad says. He holds the newspaper up and begins to read again.

  Mom heads into the kitchen, muttering, “Most people don’t think social visits are interruptions. Most moms don’t hear news about their child from someone else.”

  Dad pats my arm, as if I shouldn’t worry about Mom’s mood. “Any costume ideas?” he asks.

  “I don’t know.” Last year, my dinosaur tail was trampled by the crowds. And without noise-canceling headphones this year, all the shouting and door-belling will be loud. “Maybe I’m too old for trick-or-treating.”

  “Better go now before you’re a teenager,” Dad teases. “I’ll help.”

  I’m not fooled. He always likes an art project. I think some more. The best thing about turning ten has been getting my CharlieCard, and I love the story of Charlie on the T. I say, “What about as a CharlieCard?”

  “Yes! I could buy two large poster boards for us to paint.” Dad is excited.

  I like the idea too. I’ll be an original.

  * * *

  Dinner is soup, and we’re so busy slurping and dipping bread that it takes me a while before I notice that Mom is not tal
king tonight, even when Dad brings up my costume idea. I’m quiet too, thinking about school tomorrow and how I’m going to quit flute.

  “I’ll let you two tackle the kitchen tonight.” Dad excuses himself to go fold the laundry.

  Mom begins putting away leftovers. Earmuffs on, I start washing the dishes. They help me concentrate on my thoughts, which are running like water from the faucet.

  “It’s great you are in flute class with Deb,” Mom says, suddenly talkative. “Why didn’t you mention that you two are practicing together?”

  I wipe away soup on the inside of the pot. “Only once. And Deb is friends with Kiki now.”

  “Deb can have more than one friend,” she says.

  “Just because we live in the same building doesn’t make us instant friends.” Mom is forgetting that Deb and I have only been sort of friends since third grade.

  “You can try, Amelia.” She hands me the serving bowl to wash. “And it would be nice to hear about it from you instead of from Deb’s mom.”

  Warm water runs over my soapy hands, and I concentrate on cleaning as if that were the most important thing. The truth is, it’s impossible to explain why I didn’t tell her about practicing with Deb. Mom would first have to understand about Deb-and-Kiki and shrieking flutes and lunch tables.

  “Why don’t you invite Deb over this week to practice again,” Mom says. “And don’t wear those earmuffs so much.”

  I don’t answer. I am thinking about cold cheese sandwiches and banana chipmunk cheeks. What if pretending to like an instrument is as bad as pretending to like someone?

  Mom stands too close. “Amelia, did you hear me?”

  I shift away, placing the last pot into the drying rack.

  “Amelia, take off your earmuffs when I am talking to you!” Mom yells right next to my head.

  “Stop!” I shout. My wet hands press on my earmuffs.

  “What’s going on?” Dad appears in the kitchen.

  “Mom is bugging me,” I say. “And now my fluff is wet.”