Muffled

by Jennifer Gennari

  Mom turns on Dad. “I can’t believe you gave Amelia those earmuffs!”

  “They’re temporary,” Dad says in a low voice, but I hear the frustration behind his words.

  “Now Amelia has a new fixation,” Mom fires back. “Mr. Skerritt said—”

  “I am quitting the flute,” I announce, desperate to distract them and put an end to their angry voices.

  They stop speaking and stare at me.

  “Now, Amelia—” Mom says.

  “Amelia Mouse—” Dad says at the same time.

  “I am not a squeaky mouse! And I’m not friends with Deb!” I shake water off, run to my room. I close my door hard. Without slamming.

  CHAPTER 9

  I’m about to walk out the apartment door for school when Mom puts her hand gently on my shoulder. “Amelia, will you talk to Mr. Fabian today? He needs to know why you’re dropping flute.”

  I nod and squirm away from her touch.

  She sighs. “I’m sorry for yelling at you last night. And at Dad, too.”

  “It’s okay,” I say, just to get the conversation over.

  “No, it’s not.” Mom exhales. “I am trying to help you, to understand you.”

  I feel a little guilty now for ignoring her soft knock on my bedroom door last night. But I wasn’t ready to talk. I take a slow breath and try to explain now. “I need my earmuffs, Mom.”

  “I see that. But remember when we talked to Mr. Skerritt? We agreed you’d try to adjust to sounds, to learn music.”

  “I am trying!”

  “I know. I want you to be happy.” She pulls me in for a hug. “So why are you quitting flute?”

  I relax into her arms, searching for a way to explain without mentioning Deb-and-Kiki. “The flutes are too high-pitched. I like the low sound of the trombone.”

  “All right, but no more switching instruments after this.” She gives me one more squeeze. “When you don’t wear your earmuffs all day, I’ll be so proud of you.”

  I twist away and put on my backpack. In the hall, I push the down elevator button, jam on my earmuffs. Mom doesn’t understand at all. My earmuffs are the only thing saving me from all the everyday sounds bombarding my ears.

  * * *

  As soon as I walk into room twelve, and before it gets too crowded, I stand in front of Mr. Fabian’s desk. I slide my earmuffs down, and he smiles kindly at me.

  “How are you doing, Amelia?”

  It’s hard to get the words out, but I know it’s the right decision. “Flute is not for me. When I blow into it, it shrieks.” Like Kiki, I think.

  “It takes practice, Amelia.” His cheerful tone is gone.

  I take a deep breath. And remind myself I don’t want to go to counseling anymore.

  “I’d like to try trombone,” I say. Maybe he will break the news to Ms. Parker.

  I hear the clumping of shoes, the thumping of backpacks on the floor, the screeching of chairs as the room starts to fill behind me.

  His lips press into a thin line, the opposite of the O that Ms. Min has been showing us in class. “Please see Ms. Parker after school.”

  My heart sinks like a low note. Mr. Fabian understands why music is so hard for me, but will Ms. Parker? I reposition my earmuffs over my ears.

  “Amelia’s in trouble!” Noah yells.

  “Amelia’s in trouble!” Lina repeats.

  “Amelia’s in trouble!” Kiki loud-whispers to Deb.

  The word “trouble” drums on my ears, even with my earmuffs on. I take my seat. Mr. Fabian snaps and claps, and everyone stops talking during silent reading. I am still not listening as he starts on math. My chest feels as tight as my earmuffs’ band. Two pencils on every desk is forty-two pencils in our classroom. Three bookshelves with five rows each is fifteen rows of books.

  I don’t look at Jax or Madge or anyone. The numbers, neat and clear, shuttle back and forth between my earmuffs.

  Mr. Fabian is talking about different numbers, though. “You all know the answer to three plus one,” he says, and Ryan shouts out “Four!”

  “Right!” Mr. Fabian grins. “Now watch.” He writes three plus one times five on the board. “How do we simplify this mathematical expression?”

  I see the problem: Is the answer twenty or eight? I get twenty when I add three plus one, which is four, and multiply four times five. But if I multiply five by one and then add in the three, I get eight.

  Mr. Fabian writes on the board: Multiplication and Division are always evaluated before Addition and Subtraction. He underlines the first letter of some of the words.

  “I’ll never remember that,” Madge complains.

  Mr. Fabian taps each underlined letter. “Just say ‘My Dear Aunt Sal’ in your head, and you will always know.”

  “I do have an aunt Sally,” Madge says, amazed. Which makes everyone laugh, even me.

  * * *

  As soon as I’m done eating alone, I head to my tube tunnel, curl against the plastic, and quiet my mind. My Dear Aunt Sal, multiplication and division, then addition and subtraction. I memorize it.

  Math is so much easier than music. And people. I imagine what I am going to say to Ms. Parker at the end of the day. Choir wasn’t right for me. Flute isn’t either. Will she believe me when I say I tried to make it work? And will trombone be better?

  I remember the jazzy horn sound I heard in the subway station. I wonder if Madge would like to hear about that girl trombonist or read the book about Melba who was the first woman to play in an all-man band—

  BLAM, BLAM, BLAM, BROING, BROING.

  Someone pounds on my tube. Vibrations course through me like electricity. My shoulders hunch, hands instantly land on muffs. I shut my eyes, shutting out, shutting down. I curl up like a mouse—don’t move, don’t make a noise—and wait for the echoes to die.

  Noah pokes his head into the tunnel. Laughing, he says, “Sorry. Did I wake you?”

  “Amelia got drummed!” Tyler shouts.

  “Go away!” I say, but I don’t wait. I scramble down and out the other end of my tube tunnel. I crush maple leaves underfoot all the way to the wall separating school from the street. Breathing hard, I slam into it, like it’s home plate. I run my hands along the wall’s rough grooves. I am boxed in like the bricks.

  My heart hurts as much as my head. I lean against the wall, wishing I could go somewhere in case I cry.

  That’s when I notice a crate, a stepping stone to the top of the wall. I run over to it, climb up, and look over the playground wall.

  It would be easy to drop down on the other side, to run away. Or go up, into the tall pine tree on the other side of the wall.

  I decide in a snap and reach for the branches, which are rough on my hands. Sap globs where needles grow. Up and up I go, four, five, six branches, and I’ve never seen the sky so blue, blue between green needles, hiding me.

  I find a safe spot to sit on a thick branch. Slowly, slowly I hear the creak of bending tree, the whisper of needles. A breeze arrives, blowing away mean words, drying my cheeks. I have found a new refuge.

  My heart calms. I slide my earmuffs off, let them hang around my neck like a scarf, and I listen to this tree, to me. How can I be me in a loud world? Mom doesn’t understand how hard it is. Now Mom and Dad are yelling at each other too, because of me. Because of my sensitive ears.

  The lovely quiet is suddenly too quiet. Where are all the shouts and thumping balls and squeaking swings?

  The playground is empty. Recess is over. I am in big trouble.

  I climb down fast, drop to the crate by the wall, race across the mulch, through the doors opened by the janitor, who lets them slam behind me.

  I am late.

  Mr. Fabian is already writing spelling words on the board.

  “Glad you could join us,” he says. “This is your first tardy warning, Amelia.”

  Trembling, hot-faced, I put my earmuffs on and take a seat. Sounds and thoughts crash inside my head. I hate making Mr. Fabian mad. I wish my muffs cou
ld cover up more than ears, could cover up all of me.

  * * *

  When the day finally ends, I walk into Ms. Parker’s classroom. I slip my earmuffs off, nervous. No one else has tried three different music classes.

  I place the small black case snapped shut onto her desk.

  Her face is stern. Even her wild hair droops. “Amelia, Mr. Fabian told me you don’t want to play flute, either.”

  My ears are tingly and sweaty. Will I somehow have to explain what I hear in my head? Music is not melodic to me. It’s no earmuffs and no mistakes allowed, and Noah drumming everything.

  “You still need to learn music,” Ms. Parker says. Then her expression softens. “Let’s figure out how.”

  Relief eases out like a breath. Ms. Parker is going to help. The instrument closet door is open, and I can see all the cases on the shelves. I’ve tried choir. I’ve tried flute. It’s the last chance to get this right.

  I think about Madge and the way she makes people laugh, and Melba and the subway performer. “Trombone,” I say.

  “Great!” She pulls down a banged-up case and puts the instrument together. “You’ll like this.” She sticks a funny plunger into the end of the horn. When she blows on the mouthpiece, the sound comes out hushed, like a whisper in a library.

  “What is that?” I ask.

  “A mute,” she says, “for when the trombone goes soft in the background.”

  I put my hand on the bell and feel its curve. “Trombone will be perfect.”

  “I hear you’re good at math,” she says. “That’s a great skill for a musician.”

  “Why?”

  “Counting beats in notes, keeping time.” Ms. Parker taps her desk. “I’ll ask Mr. Fabian to let you come early to class tomorrow. And no more switching instruments after this, okay, Amelia?”

  “I promise,” I say. And I mean it. This noise-making trombone somehow needs to become my friend.

  CHAPTER 10

  The next day, I enter the music room noiselessly. I finger the fluff over my ears, glad to be here before anyone else. All through silent reading and Mr. Fabian talking on and on I worried about how behind I am.

  “Come in!” Ms. Parker says, and hands me a long instrument case. “This will be your trombone.”

  I slip my earmuffs down. The case is worn inside, and the brass has a few dings in it. I twist the pieces together, reminding myself to be grateful to have a free trombone.

  “Make your left hand into the letter L,” Ms. Parker says. She shows me how to hold the trombone. “With your other hand, don’t grab the instrument. Use your first two fingers to make a mouth with your thumb around the slide.”

  It’s hard to place my hands just right. She shows me the basic positions of the slide. Nothing is precise.

  “How will I ever remember?” I say.

  “You’ll hear when the note is right.” Ms. Parker smiles at me.

  I touch my exposed ears. Will they help me for once? I hope she’s right.

  The door opens and the others arrive, including Madge, all talking, and putting together their instruments. Ms. Parker tells everyone I’m in the trombone class now. There are six of us, four boys and two girls—Madge, and now me.

  “Hooray!” Madge takes the chair next to me, taps her foot, and buzzes into her mouthpiece. “I’m warming up my lips,” she says.

  My earmuffs go up over my ears. I wiggle the slide up and down.

  “Okay, let’s start,” Ms. Parker says. “Don’t puff out your cheeks. Pretend you’re sucking a lemon—this is called embouchure.” She pulls her lips into a weird expression. “Give me your best sour faces!”

  And we all do. Madge plays three notes in a row, like she’s laughing through the instrument.

  I press my lips flat on the cold mouthpiece and blow softly—not enough, and the note leaks out, like a tire deflating. I inhale deeply, blow more air.

  I am surprised—the sound from the end of the horn is sweet. My tone isn’t brassy. It’s not scratchy or sharp. It’s a round sound, a warm embrace, not shrill like a flute.

  It’s the first sound I’ve liked in a long, long time.

  “That’s good!” Ms. Parker beams at me. “All together now.”

  We play “London Bridge Is Falling Down,” me for the first time, fumbling to follow Madge’s slide positions.

  Tyler gets frustrated. “Where’s E again?” he asks.

  Madge moves his hand lower on the slide. “Second position, there,” she says. And they blow together until they are in tune. I join in at the end, wiggling my slide until my tone matches too.

  We play the piece again, and when the school heaters stop banging and all the toots and random blats come together, it sounds all right.

  Just as I get used to the idea of making music, Ms. Parker hands out a new piece. “Great job today, musicians!” she says. “Now we’re going to learn ‘A Song of Peace’ for our fifth-grade holiday concert for the whole school and your parents.”

  My hand goes up, and I speak before she calls on me: “Onstage, with everybody listening?”

  “Just the trombones?” Madge asks.

  “Each instrument class will play one piece, and the choir will sing,” Ms. Parker explains. “Then we will perform ‘A Song of Peace’ together.”

  Madge jumps up and toots her horn, which makes me fold up like a paper bag. My ears sweat under my muffs. I don’t want to play in front of anyone.

  * * *

  “Time for new spelling words!” Mr. Fabian is too cheerful after lunch. He hands out black-and-white maps of the United States. “We’re going to learn all the state capitals.”

  “Fifty words?” Noah complains. “That’s too many to memorize!”

  Fifty divided by two is twenty-five, I think. “Can we do it in two parts?” I ask.

  “We’ll begin geographically,” Mr. Fabian reassures us. “Everything west of the Mississippi first.” He shows us where to darken the path of the river on our maps.

  I count quickly. That’s twenty-four states. Then I notice a pattern: Atlanta, Augusta, Austin, Annapolis, Albany all start with A.

  “What’s the capital of Nebraska?” Jax asks Madge.

  “How should I know,” she says.

  Jax shouts, “Oma-ha!”

  “It’s Lincoln,” I say.

  Jax isn’t listening. “Oma. Get it? Remember when she made pie and I ate and ate?”

  Madge laughs. “Makes me hungry for Halloween candy.”

  “We’ll see who gets the most.” Jax swings an imaginary bat. “I’m going to be a Red Sox player.”

  “I’m dressing up as a musician,” Madge says.

  I circle all the capitals that start with B: Boise, Baton Rouge, Bismarck, and of course Boston. Jax and Madge don’t ask me what I’m going to be for Halloween. Dad says he will bring home poster board today, and we’ll paint it. We’ll make a sandwich board for me to wear—one poster board in front, one in back—with straps to hang them from my shoulders. It’s going to be awesome. I look over at Madge and Jax. I wish they would ask me, so I can say I’m not telling. That it’s a surprise.

  Before the bell rings, Mr. Fabian passes out math worksheets. “Tonight’s homework is a new challenge,” he says.

  Instead of all number equations, the problems have the letter X where a number should go.

  “What does the X stand for?” Madge asks.

  Deb-and-Kiki eye-roll.

  “That’s what we will find out.” Mr. Fabian doesn’t think her question is silly. “It’s a puzzle.”

  I notice that Madge says what she wants, without worrying what Deb-and-Kiki think. She jokes with Jax and knows how to play trombone. And even though Madge’s shoelace charms clink-clank-plink annoyingly and her voice is loud, I wonder if I could be a bit more like Madge. Not the not-liking-math part. Just the making-friends part.

  * * *

  I am thirty sidewalk lines away from school when I remember I have to bring home my trombone every night. I turn aro
und. By the time I start walking home the second time, it’s raining. The trombone is heavy, and the case bangs against my legs. Step-bump, step-thump.

  I walk slowly, shoulders drooping, earmuffs on, blocking the noise of tires turning on wet streets, like a washing machine. My step-bumping is a steady beat in my ears, and I hope that Ms. Parker is right about counting and playing.

  I pull open the lobby door of our building, push the up elevator button, and watch the slow numbers descend—seven, six, five, four…

  I hear voices singing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” The door slides open. It is Jax with Deb.

  “What are you doing in our building?” I ask Jax.

  “Singing!” Jax says, and skips out into the lobby. “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing.” My earmuffs are wet, and I drip onto the floor.

  “I forgot, you don’t like singing.” Jax adjusts his baseball cap, and I brace myself as he opens the lobby door again, letting in cold and rain and noise until the door closes behind him.

  Deb holds the elevator open. “Are you coming?”

  I shake my head, pointing at my trombone as if there’s not enough room in the elevator for me and my case.

  She shrugs and lets the door close.

  I wait for the next one. I do like singing, I should have said to Jax. Just not choir. And even though I’d rather take the elevator by myself, it occurs to me that you can’t have a conversation about math expressions or state capitals or trombone positions with friends in books.

  As soon as I’m inside our apartment, I carefully put my earmuffs on the radiator to dry. I drop my trombone case in the middle of the living room. I shake fish food into Finway’s bowl, and we eat together, Finway gulping and me munching crackers.

  “Time to practice,” I tell him.

  Ms. Parker expects us to practice twenty minutes times five days each week and prove it with a signed-by-a-parent sheet marked with Xs for every day we play. Take off the zero, and two times five equals ten. Put the zero back on, and twenty minutes times five days equals one hundred minutes. I have to catch up to Tyler and Madge and all the other trombone players.