I cover Finway’s bowl with his night cloth to protect him from my playing, and set up my trombone. I make sour lips and hold the trombone up, slide in position. F, I think. I blow. That is the first note, first position. It sounds all right.
I hold the note to practice my long tones. I wiggle until I find E in second position the way Madge showed Tyler today, and blow, then return to first position for F. I hold the note, then glide to third for E-flat, which is easy, and then slide back fast to first for F. Next I play D in fourth position, holding my tone, before returning to F.
I rest my trombone on the floor. I’m dizzy from blowing and my lips hurt. How will I ever remember all the positions? When will it sound like music? I feel like Finway, swimming without getting anywhere.
* * *
After dinner, Dad spreads newspaper all over the floor. He lays down the two poster boards, and we get to work.
I draw the subway windows on the back. Dad helps with Charlie on the front, sketching him with his hat sideways. When Dad is done, I paint the words “CharlieCard” in black and green.
From old magazines, I cut out pictures of people waving. I glue them onto the back, so it looks like they are waving from the subway window.
“It looks wonderful,” Mom says.
And it does. It will be the coolest costume ever. The only problem is, who will I go trick-or-treating with this year? Last year, I trailed behind Deb-and-Kiki. I’m not doing that again.
“Let’s play checkers while it’s drying,” Dad says.
I sit down opposite him, my now dry earmuffs around my neck. Dad is black; I am red. He moves a piece on the board.
“How was music class today with Ms. Parker?” he asks.
I move one of my checkers diagonally. “I like the sound of the trombone, especially when it’s only me playing.”
We play without talking, taking turns, trying to outwit each other. I make one bad move, and Dad jumps over three of mine.
He watches me. “Amelia, are you taking breaks from earmuff-wearing?”
I don’t answer. We were having so much fun, and now he’s ruining it. I make another move. Dad pushes a checker close to mine, and I’m trapped.
He leans forward. “Mom and I talked about this. About you trying.”
My checkers are surrounded. “I quit.” I slide my earmuffs up, even though our home is quiet. “I don’t want to play anymore.”
“Already?” Dad touches the fluff over my ears. “Maybe these were a mistake.” His voice is soft, as if he’s apologizing.
I pull back, out of reach. That’s the same thing Mom said. “They are not a mistake.” I start putting the game away.
“I know it’s hard,” he says. “Focusing on one thing helps. Pretend Mr. Fabian’s words are birds to find.”
He’s speaking so calmly that we don’t notice Mom standing in the doorway until she speaks.
“Amelia, take those off,” she says sharply. “They need to be washed.”
Dad’s shoulders rise, as do mine. To us, Mom’s voice is loud. Too loud.
“There’s no need to shout,” Dad says. “I’m handling this. Amelia and I were talking—”
“Don’t you see what’s happening?” Mom isn’t quiet. “We agreed—” She interrupts herself and turns to me. “Amelia, let me wash them and you can take a break, just for a day or two, while they dry.”
“No.” I don’t want to give Mom my earmuffs. She will ruin them in the washer. And I do not want to go without earmuffs, not even for a day.
“You can’t use them to hide.” Mom’s voice rises more.
I stand up. “We’re talking about my ears,” I say. “And my earmuffs. I’ll take care of them.”
Mom and Dad stare at me, as if I am a different person.
I turn on Dad. “You should understand. I can’t believe you’re taking her side! And, Mom, you don’t know what it’s like to be me!”
I fly to my room. Our apartment feels too small to contain the three of us. They can’t stop me from handling fifth grade the way I planned. I slide down my muffs, press my ear against my closed door. Mom’s and Dad’s voices continue. They are not inside voices. I hold my breath and listen.
“She’s right,” Dad is saying. “You don’t understand.”
“No, I don’t. But I’m trying to help our daughter. She has no friends.”
“That’s not true—”
“You’re not paying attention, then.”
I put my earmuffs back on to block them out.
Two parents plus one is three.
Three minus one is two.
Two minus one is one.
Me, always alone. I rest one muffed ear on my shoulder. Sometimes I wish I could change how I am.
CHAPTER 11
Breakfast is extra quiet. I butter toast, scraping the knife softly. Dad drinks coffee without slurping. I put my empty plate in the dishwasher. Mom doesn’t talk while making sandwiches. I drop my lunch bag into my backpack, put on my coat and earmuffs, and start for the door.
“Wait, Amelia.” Mom reaches for her coat. “I’ve rearranged my schedule so I can walk to school with you today.”
“I don’t think she needs—” Dad starts.
“I’d like to, though.” Mom is serious. And for once, she doesn’t say anything about my earmuffs.
I keep my mouth shut, not wanting to side with either Mom or Dad.
Outside, I start counting lines immediately, but I’m interrupted.
“The only time we get to talk is walking,” Mom says. “Your costume looks great. You and Dad are so creative.”
“Thanks.” I relax my shoulders. Maybe Mom and Dad aren’t still mad at each other.
Mom matches her steps with mine. “Sue mentioned Deb is going trick-or-treating in Kiki’s neighborhood this year.”
I am not surprised. “Deb-and-Kiki are both dressing up as princesses,” I say.
“Who will you go trick-or-treating with?”
I frown. I don’t want to talk about Halloween. “Maybe Jax?” I say. But I know he will go with his brothers.
“Do you want to ask someone else?” Mom asks. “Maybe from trombone class?”
“Madge is loud,” I say. A light turns green, and cars roar through the intersection. I press against my earmuffs until the noise lessens, twenty steps later.
Mom touches my muffed ears. “You know, the only reason I suggest less earmuff time is so you can make friends.” Her voice is extra quiet.
I jerk away. “I am trying.”
I concentrate on my feet, moving me closer to school. When I was little, Mom used to point out patterns in the subway stations, the petal-like clusters of white tiles, six around one black. How many altogether? she would ask. I counted ten black tiles, and I knew the answer: seventy tiles on the platform. Mom always cheered. Now the thing Mom wants most from me I can’t do—I can’t go through the day earmuff-less.
At last we reach the intersection by school. “I’ll go trick-or-treating with you,” she says in a bright voice. “We’ll have fun, okay?”
“Mom. I’m ten,” I say. But I’m a tiny bit glad. I won’t be completely alone on Halloween.
* * *
“Let’s divide some numbers!” Mr. Fabian says, as if everyone will cheer. He hands out division worksheets with long lines of problems. The first one is: divide four hundred and eighty by six.
I hear the times table between my ears: Four times thirteen is fifty-two, like four suits in a deck of cards. Eight times twelve equals ninety-six. I write answers in the boxes, numbers marching easily down the side of my worksheet.
“You are doing it all wrong,” Kiki says in a fake loud whisper. She isn’t looking at me; she’s pointing at Madge’s page. “Madge wrote letters instead of numbers in the answer boxes.”
Deb laughs. Noah says, “This isn’t spelling!”
Mr. Fabian claps and snaps, and half the class joins him and shuts up, but it’s too late. Madge’s face is fall-leaf red. And my shoulde
rs are up around my ears.
I turn my head sideways and read the letters Madge wrote in the boxes where numbers should be: egdam setah htam.
“Mind your own business!” Madge places her hands over her page so I can’t see.
I am impressed. It’s a special talent to be able to write backward. I tear a page out of my notebook and write: Ikik si naem.
Madge sees, reads backward, and smiles.
I crumple up the note fast. I didn’t know Madge likes to write backward like me, and what does it mean that we both can read backward? If only figuring that out were as easy as dividing.
* * *
Over the next few weeks, I sometimes catch Madge backward writing again in class. I continue to wear my earmuffs during school each day. But by the time it’s nearly Halloween, everyone’s excitement makes school even louder than usual. Mr. Fabian notices too. He seems glad to excuse us for music.
I sit next to Madge in trombone class. The floor by my chair is wet and gross. We have rags to catch the spit blown out the valve at the bottom of the slide, but I miss half the time.
We play through “London Bridge,” and it sounds like Madge is the only one playing the right notes. My lips buzz. The sound I make is croaky like a frog. And even with my earmuffs on, all the trombones are like car horns blaring at once.
I raise my hand and ask, “Can we play with mutes today?”
“Sure, let’s try,” Ms. Parker says, as if she’s happy to change the volume too. She gives each of us one.
“Why is it called a mute?” Madge asks, balancing the pointy-hat piece on her head, making everyone giggle. Me too.
“That’s a good question,” Ms. Parker says. “A mute on a computer or phone means no sound at all.” She puts the mute inside the trombone and says, “In a trombone, the mute makes the sound quieter.”
Like earmuffs, I think, and Ms. Parker has us all play a scale together. When we blow the notes through the mutes in our trombone bells, the sound is rounded, soft and muffled, as if underwater. It’s beautiful.
“I’ll find a piece of music that calls for mutes,” Ms. Parker says. “For now, let’s put them away.”
Next we start on “Jingle Bell Boogie,” a new song. The sounds Madge makes through her horn are smooth. She glides down and hits all the right notes. She’s as tall as a trombone, and her hand holds the slide easily. My slide is all over the place.
At the end, Ms. Parker claps lightly. “Good job sight-reading!” she says. “We’ll play this piece in the fifth-grade concert.”
My stomach squeezes a little. “What if I make a mistake?”
“That’s why we practice.” She starts reviewing the tricky parts.
I look at the floor, not listening. I can picture it: the gym packed with chairs, people chatting, shuffling, clapping. And every fifth grader singing, tooting, blaring, and blasting sounds to the ceiling. The concert will be terrible. Trombone is hard, but it’s my third and final choice. If I give up on music, though, I’d have to go back to Mr. Skerritt. I take a deep breath and refocus on making no mistakes and not worrying about the concert.
“Bells up,” Ms. Parker directs, and I get the very first note wrong. Madge pokes my leg with her slide, and I jump.
“What?” I ask.
Madge surprises me, again. “You’ll get it,” she says, and smiles.
Practicing is more fun with a friend, I remember the subway trombonist said. But before I think of something nice to say to Madge, the bell rings and she packs her trombone away.
I head straight to my table. I am fine eating lunch alone, but today my cold cheese sandwich sticks a little to the roof of my mouth. I wonder if Madge feels as sad as I do when Kiki is mean. From across the tables, though, I see Madge laughing at something Jax does. My ears are sweaty and itchy. I want to hear what’s so funny, but I would have to walk over and drop my earmuffs. Maybe Mom is right and I should try… but I just can’t.
Outside, I curl in the curve of the tube tunnel, on cold plastic, eyes closed, cocooned and forgotten. Deb-and-Kiki plus Emma and Lina equals four friends. Jax plus Madge plus Noah equals three friends. I am not part of the fifth-grade friend equation.
The sounds of swings, running feet, and games rebound against the playground walls and funnel into my tube. Earmuffs are not enough to shut out the fun I am missing.
* * *
At the end of the day, I put on my backpack and lift up the trombone case. Its heaviness still surprises me. The case bangs against my legs, through the doors. I stop at the top of the school steps and put the case down to rest.
“You’re in the way,” I hear Kiki say, even with my muffs on.
Deb-and-Kiki push past me, swinging little black flute cases, ponytails wagging as they walk. Better to be a T-bone player, I think, than to be like them.
Before I can move, Madge comes through next, and her trombone case bumps me in the legs. I jump.
“Sorry!” she shouts.
I press my hands to my ears.
Jax is right behind her, carrying a baseball he tosses high and catches in his glove.
“Want to play?” he calls to Madge.
“Sure!” She puts down her trombone with a thump and easily catches the extra glove Jax throws her way.
I sit on my case to watch. Jax tosses her an easy underhand ball, and Madge catches it with a slap against leather. They do three more, back and forth. Madge never misses. She has a good arm, too.
I clap for her, and Madge bows, noticing me.
She throws the ball back to Jax. “Come play too!”
I shake my head. “I’m not very good.”
“So what? Just try.” Madge hands me the glove.
I stand ready, the glove in front of me, the way Jax and his brothers always do. I am nervous with Madge watching. Jax says something, and I miss what he says and the ball, which rolls under a parked car. I cover my eyes with my arm as if that makes me invisible.
“I’ll get it,” Jax says. “I have to go anyway.”
“Me too.” Madge picks up her trombone case. “Oma and I are carving pumpkins today!”
“Sorry.” I hand Jax back his glove. It feels like I ruined the fun Jax was having with Madge. I lift up my case and trail behind him as we head down our street. Jax tosses and catches the ball all the way to our apartment buildings. He goes inside his and never looks back.
As I wait for the elevator in my building, I wonder: Would I have caught that ball if I had taken my earmuffs off?
Inside the quiet of home, I slump on the sofa and think. I remember the way Kiki waits by the door for Deb, how Mr. Fabian talks with Ms. Parker between classes, how Noah brags to Jax and Madge about what he’s got in his lunch, then always shares. And Madge is nice to everyone.
It’s easy to watch and never say a word. No one talks to me when I am under my muffs.
I decide to practice. I set up my stand, cover Finway’s bowl, and twist together my trombone. I wet my lips and play “Jingle Bell Boogie” and “London Bridge Is Falling Down.” I close my eyes like Melba, like Madge, like the girl in the subway station. I sound pretty good.
After the last note, I listen to the silence. No one applauds, because Dad isn’t home yet. No one says “We did it,” because I am practicing alone.
I uncover Finway. “Did you like my playing?”
I look over at my book on the sofa. “Did you like it, Alanna?”
Of course no one answers. And on Friday, I will probably be the only fifth grader trick-or-treating alone, with my mom.
My stomach sits like a pile of spit at the end of my trombone slide.
CHAPTER 12
Our doorbell starts ringing on Halloween in the middle of dinner, making us hurry. Mom jumps up to hand out candy, and I change into one of Dad’s blue button-down shirts to look like Charlie. In the living room, Dad holds up the boards of my CharlieCard costume, and I slide in between. The painted boards hang from my shoulders.
It’s dark, and I hear more shouting
outside. “Hand me my earmuffs, Dad.”
“Are you sure?” Mom asks.
“Of course. Subway conductors need to protect their ears,” I say. She knows what I really mean is I need to protect mine from the extra noise tonight.
“Have fun, you two.” Dad takes over the candy bowl job and stands at the door. I wish he were coming with me, not Mom. But we made a deal.
It’s a cold night, so I’m extra glad for my earmuffs. I stand stiffly, not sure where to go. Mom immediately starts talking with the other parents on the street. They all “ooh” and “aah” over the little kids, who are the only ones besides me wearing homemade costumes—a spray-painted robot, a rabbit with hairband ears, and a dragon with a spiky tail sewed onto her pajamas. Suddenly I am not so sure my costume is great.
“Where to?” Mom asks me at last.
I point to Jax’s building. In the lobby, I tell Mom, “Wait here.” Maybe Jax hasn’t left yet. Maybe I could tag along with him.
I arrive at Jax’s door at the same time as the robot, rabbit, and dragon. “Trick or treat!” Their yelling grates. I press on my earmuffs and don’t speak.
“Is Jax out with his brothers already?” I ask his mom after she has filled everyone’s sacks.
She laughs. “Oh yes! Couldn’t hold them back—they went down the street.”
“Thank you,” I say, and catch up to the little kids, as if I planned to trick-or-treat with them through the rest of the building.
My pillowcase fills with candy, but it turns out it’s really hard to walk up and down stairs in my CharlieCard costume. The boards get bumped and bent with every step. I take the elevator back down to the street.
Mom is waiting for me on the sidewalk. “Where to next?” she asks.
“Maybe I’m done.” I watch the costumed crowds running up the steps of the next building. Our street echoes with shouting and knocking and ringing. My pillowcase is full enough.
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