Muffled

by Jennifer Gennari

  “It was okay,” I say as we start walking. And I realize it was. Even if I can shop at Scuto’s without earmuffs, I like shopping with them better. But now I know I can, if I have to.

  * * *

  Our table holds more food than ever—and I eat too much turkey and stuffing and sweet potatoes.

  “Let’s say what we’re grateful for,” Mom says as she brings out the pie. “You start, Amelia.”

  “I’m grateful for pie! And good sounds,” I add, thinking of the list I began with Mr. Skerritt. “I like trombones in tune. I like sharing candy at lunch. And I like the sound of checkers with Dad.”

  “Me too.” Dad smiles at me. “And I like birds singing in Boston Common with my family.”

  “I love hearing my daughter play trombone,” Mom says.

  The list of good sounds fills me up as much as pumpkin pie.

  “I was thinking,” Mom says as we begin to clear the table. “What about if we invite Deb and her parents over after the holiday concert for a little celebration?”

  “Mom,” I say. “I don’t play flute anymore.”

  “I know, I know.” She stacks our plates. “It would be a gathering with our neighbors, with our friends. Maybe we can include Madge and Oma, too.”

  “I don’t like parties,” I remind Mom.

  Dad looks over at me. “When is the concert again?” he asks.

  “Next week,” I say.

  “You ready?” Dad asks. “Play something for us.”

  I know he is changing the topic on purpose, and I’m glad to go along with it. So I give them a preview in the living room. First I cover Finway’s bowl with his night cloth to protect him from sound waves. I rub the mouthpiece and bring it to my lips. I play “Jingle Bell Boogie” without stopping. Next I play “A Song of Peace.”

  Mom claps softly. Dad grins. “You’ve got it!”

  “Will you wear your earmuffs during the concert?” Mom asks.

  Dad frowns. “I don’t see why you need to bring that up—”

  “I didn’t wear them during rehearsal the other day,” I interrupt. “Ms. Parker taught us about dynamics.”

  “That’s great,” Mom says.

  “The performance will be perfect,” Dad says.

  That’s when I decide. “In fact, I’ll clean my earmuffs tonight,” I announce.

  Mom starts, “But if you’re not wearing them—”

  Dad rests a hand on Mom’s shoulder, and she doesn’t finish her sentence. “Good idea,” he says.

  In the bathroom, I plug up the sink and turn on the warm water. I squirt in a little soap and swish the water as the sink fills. I gently submerge my earmuffs.

  I rub the soft fur flaps, washing away playground dirt and city grit. The first day of school seems so long ago. These earmuffs have saved me from screechy subway brakes, piercing flutes, gross Noah sounds, trick or treat yells, wishy-washy Deb, and mean Kiki.

  I hold them up. The muffs are as purple as eggplant, and the white band is clean again. I place them on the radiator to dry overnight. Even if Ms. Parker thinks I can do the concert without earmuffs, I’ll keep them nearby just in case. I’ll wear them when I want to. When I need to.

  CHAPTER 17

  Everyone is in the music room, putting together instruments, getting ready for the holiday concert. My hands are sweaty as I twist together my trombone. Ms. Parker has thrown open the big double doors, and I look into the gym, where we will perform. Blue-and-green paper chains hang from the basketball hoops to the lights all across the ceiling. The stage has risers for the choir and chairs for us to sit in when it’s our turn to play. Teachers shush everyone, but no one pays attention. Parents drop off sweets at the tables lining one wall. Chairs scrape as too many people find seats, say hello, and take off their coats.

  Will I be able to play without earmuffs? I finger the fluff around my neck. And then it’s time to line up.

  “Okay, smile, everyone!” Ms. Parker says. “Let’s go.”

  We parade behind her to a row reserved for us in the audience, and the choir heads straight to the risers to sing first. Everyone starts clapping. The rest of us sit with our flutes, trumpets, and trombones, waiting for our turn on the stage.

  The trombones are going last, which means I have to make it through everyone else. My cold hands grip my instrument between my legs. My earmuffs are off but right under my chair. My black velvet dress is itchy on the inside. Madge wears a vest and looks even more like a real musician than she did at Halloween. I scan the audience until I see Mom and Dad near the back. I give a small wave and try to get into my Melba zone.

  Ms. Parker raises her arms, and like magic, everyone quiets. The choir begins “Let It Snow,” and I concentrate on Jax’s big O mouth with smiling edges instead of the many voices singing. The clapping at the end is deafening, easily an eight out of ten, and I sink lower in my chair.

  Everyone rustles coats and programs while the flute players thump up onto the stage, passing the singers as they find their chairs in the audience. Like Ms. Parker, I wait for the gym to quiet down. After the last cough, she lifts her hands, her hair flying as she directs. Every note of “Ode to Joy” pierces my ears. They are forgetting the dynamics Ms. Parker taught us in rehearsal. It’s all forte. I press one ear against a shoulder, and my free hand covers the other ear. When the flutes stop, the sliver of silence is sucked away by loud applause and more shuffling.

  I long to plug everything with my mute. I glance down at my earmuffs. I shift my trombone, shoving one hand under my leg so I won’t reach for them. Eight, nine, ten, I count the flute players as they return to their seats in the audience.

  Ms. Parker calls the trumpeters to the stage. My shoulders are as high as my ears as the forte sound of dreidel, dreidel, dreidel marches into my head. The clapping is even louder than the music—I clamp my legs around my instrument so that I can cover my ears.

  When it’s time for the trombones, my hand is sweaty on the slide as I walk up and sit next to Madge. I waver on the first note but then make it through “Jingle Bell Boogie,” counting the beats. The clapping is for us this time.

  “Awesome,” Madge whispers.

  I think so too. I’m surprised to find a smile on my face.

  It is time for “A Song of Peace,” and Ms. Parker invites the whole fifth grade to stand up and come onstage. There’s a terrible scraping of chairs and shuffling of shoes. We practiced this, but I am sweaty and the chairs are not in the same position as in rehearsal. Madge and I have to scoot too far over. We are all so close together, like a packed subway car.

  It’s all wrong. Where will my slide go on the low notes?

  Ms. Parker puts on a cheerful face and strokes the air with her baton to signal for us to play. We begin on F, repeating, and then it goes fast to G, and I stretch my arm down like Melba, the famous trombonist—and my slide S L I D E S all the way down and off, and clatters onto the floor, clang-bang-jangle-crash.

  My face is on fire. “A Song of Peace” falters. Someone snort-laughs, a sour note squawks, and eyes turn toward me. The song starts up again. Shaking, I slink down, get my slide, and slither off the side of the stage and hide behind the riser legs.

  After the last note, too many people are sharp-clapping. Forty fifth graders—minus me—stand, bow, and bang-jump off the risers. I peek around. I can’t face Mom and Dad. No matter what she said the other day, I know Mom will be disappointed. Dad will try to make me look on the bright side.

  There is no bright side. I am the worst trombone player ever.

  Mom is searching for me, her face quiet and concerned. Does she understand? If Mom hugs me like the day in Boston Common, I will cry. I cannot cry.

  I grab my earmuffs from under my chair and jam them on. But they don’t make me invisible. I need a safe space, a place to tuck into. Paper tablecloths hang over the tables jammed with cookies, brownies, cupcakes, and little cups of red juice. I drop underneath one table, out of sight.

  Dad is looking for me too.
“Where’s my Amelia Mouse?” he calls over the crowd.

  Please, please, let no one hear him call me a mouse.

  “Squeak, squeak,” Deb-and-Kiki say.

  Too late.

  Kiki says, “Who knew Amelia the mouse could be so loud!”

  “She ruined the concert,” Noah complains.

  I have to get out of here. My ears roaring, I dart out the other side of the table and scurry through the double doors back to Ms. Parker’s music room.

  No one is there, but the room still feels too big, too open to the gym—I need to hide, and I am inside the instrument closet so fast, without thinking, shutting the door behind me.

  I exhale. It’s a cocoon, like my tube tunnel. The air is musty. I breathe in Vaseline and brass and rusty snaps holding hard cases closed. I sit against the back wall. I close my eyes, pull my knees inside my dress.

  Tears leak down my cheeks. Maybe I am a mouse, holed up. The closed door shields me from the sounds of people talking, feet clomping. It doesn’t muffle the memory of my slide, my crashing, clanging, slippery slide.

  I wipe my face, open my eyes. I just want to go home. How long have I been in the instrument closet? Is anyone looking for me? Maybe even Mom and Dad are too embarrassed to be seen with me.

  I stand and turn the knob. It doesn’t click. It stops short—

  I jerk it back and forth, harder, faster.

  Nothing happens. I am locked in!

  I knock on the door softly. Tap-tap-tap. Then a little harder. Rap-rap-rap.

  I take my earmuffs off and lean my head against the door. It is nearly quiet. What if the party is over and people are leaving, stacking up the chairs? My knocking won’t be able to compete with cleaning-up noises.

  My heart runs like sixteenth notes. I don’t want to spend the night here in this dark closet against the hard cases. I should yell. I should use my loudest, strongest voice—

  I clutch my head in my hands. It’s hot—so stuffy. How long before I breathe up all the oxygen? I swallow hard. My tongue is dry. I slump back down onto the floor.

  New tears slide from my eyes. Even in an emergency, I can’t turn up the volume. I will be known as the mouse who died in the closet for fear of making a sound. I muffle my sobs with my hands.

  Suddenly noisy voices and feet break through to my ears. I gulp air and listen. Everyone must be in the music room, packing up!

  “Ms. Parker, you didn’t leave the instrument closet unlocked,” someone shouts.

  “The keys are on my desk,” she says. “Madge, can you—”

  Then I hear a welcome sound: a clinking key, a sharp click.

  The doorknob twists, and I jump up and trip, falling into a shelf. I scrabble for something to hold on to as the door swings open, and I tumble out, a mountain of instrument cases cascading all around me.

  Madge—keys in one hand, trombone in the other—stands still, shocked into silence. Everyone stares.

  This is much, much worse than being locked inside.

  “Kaboom!” Noah yells into the empty sound, like fireworks going off.

  “What happened?” Ms. Parker calls out.

  “Whoops!” Madge turns and hollers, so that everyone looks at her. “I didn’t mean to knock the cases over! I’ll clean this all up, Ms. Parker!”

  I lift my eyes in time to see Madge wink. I stand up as fast as I can, wipe my face, brush off my dress. I pick up a case and work with Madge, putting everything back neatly. Madge slides the cases easily onto the top shelf, where I can’t reach.

  “It’s handy being tall,” she says. “Long arms.” She holds them out, and I see that her arms are longer than mine, the kind that can slide down for low E without trouble.

  “Good trombone arms,” I say. I can’t believe Madge is covering for me. And not mentioning my slide fail.

  Madge closes the closet door. “You okay?”

  I nod. “Thanks.” I am so glad to be on the other side of the instrument closet door. “You saved me.”

  Madge flashes her big sunshine smile, which makes me almost forget everything. “It’s nothing,” she says. “See you Monday?”

  “Sure,” I say, and turn to find Mom and Dad. I’m ready to go home.

  * * *

  “Where were you? We were worried,” Dad says as we start down the street.

  I crush my earmuffs on. Mom and Dad are on either side of me. They are sticking extra close, too close. I am almost as trapped as I was in the instrument closet.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I mumble. “I ruined the concert. Noah said so.”

  “The concert was great,” Mom says. “The trombones were the best.”

  “Mom.” I glare. “I made a terrible mistake. Everybody saw.” I’m going to disappoint Madge. I will never go to school again. Or play trombone.

  “Everyone makes mistakes sometimes,” Mom says. “After a day or two, people will forget.”

  “It happens,” Dad adds. “And the rest was perfect.”

  We walk another five sidewalk lines. I hear what they are saying, but the words get lost amid the sounds of wheels on the street, bare branches rubbing against each other, and the tramping of boots.

  Mom stops at the intersection near Scuto’s. “You know, I think this moment calls for a pistachio gelato.”

  “Or a blackberry-lemon gelato,” Dad says. He looks at me slyly.

  I sigh. “Chocolate chip.”

  “I’ll go in,” Mom says, without pressuring me or Dad to go with her.

  Dad and I lean against the market window. I’m still mad that he called me my only-at-home nickname in public.

  “That was horrible,” I say. “No one will ever forget my mistake.” Or Amelia Mouse, I think.

  Dad’s hands are in his pockets. “All I heard was my daughter playing music.”

  “Making noise on purpose, you mean.”

  “Beautiful noise,” Dad teases.

  I snort.

  Mom comes out with three gelatos. “Here’s to Amelia, our trombonist. You see, if you try harder, it will get easier and easier.”

  The gelato sticks a little on my tongue as we walk the last blocks to home. Mom still thinks I’m not trying hard enough. And Dad doesn’t have to go to school. Gelato isn’t a big enough Band-Aid to cover up how bruised I’m going to be Monday.

  CHAPTER 18

  I think I am sick,” I tell Mom.

  She hands me my lunch anyway. “It will blow over,” she says.

  I don’t believe her. “I can’t go to school today,” I tell Dad as he opens our apartment door.

  “Don’t forget your backpack,” he says.

  My shoulders drag under heavy straps. The sun is bright, the air cold. I squeeze my earmuffs on tight. I look up and down the street to make sure Deb and Jax are already gone.

  Step, step, step down the street. I walk slowly as buses rumble by, cars and taxis race for lane space. Eighty, eighty-one, eighty-two sidewalk lines.

  By line ninety, I am wondering if Madge will be my friend again today. The weekend gave me time to multiply my worries. Will Ms. Parker yell at me in front of the whole class? And please, will everyone forget my only-from-Dad nickname?

  “Squeak, squeak,” Noah says as soon as I walk into Mr. Fabian’s classroom.

  “Squeak!” Tyler says.

  My face is instantly hot. I don’t look at them. I am saved by Mr. Fabian, who starts class right away. I bury myself in math and social studies worksheets and backward writing—sffumrae, sffumrae—as if earmuffs protect me.

  * * *

  When it’s time for music class, my feet feel like they are loaded down by bricks. I don’t think I can face Ms. Parker.

  When I walk in, I realize that everyone is here—not just the trombonists. Mrs. Spitz, Mr. Tingle, Ms. Min, and Ms. Parker are pouring juice into little cups.

  “Congratulations, fifth graders!” Ms. Parker is smiling. “We’re celebrating our holiday concert today! We’re so lucky that Kiki’s mom brought in cupcakes for everyone.”


  Kiki helps bring out the treats, like she’s in charge. She and Deb are the first ones to pick out a cupcake with chocolate or pink frosting. Forty hands rush the table. I hang back.

  “There’s plenty for everyone,” Mr. Tingle calls.

  “Go ahead, Amelia,” Ms. Parker says. “Which kind do you want?”

  “I’m not hungry,” I say. Which is true. My stomach is all tangled.

  Ms. Parker crouches next to me. “Are you worried about something?”

  “Aren’t you mad at me?” I manage to croak out.

  “Oh, Amelia, of course not! You did a great job in the concert. You played all the right notes. You even did it without earmuffs!”

  I look at the floor. “But I dropped my slide.”

  “Do you know how many trombonists that happens to? Especially when your slide is well greased.”

  Ms. Parker’s voice is gentle. I lift my eyes. “Really?”

  She smiles. “Now you will know how to reach those end notes without extending too far next time.”

  Madge comes over and hands me a chocolate cupcake. “Here.”

  “That’s so nice of you, Madge,” Ms. Parker says, and leaves us alone.

  “Thanks,” I say to Madge. The first bite is sweet and not bitter at all.

  * * *

  At lunchtime, I walk toward the cafeteria.

  “Do you hear that? Oh, it’s just Amelia’s squeaky shoes,” Kiki says. Emma and Lina and Cassie and Deb-and-Kiki giggle.

  I stop, clutching my brown lunch bag. Words jostle in my mouth but don’t come out. Why didn’t I plan a comeback?

  Madge comes from behind and loops her arm through mine, and relief rushes in. Nothing needs to be said as we walk together to her table. Earmuffs don’t block the squeak-teasing, but the sound rolls off me now.

  “Thank you,” I say quietly once we’re sitting.

  I’m not sure Madge hears. She is unwrapping a bursting sandwich of salami, lettuce, and mustard. “You know two-part harmony?” she asks. “That’s us. Soprano and alto.”