Читать книгу Another Song For Me - Jean Castaing - Страница 12

At lunch Wednesday, I found Quinn in the cafeteria, sitting alone, munching on a sandwich and some chips. He waved me over. I made a bee line for the table, dropped my backpack on the bench, sat down and wrinkled my nose. As usual, the cafeteria smelled like recycled spaghetti sauce.

“Did you hear about Glee Club today?” I said.

“No. Where’s your food?”

I shook my head. “Not hungry. I overheard Miss Anderson on her cell phone while she was walking down the hall. She looked stressed and I know she was talking to someone about the festival.”

Quinn squinted. “And just how did you come to that conclusion?”

“Because she said, ‘I don’t know if we can do that. There’s not enough time.”

“She could have been talking about a million things.”

“Well aren’t you worried?”

“No. You worry enough for everyone. I’ll see ya at practice.”

By the time the last bell rang my stomach felt like it had been on a spin dry cycle. When I walked into the nearly empty auditorium, for the first time, the meaning of, band geek, really hit me in the face. Why hadn’t I noticed before? Most of the twenty-eight kids were totally wrapped up in tuning their instruments, or warming up their voices, all painfully aware that only ten would be selected to represent our school at the festival. I knew how the contestants on American Idol must feel.

Fashion statements are practically meaningless to this bunch. Shari Parker and Frieda Speropholis being the exceptions, Shari looking like a Vogue model and Frieda like something from Goths Gone Wild.

Grandpa argues that everyone pays attention to their appearance, particularly the freaky ones. It’s a lot of work to look like a crackpot. However, in spite of Miss Anderson lecturing regularly about the importance of looking respectable, Frieda Speropholis, remains in Glee Club. Last week Tattoo Frieda decided to shave her head so now it’s hard to tell if she’s a boy or girl. And lately she’s started to smell like burned incense. I’m aware of this more than anyone, because she always plops her bottom in the seat right next to mine. Unfortunately, the only way Frieda could get rid of her tattoo artwork would be to have her arms amputated.

“Today’s Agenda,” was scribbled in green on the rolling white board. It started with “Fund Raisers.” But I couldn’t read anything written below. Half the class was standing in front of the board groaning and mumbling. I squeezed through the huddle to get a look. I felt the color leave my face when I read the last line. “Necessary changes in the selection process for the festival.”

Quinn stood next to a window, polishing his trumpet. I tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey. Did you see the board?”

He rubbed the soft blue cloth around the valves. “Yeah.”

“Told you something was happening.”

Quinn hopped onto the stage and helped the other band members arrange the chairs. I grabbed a front row aisle seat. As expected, Freaky Frieda parked herself right next to me.

“What are you doing down here?” I said. “You’re a tuba player. Aren’t you supposed to be up on stage with the band?”

As she rubbed the tips of her fingers across her stubbly hair, I wondered how anyone could get so many rings on only eight fingers and two thumbs.

“I’ve been getting vibes,” she whispered. “Strange vibes. Something’s telling me I need to take part in chorus. I am a pretty good singer. I’ll bet you didn’t know that.”

I squirmed. “No. I didn’t.”

“Do you get vibes?” Frieda asked.

“No.” I moved further back in my seat. Why had Frieda decided to unload her creepy feelings on me? She’d barely uttered two words to anyone since school started.

“You’ll be selected for the festival. That’s a given,” Frieda said.

Oh God. Where was Miss Anderson? I squeezed the back of my neck. “I don’t know why you’d say that.”

Frieda’s eyes widened. “You’re the best singer in the group.”

Now my eyes widened. “I don’t think so.”

“Besides, you’re rich. The fundraising pot isn’t going to have to buy you a ticket to New Orleans or feed you when you get there. And look at your fancy clothes. Have you noticed that Miss Anderson is always looking at me when she talks about first impressions.”

“I don’t think that matters, Frieda, if you’re really good. Musically, that is.”

“Maybe. But I know people judge me, because of the way I look. They don’t want to know who I really am. And they sure don’t care how much going to the festival matters to me.”

I licked my lips. I knew Frieda needed a friend and I wanted to be nice. But I never signed up for this confession session. I didn’t know what to say. Grandpa told me once that sometimes my Uncle Darrel could make him as nervous as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Frieda had the same effect. Mercifully, Miss Anderson came in.

Baby Payday was standing on the stage, his saxophone resting on his shoulder. “Hey, Teach.” He smiled. “What’s happenin’?”

She twisted a paper rolled in her hand. “Take your seats everyone. I have to make a few announcements before we get into rehearsal.”

She pointed to the board. “Fundraisers.” A painful smile stretched across her face. “We’re way under our goal.”

“Like how much?” Baby Payday, asked.

“Like two thousand dollars.”

The auditorium sounded like a moan factory.

“It’s okay,” Miss Anderson said. “We can do this. I want you to go home tonight and come up with some fresh ideas for fundraisers.”

“Please. Not another bake sale,” Marcy hollered. “My mother said if she eats one more cupcake she’ll pop the zippers on every pair of jeans she has. Let’s try a rummage sale. She still has a few pairs some skinny lady could get into.”

Miss Anderson laughed. “We’ll consider it. Now, the next thing I need to make you aware of is that we’re going to have to make some changes in the selection process for the festival.”

The room went totally silent.

“I received notification this morning that they have more applicants than they ever imagined. Because of time and space limitations, they are going to require that band only or chorus only groups will not be accepted. Groups will be judged on their combined instrumental and vocal skills.”

Play an instrument too? No way, I thought. Ready to kiss New Orleans and my dream goodbye, I closed my eyes and laid my head back. Then, Frieda poked me. “Finally. A break,” she said.

“Yeah,” I groaned. “I guess your vibes turned out good this time. For you anyway.”

“Don’t you play an instrument?” Frieda said.

“Sorta. But sorta doesn’t win competitions.”

“I’m sure all of you can improve your vocal skills,” Miss Anderson continued. “But I also know it’s impossible to master an instrument in the short time we have. I’m so sorry. I know this will eliminate many of you. But there will be other competitions. Endless opportunities. Don’t consider this a defeat. Consider it a challenge. One success or one failure doesn’t define your life.”

Don’t be so sure of that, I thought. My mother’s face flashed before my eyes. I saw her sitting in the concert hall applauding Megan. I could still remember the pain I felt when I saw her standing next to Santa at the Franklin Elementary Holiday Show, laughing and making excuses for Madison. “Not everyone can make Chopin’s Polonaise sound like honky-tonk,” she said.

“Madison,” Miss Anderson said.

I snapped back to reality. She was looking directly at me.

“Isn’t that right?” she said.

“Isn’t what right?”

Miss Anderson wrinkled her brow. “Life offers endless opportunities.”

Sure, I thought. Endless opportunities to make a fool of yourself.