Her teacher said, “Correct, but just say, ‘one beat.’” Then Mrs. Lenox pointed at the symbol for a whole rest. “And how many beats for this one?”
Ellen tapped out four beats. “Just say ‘four beats,’ dear.”
Ellen smiled and tapped four times, and then pointed at her mouth and shook her head.
“What?” asked Mrs. Lenox.
Again Ellen pointed at her mouth and shook her head.
“Your lips? Something about your lips?” asked the teacher. “Just tell me, dear.”
Ellen smiled and shook her head. Then she lifted the flute to her lips and played the piece again, and this time she read all the rests perfectly.
Her teacher nodded, smiled, and then turned the page to the next piece. Before Ellen began to play, Mrs. Lenox pointed at each rest, and Ellen tapped out the right number of beats. The teacher nodded, and Ellen began to play.
When she finished, Mrs. Lenox smiled, pointed at the start of the piece, picked up her own flute, nodded, and they played the whole piece again as a duet.
Neither of them said a word for the rest of the lesson.
• • •
Brian’s mom picked him up at school, and when he got in the car, she said, “You need a haircut. We’re stopping at Zeke’s on the way home.”
Brian groaned and shook his head. He stamped his feet on the floor of the car. His mom kept driving.
Brian hated going to Zeke’s Modern Barbershop. Zeke was this grumpy guy who’d been cutting hair in Laketon for more than forty years. He gave everyone the same haircut—short on top and buzzed close on the sides.
But the last two times he’d been there, Brian had forced Zeke to do a halfway decent job—but only because he practically yelled at the man the whole time. “Not so short on top. No, really, that’s enough off the top. And don’t use the clippers on the sides. Just scissors . . . there, that’s enough. Don’t cut off any more. Really. No, please, no clippers. Just use scissors. Please.”
And that’s why today was the wrong day for a haircut. If Zeke got him into that worn-out barber chair, Brian knew he’d end up looking like something that had escaped from the zoo.
When his mom parked the car, Brian jumped out and dashed into the pizza place next to the barber shop. But his mom followed him. He pointed at the menu, but she shook her head. “There’s no time for a snack. We have to pick up your sister in fifteen minutes.” She took him by the arm and pulled him out of the restaurant and over to Zeke’s door. “Now get in there. Quick—there’s no line right now.”
Brian wanted to say, News flash, Mom: There’s never a line at Zeke’s. The man’s a rotten barber. And he has bad breath.
But Brian couldn’t say that. And he wouldn’t be able to talk to Zeke, either. He was doomed.
Fifteen minutes later, when his big sister got into the car, she took one look at Brian and burst out laughing. She said, “Zeke, right?”
Brian could only nod. He had paid a heavy price for keeping his mouth shut. But he’d kept his promise to Dave and the other guys, and if they didn’t beat the girls, well, it wasn’t going to be his fault. And he had the bad haircut to prove it.
Was it worth it? Yeah, he thought, it was worth it. So what if I look like a monkey for a week? Or two. Or three.
Brian stared out the side window and tried not to think about it.
• • •
Mrs. Burgess was worried. She glanced in the rearview mirror and looked at her daughter’s face again and thought, Did she have a horrible day at school?
Is that what’s bothering her? Or maybe something happened at soccer practice—that coach of hers can be pretty rough.
About a month earlier, Lynsey had started riding in the backseat of the car instead of up front. Her mom had noticed that her bright, chatty little girl was starting to become more serious, sort of distant now and then. And today? Not even a word, and barely a nod as she got into the car after practice.
Lynsey’s mom thought, Maybe she’s giving me the silent treatment because I said she couldn’t go to that sleep-over at Kelly’s this weekend. That’s probably it. Kids can be so moody sometimes—goodness knows I was!
The truth is, Lynsey wasn’t feeling moody at all. She was just thinking. Actually, she was thinking about thinking. Not talking all afternoon had made her realize something: For years now, she had done most of her thinking out loud. I’ve been just blurting out whatever’s on my mind—to my sister, to my mom—and at school? I just go on and on. And then I talk on the phone all night. Incredible!
Lynsey hated to admit it, but Dave Packer might have been right about the top of her head exploding. Because that’s how it had felt at first.
She felt like a faucet had been wide open, gushing and gushing forever, and then suddenly it flipped shut. And all her thoughts had been bottled up.
But by the time school let out, Lynsey had started to enjoy the change. And all during soccer practice, she’d felt like she was alone, just her and her own voice. And she’d felt like saying, Hi there, I’m Lynsey—remember me? I live here.
Thinking. And being quiet. It was different. And it was good.
As the car turned onto their street, almost home, she looked up and saw her mom’s eyes in the car mirror, and instantly felt how worried she was. So Lynsey gave her mom a wave and a big smile. And her mom smiled back.
• • •
All over town, the other fifth graders were figuring out how to get along without talking. Were there any mistakes made on Tuesday afternoon? Yes, but only a few. Every single fifth-grade girl and boy was working hard not to talk.
And later on, as it got to be dinnertime and family time and homework time and bedtime, there were other problems the kids faced—a phone call from Grandma, a little brother who needed help with homework, a family trip to the mall for new shoes—lots of situations that begged for spoken words. Every single kid had unusual experiences Tuesday night, and every single kid had to be creative and alert . . . and quiet.
But it’s not time to tell about all that.
It’s time to go back to school, back in time to about three thirty on Tuesday afternoon, back to the conference room next to the office.
Because that’s where the principal and the fifth-grade teachers had held a special meeting.