All I’ve done for the two days is practice this one song over and over again in my bedroom at night with Parker as my audience. I play it in my head at dinner, I tap my feet to the tune in every class, and sometimes without me even trying my arm raises right up on its own and practices the positions on the slide.
It’s the school song about being brave and it’s only two lines long and the trombone part only has four different notes the whole song, but I practice and practice until I play it perfectly for Mr. Fletcher and he says, “Olson. You’re ready to play with us at Thursday’s game.”
When Thursday comes, even though I have the song memorized and it’ll be over in thirty seconds, my knees are still shaking harder than they ever shook when I was actually on the field as a wide receiver with everyone cheering for me to “Put your head down” and “Run, run, run!” But I can’t help it. My knees shake and my mouth feels dry and there are only eleven parents so far who have taken their seats on the bleachers but it feels like the Super Bowl.
I can feel Great-Grandpa Olson’s dog tags beneath my shirt, and I try to steady my breathing, thinking about his name and blood type rising and falling, rising and falling, on my chest.
Dad’s on duty today, but he’s taking a break from the firehouse to watch the band. He walks over in his suspenders and big pants and starts chatting with Shane’s mom. He points to me and I kind of wave and it makes my cheeks feel hot but it also makes me feel good, like Dad can see my real color deep down in.
My music stand is perched in front of me, and when I look at the notes they sing right back. I know this song. I know it.
Dad keeps looking toward the parking lot and at his watch and I know he has to get back to the firehouse, so I wish Mr. Fletcher would hurry up so we could play and be done and then the team could kick off.
There are three eighth-grade girls who are standing around a microphone, ready to sing. Eduardo’s sitting in the first row of the band risers with the other oboes and flutes and I’m right between two other seventh graders with trombones. And I’m thinking, there’s no faking the trombone. There’s no pretending to read the music and play because when the trombone slides go out and back, mine better be right there with them.
Seven more people wearing Heywood colors, including Alejandro, show up and find seats in the bleachers. Mr. Fletcher taps his baton against his music stand and welcomes the crowd.
Dad looks toward the parking lot again and stands up and waves his hand kind of secretly like he’s saying Hurry to someone over there. Then he calls out and asks Mr. Fletcher if he wouldn’t mind waiting one minute and now everyone is looking at him and I stand up and crane my neck to see who it is.
That’s when I see the van from Grandma’s assisted- living building in the handicapped spot and Grandma in a wheelchair going down the electric lift. Milly is waiting for her on the curb and so is the whole firehouse. Roger and Leo and Sam and even Mike are here, and when I see them I look at Dad and my eyes start to burn and the music notes start to look blurry and I’m glad I have them memorized.
Dad rushes to help wheel Grandma in but when she gets closer I hear her say, “Na!” and I know what she’s doing, because I know my grandma. She’s pushing herself up and out of the chair and walking the last few steps on her own two feet.
With Milly on one side and Dad on the other, she steps carefully and finds a seat on the first bleacher. She looks for me and catches my eye and says, “Na na na na.” And I know what she’s saying because she used to say it all the time when she showed up to football games or parent teacher conferences. Not for the world.
She’d never miss this.
My dad and the rest of the firehouse shuffle behind them to the second bleacher and Mr. Fletcher smiles and turns to us and lifts his baton, which means Get your instruments ready.
The team is lined up on the sideline and Marcus and Shane give me a little nod before they put on their helmets.
I bring the mouthpiece to my lips and watch Mr. Fletcher’s baton go up and down and left and right and one-and-two-and-three-and-four-and . . . And then I’m playing and Sam is nodding and my Grandma’s left foot is tapping and she’s closing her eyes like I’m playing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” instead of a simple song about being brave and playing hard. I look from her to the notes and back to her, then to the notes again. And I can’t help but think that Dad is right. I got this from Grandma, and it’s our language.
The song is over fast. We leave our instruments in playing position until Mr. Fletcher brings down his baton. There’s a moment of silence, then the crowd applauds and Marcus and Shane start to clap on the sideline and the rest of the team follows. It’s already feeling good. Good like skip-a-football-practice-to-run-to-Parker good.
But then this thing happens. Grandma inches to the edge of the bleacher and starts to push up. She wobbles a little and puts her left hand on Milly’s shoulder to steady herself, but she’s up. And she’s cheering, “Na na na na!” and clapping her left hand against the right one, which is curled in, unmoving, to her body.
And then Dad stands too. And before I know it the applause is longer than the whole song and Leo is the next to stand. He looks right at me and nods and claps and goes, “Heywood Hurrah!”
And I can’t help but think of the end of Wonder. I know from my fake book review research that Auggie gets a standing ovation in the end, and that he thinks that everyone should get a standing ovation at least once in their life. I even used that quote in my fake book review.
There are only eighteen parents, one Alejandro, one grandma, one Milly, and four firefighters in the audience, but it feels bigger, because I know what my grandma and dad are standing and cheering for, and it’s not just for the four notes I played on the trombone.
They’re standing because I did something real. No fakes. Just Cyrus. Cyrus Olson.
And I might not be brave like bottom-of-a-pig-pile brave, but I am brave. Brave like Eduardo brave. And brave like Sam brave. Brave like stand-up-and-say-NO brave, and brave like Oliver Button brave.
Brave like show-up-and-be-you brave.
Brave like Grandma brave.
That night Dad lets me sleep over at the firehouse, even though it’s a school night, and he lets Parker come too. We make grilled cheese sandwiches and drink chocolate milk and watch the Vikings play the Packers with Parker right there on the couch between us.
Parker flinches at the hard tackles too and I pat his back and tell him it’s OK and let him rest his head on my shoulder.
We talk a little about the new reading teacher Mr. Hewett introduced me to and how Dad is going in for a conference next week and how normally I wouldn’t want to work one-on-one with her at all but now I do because I want to read Wonder and Because of Winn-Dixie.
Then he starts telling me about August twenty- seventh eleven years ago. “I never told you this part of the story,” he says. “Because it’s the scary part.” I look up at him and he tells me that there was a waiting period where my birth parents could have shown up and taken me back. “I had already held you and named you,” he says and his eyes get all watery. “I couldn’t imagine having to let you go.”
He pats my hand on Parker’s back.
“Is that why you didn’t want me to—” I pet Parker’s back again.
“Get too attached,” he says. “But I knew from the moment he put his head on your shoulder he was your dog.”
He gives me a big all-the-way-around kind of hug with Parker right in the middle, and he holds on for an extra second before whispering in my ear, “Now, let’s go, Vikings.”
Between plays we talk about other stuff. Like Eduardo and Alejandro and how even though they’re twins, they don’t look alike and they aren’t good at the same things and how that’s kind of like me being an Olson.
“But both those boys are kind,” Dad says. “And you are as Olson as it gets.”
I look at us, both with our feet stretched out to the coffee table and crossed at the ankle and each with one hand on Parker between us. “See?” he says.
We laugh a little and watch the wide receiver run it in for a touchdown, and I know that here is right where I belong.