Mr. Pagliacci adjusted his collar. He had an assortment of shirts with swashbuckling necklines. They might have made him look a little like a pirate, but with his hanging jowls, droopy eyes, and red bulbous nose, he reminded Kallie more of a sad—slightly intoxicated—clown.
“This year, vocal music has given way to instrumental,” he proclaimed with both pride and enthusiasm.
Kallie’s stomach clenched. Her singing voice was like sandpaper grating against glass. But play an instrument? How would she ever manage? She wouldn’t be allowed to practice—that was certain. Her father didn’t even like to listen to well-played music. He’d never stand for subperfect screechings, ornery honkings, and tuneless tootings.
“Now, it is my firm belief,” said Mr. Pagliacci, his forehead creased with concern, “that it is the moral and ethical duty of a good music teacher to place each student with the instrument on which they will have the highest probability of success…”
Kallie cast Pole an anxious glance. On the probability scale, with one being certain and zero being impossible, she gauged her instrumental success at 0.1—in words, highly unlikely.
And now, not only would she have to suffer through another half hour of instrumental agony, it would be followed by a double period of Ms. Beausoleil and then a long, languid weekend. She couldn’t understand why the state of Vermont insisted on beginning school before Labor Day. Three days of school. Then three days off. Inconsistency was the main ingredient in the recipe for failure.
“… Therefore, rather than have you choose by some whimsical fancy, such as I like the color—the shape—I shall assign you your instruments. The key to success is a perfect match.”
Mr. Pagliacci retrieved a clipboard from beneath the reams of sheet music and books cluttering his desk and had everyone line up, facing him. It seemed a bit odd—though nothing artistic people did made any sense to Kallie. To her, creative was synonymous with unpredictable and a hairbreadth from unstable.
“Jonah Abercrombie,” began the teacher, scrutinizing the first student. “Yes. Yes. Reasonably straight teeth, medium lips—perfect for the embouchure—long, thin fingers…” He jotted something on his clipboard and then shouted, startling everyone, “Flute!”
Mr. Pagliacci went on to assign Queenie Choy the clarinet because of her short, wide fingers; Ivan Gruzinsky the saxophone for his height and robustness; and Saif Khan the trombone as, according to Mr. Pagliacci, he had particularly long arms.
All three appeared offended, and though Mr. Pagliacci’s observations were not altogether inaccurate, Kallie decided thick fingers, a wide girth, and Neanderthal arms weren’t all too complimentary.
Kallie was up next. She planted her feet firmly and glared at the teacher. Were her lips too thin? Did she have crocodile arms? She steeled herself, but Mr. Pagliacci glanced at her for a mere fraction of a second before scribbling something onto his clipboard. He looked up briefly, smiled, and said one word.
“Triangle.”
The triangle. Kallie seethed. How dare he? It was dismissive. Bordering on insulting. And yet … perfectly equilateral, not to mention required little practice. She settled nicely into the idea once Pole was given the cymbals—only a slight step above her in the percussion pecking order.
Musical relationships are nothing more than mathematical relationships, Kallie reassured herself. Fractions … simple ratios … patterns …
Nearly all the instruments had been allocated when Mr. Pagliacci arrived in front of Anna. Before he could examine her or say a word, she pulled something out from her backpack.
“This is my instrument,” she said decisively. She held out an odd whitish lump riddled with holes.
Kallie stood in silent amusement, fully expecting a swift reprimand for such insolence, but instead, Mr. Pagliacci’s eyes grew wide, and the corners of his mouth curled into what appeared to be, of all things, delight.
“Why, it’s a vessel flute—an ocarina,” he said gently, his eyes twinkling.
“An oca-who?” asked Jonah.
“An ocarina,” said Anna. “It’s an ancient instrument. Over twelve thousand years old. The Mayans and the Aztecs made them. So did the ancient Chinese.”
“In China, it’s called a xun,” said Queenie.
“Yes—a xun,” repeated Anna, “and in Italy they call it an ocarina, little goose, because it looks like a goose egg. This one’s made from bone.”
“A bone flute?” said Ivan.
“As in real bone?” said Saif.
Taylor recoiled. “That’s disgusting.”
“It’s exquisite,” said Mr. Pagliacci. “Tell me, Anna, can you play?”
She grinned and nodded. Then she placed her fingers—not too thick, not too thin, thought Kallie—on the holes of the gourdlike instrument and blew gently over the mouthpiece.
A soft, heavy note combining high pitch and low pitch in perfect harmony floated out of the instrument. It was desolate and lonely and sorrowful and elegant.
As Kallie listened to the melody rise and fall, something clicked inside her brain, and her knees turned to pudding. She had heard the tune before. That night the circles had spun backward. It had come from the box.