CHAPTER 3
Welcome to music!” Ms. Parker says when everyone from room twelve arrives. The music room is large, with double doors and no windows. “This year you’ll learn to play an instrument!”
Worry gathers between my ears, which are warm under my muffs. Music by definition is making sound. I find a chair near the back wall.
Ms. Parker wears a long sweater as loose as her hair around her face. She opens a closet and takes out three different-shaped cases—little, medium, and long. She twists together metal pieces with holes for noise to come out, assembling three instruments. She explains that she teaches trombone, Ms. Min flute, Mr. Tingle trumpet, and Mrs. Spitz directs the choir.
“Listen.” Ms. Parker blows into the flute, and it makes a bubbly stream of high-pitched sound. I place my hands on my already covered ears, elbows straight out. She picks up the trumpet, and when she presses her lips to the brass, her three fingers make a loud parade of blaring notes. Last, she slides the long piece of the trombone all the way to her knees and back, making a thundering sound. When she’s done, I count to five before I ease my hands down.
“Think carefully about what you’d like to play,” she says. “If you choose one of the three instruments, I have rental forms here to take home to your parents. We’ll begin next week.”
Deb-and-Kiki say “Flute!” at the exact same moment, and then “Jinx!” and laugh.
“Trumpet for me,” Noah, José, and Jayden shout all together.
Most of the girls pick flute, except Madge. “I want to learn trombone,” she says, and stands up to slide her arms down low as if she is playing already. She doesn’t seem to care if she’s the only girl in trombone class.
My stomach clenches. I will not choose flute. I will not play trumpet or trombone.
I raise my hand. “What if you don’t want to learn an instrument?”
“You can join choir,” Ms. Parker says. “Your voice box is an instrument too.”
Jax waves his hand high. “I want to be in choir!”
I close my mouth, sink back into my chair, sweaty and tense. I can’t imagine me—even with earmuffs on—shoulder to shoulder with everyone, making noise on purpose.
After lunch, back in room twelve, everyone keeps talking about music. Jayden plays air guitar, and Madge dances, jingling her shoelace chimes.
“I already play piano,” Cassie says. “That’s why I chose choir.”
“I’m going to sing like Stevie Wonder,” Jax says.
“Why can’t I learn drums?” Noah complains.
“Sit down, everyone,” Mr. Fabian says, “and open your social studies books.”
We take turns reading paragraphs out loud about the thirteen colonies, and then Mr. Fabian hands out worksheets. “Answer the questions as best you can,” he says.
I can’t concentrate, pausing after every sentence I write. No way am I playing an instrument. Ms. Parker said I could tell her on Monday, but no matter what I choose, music class will be a disaster. I put my pencil down and drop my head into my hands.
“What’s up, Amelia?” Mr. Fabian squats down next to me.
I lower my earmuffs. “Do I have to learn an instrument?”
“Does that worry you?” he asks.
I nod, hoping he will make an exception. He must know that making music is out of the question for me.
He pats the page. “Finish this, and we’ll come up with a plan after class.”
Maybe I will be excused from music! The thought excites me, and I finish the worksheet fast. For fun, I take out the weekly spelling list and start writing the words backward, sounding them out in my head:
“Boycott” is T-toc-yob.
“Colonial” is Lain-o-loc.
“Representative” is Evitat-nes-erper.
“Revolution” is Noi-tu-lover.
It makes me giggle. I look around. Deb is still working on her sentences, like Kiki. Jax is pressing down hard as he writes. Noah has stuck his pencil through a block eraser and keeps tapping it on his desk. No one asks me what’s funny.
“Partner up,” Mr. Fabian says. “It’s time to practice spelling.”
Everyone pairs off: Deb-and-Kiki, Ryan and José, Emma and Lina, Cassie and Jayden, desk to desk. And even though I’m next to Madge, she scoots over to Jax. I push my earmuffs back on as her chair screeches across the floor away from me.
Mr. Fabian notices that I am the odd one out. “Amelia,” he says, “work with Tyler and Noah.”
Noah frowns. “Why us?”
“The three of you will be a group,” Mr. Fabian says, as if that is an answer.
I move over. Noah begins: “B-o-y-c-o-t. Get it? Boys only,” which makes Tyler laugh.
I don’t point out that he’s spelled it wrong. Instead I keep my earmuffs on, keep my eyes on the words, eager for the end of the day.
Mr. Fabian’s plan is not what I had hoped.
Instead of asking Ms. Parker to excuse me from music, he called a meeting after school with Mr. Skerritt. Mom had to leave her job at the hotel early to come.
We all cram into the counseling office, and Mom sits in the small chair next to me. Mr. Fabian stands. The office is barely large enough for four people, especially when three of them are adults.
It feels like I’m back in fourth grade, when I saw Mr. Skerritt every month. Mom gives me a look, and I take off my earmuffs and nervously hold them.
“Thanks for coming, everyone,” Mr. Skerritt says. He wheezes when he speaks, like I remember. Last year, I used to stare at the posters on the wall and try to block out the sound of his breathing while he waited for me to talk about my feelings. The posters haven’t changed. There’s YOU MATTER and the one that says MISTAKES ARE PROOF YOU ARE TRYING.
“Let’s review my notes from last June.” Mr. Skerritt peers through old glasses at some pages. They are in a fat folder with my name at the top. “Ah yes. Like a security blanket, Amelia was using her noise-canceling headphones to soothe her sound sensitivity, making her social isolation worse.”
Mr. Skerritt’s ears are big. A few hairs poke out of one. “Social isolation,” Mom had explained to me last year, means “difficulty making friends.” I should remind everyone I do have friends—they just live in stories, that’s all.
Now Mr. Skerritt addresses Mom and Mr. Fabian. “We recommended that fifth grade would be a good year for Amelia to reduce her reliance on the headphones.”
He’s talking about me as if I am not here. Like I am part of the chair. I stare at the poster over Mom’s head and count how many words are on it (six).
“Yes,” Mom says. “That’s why this year, we’ve put them away.”
“And the earmuffs?” Mr. Skerritt’s disapproving gaze shifts to me. My fingers dig into the purple fluff.
“They’re temporary,” Mom says. “My husband thought they would help her adjust.”
Mr. Fabian turns to me. “Amelia, are the earmuffs helping?”
“I like them.” If Dad were here, he’d explain. But this meeting is not supposed to be about earmuffs or headphones. I ask what I really want to know. “Do I have to take music class?”
“It may be hard, but I think it will be good for you,” Mr. Fabian says.
“Ah, yes, to acclimate to everyday sounds,” Mr. Skerritt murmurs. He makes a note and then opens his calendar. “If you don’t go to music, we could use that time slot to meet.” He leaks a long rattling breath through his nose, which makes me shrink into my chair.
I grip my earmuffs, wishing I could snap them on right now. I look at Mom for help. The last thing I want is to get pulled from class again to talk about feelings. Fortunately, for once, Mom figures out what I’m thinking.
“Amelia, what do you say you promise to give music a chance?” Mom says. “And a little less earmuff- wearing during school, okay?”
I will try anything to get out of meetings with Mr. Skerritt and his noisy breathing. Even singing. “I promise,” I say. “I’ll join choir.”
“Great,” Mr. Fabian says. “I’m glad we’re all in agreement. Amelia and I will check back with you, Mr. Skerritt, and we’ll see how it goes.”
I’m so happy to be out of the small room and excused from Mr. Skerritt. But I didn’t really win. I still have to sing.