bridge of his nose. “On the chemical properties of, uh …” Mr. Darlington trailed off, smiling lamely. “Music stands.”
“That’s fine,” Ms. Finkleman said impatiently, motioning toward the cluster of music stands in the back of the room. But instead of fetching one and leaving, Mr. Darlington grabbed a clementine off her desk and folded his spindly frame into a student chair to watch Half-Eaten Almond Joy practice “Livin’ on a Prayer”—while, presumably, his sixth-grade chemistry students watched a filmstrip.
“One! Two!
One, two, three, four!
”
Tenny called out the tempo, played the openinglick, and the Careless Errors started in on “Holiday.” Ezra McClellan clabbered away at the drums, carefully counting to himself as he played, muttering under his breath to keep himself on rhythm. Lisa Deckter, who was a violinist, really, and still getting the hang of guitar, stared at her fingers as they churned out the rhythm riff that drove the song. Pamela Preston looked totally bored, shaking her maracas with obvious distaste.
Bethesda Fielding began to sing, nervous and tentative, pushing a loose strand of reddish tannish hair away from her mouth. “Let’s go away for a while,” she sang, “you and me, to a strange and distant land …”
With each phrase she moved a little closer to the microphone, and then a little farther back, unsure of how close you were supposed to stand. The mike was set too tall for her, and she couldn’t figure out how to get it closer to her mouth. When she got to the end of the third line (“Where they speak no word of truth”), she somehow took a big step forward with her right foot just as she jerked the stand up with her left hand, and it smacked her in the tooth. “Ouch!” she said, really loud and right into the microphone. The sudden noise totally messed up Ezra’s rhythm.
Only Tenny Boyer, coloring the spots between vocallines with fills (basically little mini-guitar solos) was completely comfortable. Eyes half shut, head thrown back, lips slightly parted, he looked like a rock-and-roll superstar.
Bethesda recovered her equilibrium in time to stammer out the words of the chorus (“Holllllllliday! Far away!”). As the song chugged forward, Bethesda looked at Tenny with awe.
He’s like a totally different person.
“All right, folks,” said Ms. Finkleman, clapping her hands sharply as soon as the Careless Errors managed to get to the end. “Let’s move on.”
Ms. Finkleman sounded different these days. Her kids noticed, of course, and figured it was only natural. They assumed that this new voice—icy, tough, unemotional—was that of the punk-rock lady who had emerged from within the nerdy band teacher. The truth was a little more complicated. There had been a time in Ms. Finkleman’s life when rock and roll had been the most important thing to her. But now, to hear these songs, this music, was the last thing she wanted. So to protect herself, she didn’t
let
herself hear it: She listened to the practice sessions without hearing. She watched without seeing. She stood with arms crossed, trying her hardestto experience no emotion at all. And she spoke in the voice of a woman who was there in the room, but at the same time a million miles away.
Let Tenny pay attention, she thought as the Careless Errors set down their instruments and went back to their seats. Let him be in charge. Just get through this, and then life will go back to how it’s supposed to be.
“Okay,” she said. “‘I Got You’ folks? You’re up.”
“One! Two!
One, two, three, four!
”
Chester Hu clicked his sticks together as he called out the groove, and Band Number One lit into “I Got You.” Victor Glebe played the bass with his eyes shut tight, trying to see the next note with his mind, like a Jedi. Bessie Stringer blew feverishly into her baritone sax, her eyes wide, her cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk. As he drummed, Chester mumbled the words of the song,
“That’s fine,” Ms. Finkleman said impatiently, motioning toward the cluster of music stands in the back of the room. But instead of fetching one and leaving, Mr. Darlington grabbed a clementine off her desk and folded his spindly frame into a student chair to watch Half-Eaten Almond Joy practice “Livin’ on a Prayer”—while, presumably, his sixth-grade chemistry students watched a filmstrip.
“One! Two!
One, two, three, four!
”
Tenny called out the tempo, played the openinglick, and the Careless Errors started in on “Holiday.” Ezra McClellan clabbered away at the drums, carefully counting to himself as he played, muttering under his breath to keep himself on rhythm. Lisa Deckter, who was a violinist, really, and still getting the hang of guitar, stared at her fingers as they churned out the rhythm riff that drove the song. Pamela Preston looked totally bored, shaking her maracas with obvious distaste.
Bethesda Fielding began to sing, nervous and tentative, pushing a loose strand of reddish tannish hair away from her mouth. “Let’s go away for a while,” she sang, “you and me, to a strange and distant land …”
With each phrase she moved a little closer to the microphone, and then a little farther back, unsure of how close you were supposed to stand. The mike was set too tall for her, and she couldn’t figure out how to get it closer to her mouth. When she got to the end of the third line (“Where they speak no word of truth”), she somehow took a big step forward with her right foot just as she jerked the stand up with her left hand, and it smacked her in the tooth. “Ouch!” she said, really loud and right into the microphone. The sudden noise totally messed up Ezra’s rhythm.
Only Tenny Boyer, coloring the spots between vocallines with fills (basically little mini-guitar solos) was completely comfortable. Eyes half shut, head thrown back, lips slightly parted, he looked like a rock-and-roll superstar.
Bethesda recovered her equilibrium in time to stammer out the words of the chorus (“Holllllllliday! Far away!”). As the song chugged forward, Bethesda looked at Tenny with awe.
He’s like a totally different person.
“All right, folks,” said Ms. Finkleman, clapping her hands sharply as soon as the Careless Errors managed to get to the end. “Let’s move on.”
Ms. Finkleman sounded different these days. Her kids noticed, of course, and figured it was only natural. They assumed that this new voice—icy, tough, unemotional—was that of the punk-rock lady who had emerged from within the nerdy band teacher. The truth was a little more complicated. There had been a time in Ms. Finkleman’s life when rock and roll had been the most important thing to her. But now, to hear these songs, this music, was the last thing she wanted. So to protect herself, she didn’t
let
herself hear it: She listened to the practice sessions without hearing. She watched without seeing. She stood with arms crossed, trying her hardestto experience no emotion at all. And she spoke in the voice of a woman who was there in the room, but at the same time a million miles away.
Let Tenny pay attention, she thought as the Careless Errors set down their instruments and went back to their seats. Let him be in charge. Just get through this, and then life will go back to how it’s supposed to be.
“Okay,” she said. “‘I Got You’ folks? You’re up.”
“One! Two!
One, two, three, four!
”
Chester Hu clicked his sticks together as he called out the groove, and Band Number One lit into “I Got You.” Victor Glebe played the bass with his eyes shut tight, trying to see the next note with his mind, like a Jedi. Bessie Stringer blew feverishly into her baritone sax, her eyes wide, her cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk. As he drummed, Chester mumbled the words of the song,
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