The Secret Life of Ms. Finkleman by Ben H. Winters Page B

songs glorious.
    From there, Kevin kept going. He had been using his hours and hours of daily piano practice to conduct a self-guided tour of all the greats of rock piano, from Little Richard to Billy Joel to Fiona Apple to Ben Folds. He had discovered that rock was about more than musicianship—it was about facial expression and physical contortion and, and, and …
attitude.
    Kevin McKelvey had been working on his attitude.
    Now, on the final chorus of “Livin’ on a Prayer,” he did something he had been meaning to try for a while. He kicked one foot out from under the keyboard, slipped off his tan loafer, and played a concluding glissando with his toes.
    The class burst into applause. “Whoa!” everyone yelled. Chester Hu, as usual, yelled loudest of all. “That is TWR!”
    Kevin gave a little salute and slipped back into his loafer.
    Little Miss Mystery rapped her baton on the music stand, cutting off the applause. “Let’s do it one more time.”
    “Hey,” said Ellis Walters, Half-Eaten’s drummer, as herubbed sweat off the back of his neck with a paper towel. “Maybe it’s time for you to practice singing the song with us, Ms. Finkleman. I mean, that’s still going to be part of the show, right? ”
    “Yes,” she replied quickly, her voice echoing distantly. “But not yet. We’re not ready for that yet.”
    That same Friday afternoon, the last school day in March, Ms. Finkleman was walking distractedly through the parking lot. She was thinking about Ellis’s question—she knew that soon enough she would indeed have to get up there, take the microphone and actually start singing along as she had promised. The idea turned her stomach.
Soon, Ida,
she counseled herself.
Soon this will all be over.
    The final bell had rung and she was walking from the schoolroom door to her teal Honda Civic when she passed by a knot of kids lounging in the bright warmth of the first truly gorgeous spring day. These were the kind of kids of whom Ms. Finkleman the agouti was most fearful. They were like leopards, bright and sleek and supremely self-possessed. As she passed them, the two boys were playing a game that involved smacking each other hard on the back of the head, while the threegirls laughed high flights of laughter and tossed their chestnut hair in the spring wind. Ms. Finkleman lowered her head and hurried by, a stack of sheet music clutched to her chest.
    Then she heard it. Clapping.
Oh, terrific,
she thought.
Ironic applause. How delightful. After years of barely knowing who I am, kids are now mocking me.
    But then, from the corner of her eye, she saw that the kids weren’t just clapping—they were standing up. She stopped walking. And she saw in their expressions the same frank awe and admiration she saw every day from her own students in sixth-period Music Fundamentals.
    They weren’t mocking her. These kids were
seriously
applauding.
    “Yeah, Ms. Finkleman!” they shouted, and she ventured to give them a little wave. “You rule!”
    “Ms. Finkleman rocks!”
    Ms. Finkleman got in her Civic, turned on the engine, and—she couldn’t help it—she smiled.

19

CHRISTMAS LIGHTS
    That night,
at exactly 6:53 p.m., Tenny Boyer was sitting on a beanbag chair on the floor of his room, furiously writing out notes from that afternoon’s rehearsal. He cast occasional agitated glances at the clock, which was a collector’s item he’d gotten off eBay. It featured a photograph of the legendary guitarist Pete Townshend of The Who, midway through one of his trademark windmill guitar moves, in which he would bring his hand all the way above his head, pick gripped tightly, before bringing it down in a mighty swoop to hit the next power chord. Pete’s windmilling right hand was the minute hand of Tenny’s bedroom clock; with each tick forward, it was telling him to get up and leave.
    But Tenny had a lot more to do. He wracked his brain, trying to remember everything the three bands weren’t nailing yet.