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100% written and illustrated by kids ages 6-13

Music


By

Today

Today was the big day. I was afraid it would go horribly wrong. I woke up today with that feeling you always get before something big. I ate breakfast in a hurried fashion. I always ate a slow and controlled breakfast. Today was different. Today was the day of the concert. I had eggs and bacon today. That was our family’s traditional Friday breakfast. I shoveled each bite in with such force that I could have scared my dentist. I thought I was doing everything fast, but I almost missed the bus! I stared at my beautiful instrument for almost fifteen minutes, thinking intently. I play the cello, the large instrument that everybody misspells. I couldn’t take my mind off the performance—the hum of the instrument, the squeaking of the wood, and the beautiful sound that flows out when a bow slides across the strings. On the bus today, I talked to no one. There was a kind of tension between me and the school only a mile away. The gymnasium was just waiting for me to arrive, to take my seat in front of the whole school and do what I love to do. I had been playing the cello for almost two years when I was asked by the principal to play. I remembered that day well. School had just finished for the day, and already the warm summer breeze was gone. Gone were the days of swimming and playing, gone were the days of sunshine and beaches, gone were those juicy, orange peaches that I adored so much. It seemed that just as soon as summer started, it was over. I was sitting on the street corner, waiting for the bus to arrive. The autumn leaves swept by my face, and I was reminded of the baseballs, streaking past my face like comets. I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked up. It was the principal. She had short and curly white hair, dark brown eyes, and a smile that could spread joy across a crowd of people. She looked down on me and asked me the question that led me to many hours of stress and practicing. “Will you play?” I stared at my beautiful instrument for almost fifteen minutes, thinking intently I arrived at the gym at eight-fifteen, thirty minutes before the concert. We set up our stands and tuned our instruments. Nobody spoke. The tension between us all was greater than iron chains, coiled around an object firmly. This was not a time for joking, laughing, or talking. This was a time of music. Five minutes later, the doors opened and our music instructor walked in. He was wearing a tuxedo, but you could see it was done by trembling hands because the tie was lopsided and uneven. He walked over to the piano and took his seat. I was reminded of the times when I took my seat in the sand, resting at a summery beach. This was nothing like that. We were inside a large, dark, and enclosed room that had a sense of urgency. We all took our seats and looked around each other. We were all ready. Then, fifteen minutes later, the whole school filed in. It suddenly dawned on me the amount of people we were performing in front of. I tried to push it back into the depths of my mind, but it kept resurfacing like a disease that wouldn’t go away. I took some deep breaths, but it didn’t help. The students took their places in the seats, and all eyes turned to the performers. The lights flashed onto our stage, but they weren’t needed. We placed our bows in the position and started to play. The five minutes that the group of musicians spent playing were ones I will never forget. The sound was so sweet it was almost as nourishing as a peach. The lights felt like the rays of sunshine. And the noise was the soft splashing of the waves. But this was different. This was better. The stress released felt as good as succeeding in a goal. And only one feeling was felt through the performers, pure joy. It finished just as soon as it started, like summer. The applause that was heard thundered through campus like a stampede of animals, running after the hunt they all wished to claim. The crowd stood up and roared like a thousand warriors after the death of the enemy. Today was the big day. Today was better than summer. Today was not horribly wrong. Today I succeeded and that is better than I could have hoped for. Cole Miller, 11San Rafael, California Emma T. Capps, 12San Carlos, California


By

Winter Violin

And then, I play the last note It was a chilly autumn morning. I pushed my hands into my pockets as I walked out of our house to the car. “Don’t worry, Renee,” said my mom, “you’ll do great.” Still, though, I worried. Today I had an audition for a competition to play at Benaroya Hall. I had practiced and practiced and practiced and had even taken ten deep breaths, but still my nerves felt like someone was dancing the hula on them. And honestly, to tell the truth, it didn’t help that I thought I had forgotten my violin on the way out. Luckily for me, my mom was more on top of things and had brought it out to the car. As soon as I fastened my seat belt, I was back to worrying. To try to stop worrying, I pulled out my music. It was the solo for Winter, by Vivaldi. I chose it because if I’m one of the winners, I’ll play at Benaroya Hall, the home of the Seattle Symphony, on the first day of winter. I look at it, silently playing it in my head, poring over its pages, thinking things like, Play that part slowly and feelingly or, Remember, that part’s triple forte, play that loud. Soon, though, I’ve run out of things to say to myself about the piece, and I try to absorb myself by talking to my older brother, Jake. Sometimes he’s really annoying, but luckily for me, today he doesn’t try to get on my nerves. Instead, he’s really nice, talking and joking with me. And then suddenly we get there. It’s supposed to be a one-hour-thirteen-minute drive and ferry ride from our house on Bainbridge Island to the University of Washington (U-dub), where the audition is. But time sped up, and it feels like the ferry took less time than it was supposed to, and the car magically sped ahead. I pick up my violin and the folder that has my music and slowly walk to the doors of the music building at U-dub. When I get inside, there’s a sign that points me to the waiting room. I turn left and walk into the room. It’s light and airy, and everyone’s got their instruments out and is tuning, playing, or just sitting there, holding their instrument. My spot is at 11:30. Right now, it’s 11:15. I unzip my violin case and tune my violin. Then, I take out and tighten my bow. I scan the room for people I know. No one. Those fifteen minutes speed by, and soon a woman with her hair in a neat bun and wearing a black dress is calling my name. “Katz, Renee?” Violin in one hand, bow in the other, I grab my music and walk over to the door. The woman leads me down a couple of dark, silent hallways. Well, not exactly silent. But they would’ve been silent if not for the woman talking so much. She blathers on and on and on. I’m way too nervous to hear a word of what she’s saying. The walk is short, thankfully, and even better, there is someone finishing up their audition inside the room. Then, suddenly, the door opens, and a girl a little older than I am steps out. She smiles at me. “Go on,” the woman in the bun says, with an encouraging smile. It’s the least amount of words I’ve heard her say at one time. My throat is dry as I step into the room and look around. The room is small and cozy, with four people sitting in chairs at the other end of the room. The judges. There are two men and two women. One man looks really tall, the other looks medium height. One woman is pretty short, the other is at least as tall as the tall man. They all smile at me. The normal-height man says, “Are you Renee Katz?” “Yes,” I say nervously, clutching my violin tightly. I put my music on the stand. I say, “I’m going to play the solo for Winter, by Vivaldi.” The judges look thoughtful. I pick up my violin and begin to play. I play the first movement, the Allegro non molto. Sharp and icy, you’re out in the cold, miles from anywhere, it’s a snowstorm, and you’re freezing. Then I play the second movement, the Largo. While everyone else is outside, freezing, you’re cozy and warm in front of a fire, with a book, hearing the rain/hail come down. After that, I play the third and last movement, the Allegro. You’re ice-skating on a pond, building a snow person, just playing around in winter fun. You’re not great at ice-skating, but you love it. And then, I play the last note. I’m stunned. Today I’ve played it much better than I ever have. “Guess what came in the mail?” she said happily When I look up, the judges are busy writing down notes on notepads. One by one, they all finish. The tall woman smiles at me and says, “Thank you.” I take the hint, grab my music, check to see that I have everything, and say bye to the judges as I walk out of the room, down the dark, now thankfully silent hallways and think about what just happened. I know I probably won’t be one of the lucky five winners that get to play at Benaroya Hall. But I’m glad I tried. I soon get back to the waiting room. I pack up my violin, put my music back in its folder, and walk out the door. There my mom and Jake are waiting for me. I give them a big smile to let them know I was great. They smile back, looking relieved. We go to a restaurant in Seattle for lunch and then ferry ourselves back on the 1:10 ferry for home. *          *          * Every day, for the next week, I went and got the


By

Mexican Song

Why did my school have a mariachi? Natalie Dean grabbed her violin’s bow and began rosining it feverishly. The International Mariachi Conference was tomorrow. It was the biggest performance of the whole year. And she had to solo, on a microphone in front of thousands of people. You can do this, she thought. Her song, “Sabor a Mi” (Savor me), ran through her head like a CD that played one song a million times, over and over… Tanto tiempo disfrutamos De este amor, Nuestras almas se acercaron Tanto así, que yo guardo en tu sabor, Pero tú llevas también, Sabor a mí… Miserable questions chased after the lyrics. Why did my school have a mariachi? Not—I don’t know—orchestra, or band or something? Like a normal school? And why on earth did my innocent five-year-old self join? Why didn’t I see this coming? And so on and so on. Of course, she knew the answers. Davis Bilingual Elementary School was in Tucson, Arizona, which is near the Mexican border, so they had a Mexican music program. Best K–5 mariachi in town. She had joined for the same two reasons everyone else her age had joined—because everyone else did, and/or being able to play an instrument sounded fun. And you expect a kindergartner to worry about a performance four-and-a-half years hence? “Bedtime!” called Natalie’s mother, Elena. “Right… coming!” Natalie yelled back. Once she was in bed, her mother kissed her and murmured, “Sweet dreams,” before closing the door. Natalie curled up under her sheet and shut her eyes. You think she slept? The next day, Saturday, Natalie and her mother walked up to the Tucson Community Center’s intimidating double doors. Natalie was dressed in a long, black, cylindrical, double-layered polyester skirt with jingling metal bangles down each side, a matching jacket (with bangles!), a pair of faux-leather high-heeled boots, a humungous red bow tie, a red moño (a bow, for her hair in this case), and a ridiculously wide black sombrero. In other words, Natalie was very, very hot. The southern Arizonan sun has no mercy for ten-year-old girls with impractically thick black polyester mariachi costumes. The backstage area was so large, a herd of the world’s tallest giraffes and fifteen large elephants could’ve lived in there, no problem. Currently, the enormous space was filled with the oiled screeching of violins, the melodious (but loud) honking and hooting of trumpets, and the lighthearted plucking of the rhythm (the guitars, vihuelas, guitarrons, and harps). No sheet music in sight. Natalie felt faint pride—mariachi always memorized their music. Sadly, the happy feeling quickly dissipated and Natalie went back to feeling queasy with anxiety. Her mother pulled her towards her group, Las Aguilitas. The Little Eagles. Juan Hernandez came running up to her. “Ay! Natalie, where have you been?” Juan was a nice guy, but running the Aguilitas was a stressful job. “What’s up?” asked Natalie weakly. “Um… could you help Joyce with “Guadalajara”? She keeps missing the runs,” he said, scanning his list of songs. “Hey, could you sing…” he began, but Natalie was already gone. Actually, Joyce needed little help. She was a tiny little Sonoran eight-year-old, and it turned out that she hadn’t realized that the runs went so quickly. “I mean, Juan and Ada go so fast on it, it’s hard to keep up!” Ada, a five-foot-tall fifth-grader, was a guitarist. She was usually the one to play a song with a violin and/or trumpet who wanted to practice and could be seen strumming in exact unison with Juan. No one else needed help, so Natalie hurried back to her case and began tuning her violin by ear. Juan could’ve done it much more quickly with his tuner, but he was very busy, and Natalie felt sorry for the poor guy. As the Showcase began, the wait only became more strenuous. In a desperate attempt to calm her nerves, Natalie concentrated on the strains of music that came from the stage next door. Ayyy, sin amor Yo tenia mi negra At the sound of a different version of “Sabor a Mi,” Natalie’s stomach twisted into painful knots. If that was how it was supposed to sound, she would sound awful. So much for the distraction. Beads of sweat began forming on her forehead, created by a combination of crowds, black polyester costumes, and fraying nerves. She felt free from all her life’s worries and completely in depth with the song After what was, to Natalie, an eternity, Las Aguilitas were ushered through a small, claustrophobia-inducing area behind the stage. Natalie was shaking so much she almost tripped over one of the many cords that coated the floor. The group went up the steps to the stage. Instantly, they were blinded by a flood of limelights. Even if Natalie tilted her sombrero’s brim down to block them out, she could hardly see the outlines of the people in the crowd, let alone find her mother. She began taking deep breaths to calm herself. It didn’t work. Las Aguilitas played their three most difficult songs, in this order: “Cascabel,” “Guadalajara,” and, of course, “Sabor a Mi.” Even as nervous as she was (not shy kind of nervous but oh-my-God-there’s-an-earthquake-shaking-my-body-and-my-stomach-is-a-breeding-area-for-butterflies kind of nervous), Natalie couldn’t help but love the first two songs. “Cascabel” was a quick but intense melody about rattlesnakes. “Guadalajara,” on the other hand, was an energetic song praising a place called Guadalajara in Mexico. But, alas, no matter how nice and distracting these songs were, they did have to end, and Natalie was quickly brought back to reality. Arianna, the skinny eleven-year-old who was standing next to Natalie, gave her a kind smile and a little nudge. Natalie reluctantly shuffled to the solo microphone at the front of the stage. Her trembling hands wrenched it from its holder and brought it down to her side, next to the bangles on her skirt. Of all the waiting Natalie had to do that day, this part was by far the most terrifying.