“Do you like my locket?” One warm summer evening, when the sun was just beginning to set over the sea, a single bird chirped melodiously. His fellows one by one joined in, each singing a different melody and pitch, but somehow all truly going together. The soft, sad song of the cricket gently burst through the birdsong at random intervals, yet sounded perfectly orchestrated. A cool breeze swooshed the long panoramic grass in perfect time to the melody. This was the best serenade to ever be possibly heard by human ears, a song created by nature. And in that precise moment, when the music was its peak, a baby girl was born. Her cheeks were flushed from the moment she was born, and the puffiness that swelled around the eyes of other babies was completely absent. She had wide blue eyes, the color of the ocean, that looked curiously around the room. Then, as all other newborns do, she began to cry. But this was a different sort of cry, not a cry of surprise or sorrow, but a cry of joy that somehow fell into the melody of the crickets, and the birds, and the wind. She was named Chorus, for the chorus of nature. * * * Some ten years later, in the cool middle of autumn, Chorus woke up in the early morning. Even with her eyes closed, she could sense a bright light in front of her face. She figured it was just the sunlight reflecting in the small tortoiseshell mirror that was ever present on her bedside table. But when she partially opened her eyes, she saw it was not. The mirror had fallen to the ground next to her bed, face down, and the curtains were closed. It was a golden locket sitting on her bed, on the small, decorative quilted pillow that often plopped to the floor during the late hours. Its golden sheen glowed even in the near blackness of her room. She leaned over to the bedside table and flicked on a little lamp so as to see it better. Gently, Chorus picked the locket up by its thin gold chain and turned it over and over again in her fingers. It seemed to emit a warmth, flowing through Chorus’s fingers pleasantly, fully waking her up. “This isn’t mine…” she wondered aloud. “So whose is it? And where did it come from?” She began to study the two smooth faces of the locket. They were completely blank. Or so it seemed. When she looked at the front side for the third time, tiny words were scrawled on it, in seamless, perfect cursive. This belongs to you, Chorus… for now. She shivered. What did it mean, “for now”? How did it know her name? And how did that writing appear? Chorus shook her head, blond curls whipping her cheeks. “It was there all along. I just didn’t see them at first.” She did not quite believe herself, because deep down she knew it definitely wasn’t there before. But she started to get ready for school, and after she brushed her hair and got dressed, she paused to grab the locket and close the clasps around her neck. Downstairs, her little sister, Lavender, was already sitting at the table, munching a piece of toast with way too much butter. Lavender was in first grade and thought she knew everything. This was completely off, Chorus thought. Lavender could hardly read the word umbrella. She always said “umbella,” but maybe that was Lavender’s speech, not reading skills. No one could be sure. “Hello, Chorus! Good morning! Welcome!” (Lavender loved greetings.) “Yes, hello, Chorus honey!” Their mom gave Chorus a quick kiss. “Now hurry up and eat. We don’t want to be late, do we?” Chorus sat down in a vacant chair, got up again, brushed all the crumbs onto the floor, and sat down with finality. As she wolfed down her cereal, she asked her mother, “Do you like my locket?” Her mom turned around. “What locket?” Chorus gasped, and she touched her chest. But the locket still was present with the same heat as before under her hand. Puzzled, but unwilling to pursue the subject, Chorus finished her breakfast and tugged on her sneakers without bothering to re-tie the laces. When Chorus first got the shoes, she had tied one triple knot in them and never had to do so from that point on. In other words, she used lace-up shoes as slip-ons. She quickly checked her backpack for her lunchbox and her homework. Chorus then zipped the bag shut and slung it over her back. Taking hold of Lavender’s small hand, she gave her mother a hug and ran out the door to catch the bus. When Chorus and Lavender were alone in the smooth leather back seat of the school bus, Lavender whispered, “I can see the locket.” Chorus stopped staring out the window and turned to her little sister. “Can’t anyone?” Lavender’s brown eyes widened. “I don’t think so. Mommy couldn’t. I could tell.” Chorus wrinkled her brow and narrowed her eyes in concentration (and a tad of annoyance) and did not speak for the rest of the ride. When they arrived at school, Chorus suddenly addressed her sister. “Why couldn’t she?” Lavender’s eyes sparkled. “Magic.” The hands on the classroom clock seemed to be frozen in place, as clocks do when you stare at them waiting for something. Chorus counted down the minutes. The lesson on common and proper nouns was mind-numbing. It wasn’t usually, but today Chorus was anxious for language arts to end. Three… two…. one…. Briiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing! The bell’s chime thundered through the school. Chorus sprang up and dashed into the hallway. She nearly sprinted through the corridors and into the choir room, where she leaned against the wall, panting. “Look who’s here first! Hello, Chorus!” Miss Macintosh, the singing teacher, hurried towards her, her floaty sky-blue dress swooshing around her ankles. However, when she neared Chorus,
Music
Thank You, Mr. Huffington
“Awesome!” Mr. Huffington said, clapping his hands OCTOBER Come on, Josh,” Mom urged one day. “It won’t kill you if you join band.” “Yes, it will,” I retorted. “I’ll take away your video games,” Mom threatened. “OK, fine!” I finally gave in after weeks of argument. “I’m sure the way to fit in at my new school is to be a band geek, so that’s exactly what I’ll be. Then you’ll be happy.” “Josh, we both know that’s not what this is about,” Mom said sharply. I grabbed my comic book from the table, ran to my room, and slammed the door behind me. I jumped onto my bed and crossed my legs. Angrily, I flipped the pages, sighing and shaking my head. Mom never got me. Not since I turned ten, not since we moved, not since I joined fifth grade, and especially not since Dad died. I lay there for a while, staring miserably at a small chip in the ceiling. Then I heard Mom call, “Josh, time for dinner!” Glancing at my watch, I realized an hour had passed. I threw my comic book off my stomach and ran to the kitchen. Mom was listening to those jazz recordings, like always, though she turned them off quickly when I entered the room. Another hour passed, and Mom and I had finished dinner without speaking one word to each other. I went back to my room and resumed my position on the bed, until the chip in the ceiling started getting blurry. My eyelids got heavy. “Good night, Mom,” I murmured. I fell asleep in my clothes but woke up when I heard Mom shuffling into my room. I closed my eyes again and pretended to be asleep. Mom ruffled my hair and kissed my forehead. It was just as well she was acting so affectionate. By tomorrow, I’d be a band geek. By tomorrow, she would have ruined my life. The next day, a teacher I had never seen before sauntered into my classroom, so tall he had to duck through the doorway to get in. He had gelled-back brown hair, brown eyes, and a huge smile, one that lit up the whole room. His smile almost made me smile. But then that grinning, very tall man introduced himself. “Hi, everyone. I’m Mr. Huffington, the band teacher.” Mr. Huffington talked excitedly for forty-five minutes straight, hardly taking a breath, about how awesome it was to be in band. The strange thing was, hearing and watching him, I started feeling like maybe being around a guy like that would almost make being a band geek worthwhile in the end. * * * MARCH Five months had passed since I joined band with Mr. Huffington. I was OK with going early every Wednesday morning for practice. I was OK with lugging my trumpet case up and down the stairs every Friday for trumpet lessons. I wasn’t crazy about it all, but it was OK. I wasn’t suffering or anything, at least not the way I do in math. But I wasn’t very good at the trumpet. I was trying hard but just wasn’t getting the feel for it. The band was scheduled to play at the fifth-grade graduation in June. I’d told everybody I was going to play, and now I couldn’t just drop out, but I wouldn’t be allowed to play unless I got better. So I tried even harder. And absolutely nothing happened. “Come on, Josh,” Mr. Huffington said encouragingly one particularly frustrating Friday afternoon. “Curl in your lips. Let your air take over.” I took a deep breath and let the air flow through my curled lips. To my surprise, I hit a pretty high note. “Awesome!” Mr. Huffington said, clapping his hands. “That was High C. Just try to aim a little lower, for G.” “OK,” I said, suddenly feeling more confident. I aimed lower and got G. “Good!” exclaimed Mr. Huffington. “You’ll be playing like a pro in no time.” “How long is no time?” I asked. “Because I have to play at graduation. Do you think I’ll be able to?” “Probably,” Mr. Huffington said, “if you practice a little more.” “Hmm…” It was true I hadn’t practiced much, even when I’d wanted to practice. Often I’d pull out my rusty rental trumpet, but instead of hearing my notes flying out of it, right away I’d start to hear the notes from those recordings. My heart would get tight, my eyes would start to sting, and I’d quickly tuck the trumpet away. But if I practiced, would I ever sound like the recordings? Would I ever be that good? Was it worth it to even try? “OK,” I said doubtfully. “I’ll try to practice a little more.” “Great,” Mr. Huffington said. Then the period was over, so the half of the trumpets I practiced with on Fridays all packed up their stuff. The next half came streaming in through the door. I liked it better on Wednesday mornings, when all the trumpets played in unison. No—I liked it on Wednesday mornings, when the entire band played in unison. This March was a crisp one, not so cold as to have winter gear muffling your voice, but not too hot, where you sweat like a waterfall. It was a mellow March. The flowers were getting planted, to grow in May, and we weren’t getting too much rain—that was April’s job. I had forgotten to practice during the week, so I practiced extra the Tuesday before band. Mr. Huffington took special interest in me the next day—how I kept missing notes, struggling with my air, and how my elbows were jabbing my own ribs. How tense I was. How sweat trickled down my forehead. He took special interest in me this time—the time I was failing at the trumpet, more miserably than I ever had. He just looked. He listened. He didn’t speak. At lunch, I ate fast, threw out the white foam tray,
Just Don’t Quit
Everyone in my class who plays piano hates practicing. They all say, “Ugh, my mom is so annoying, she says I can quit piano when I am thirteen.” In my case, it’s the opposite way around. Mom encourages me to quit when I whine about practicing. Of course no kid likes practicing, so I have to whine about it. And don’t get me started about how dull practicing scales, triads, and arpeggios is. But I don’t want to quit piano, because I love music. When I finally get a piece right, the music is so beautiful. I remember the time when I learned the piece “Polonaise in G minor,” by Chopin. My teacher, who is really good at piano, is very strict. After hours and hours of practice, I thought I had mastered the piece, but she still managed to find something that went wrong, like the rest that wasn’t held long enough, or the quarter notes that sped up to eighth notes. So I had to practice again for weeks. My happiest memory of piano was when I performed at a local nursing home On the day I went on the stage in Steinway Hall, as I moved my hands, the music swirled into the performance hall. I saw the notes were dancing over the grand piano, and I played and played until I heard the great applause. My teacher was cheering and clapping, and I knew that she was so proud of me. So was I! Music is magical because it helps me express myself. It is like a good friend. When I am feeling a bit sad, I play a piece by Handel and it cheers me up. The pieces he writes are always so upbeat, like someone is waiting for something exciting to happen. And I begin to feel that too. When I am angry, I play this piece by Bartok. I start banging the keyboard, to show the whole world my feelings. But the strange thing is, after playing a while of piano, I felt calmed down; I was absorbed in the intense music, forgetting about why I was mad in the first place. I always wonder if Bartok must have found his inner peace, like me, through his exotic music. My happiest memory of piano was when I performed at a local nursing home for the senior people. I performed a trio, with a violinist and a cellist. We played “Orientale,” by Cesar Cui. We played in perfect harmony and the senior people cheered so loudly for us, it made me blush a bit. After the concert, we walked around and chatted with our audience. They all greeted us eagerly and told us the music made them very happy. One man told me that this had been the best afternoon he had had for a long time. I was proud that my piano made other people cheerful. I met a woman who was over a hundred years old, next to her seventy-five-year-old daughter. I was startled a bit because her skin was so wrinkly. She said, “That was beautiful, darling. I play piano, and the music has been with me all my life. It is something that can accompany you forever.” Her daughter chimed in and told us, “I played piano, but I quit… I have always regretted that. I know it is boring to practice sometimes, but if you keep at it, you will see the beauty of music everywhere you go. Just don’t quit.” Juliette Shang, 10New York, New York Maya Work, 10Terrasse-Vaudreuil, Quebec,Canada
