Chapter Four
It was mid-morning when Mrs. Clark, the music teacher came into the room for that most openly hated time of day. Recorder practice.
“Class, take out your recorders.” Mrs. Clark had one of those voices that was too cheerful, like the Glenda, the good witch in The Wizard of Oz.
“Turn in your practice sheets, now. Hand them toward the front.” Papers rustled in desks and backpacks as they looked for the sheets that proved they practiced at home.
Timmy sighed as he handed his forward. He didn’t practice Monday and his mother refused to sign that he did and let him make it up later.
Pulling the overhead proctor forward, Mrs. Clark turned it on and soon the music for “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” shone on the screen, and painfully, screechingly, the class played something that barely sounded like what they were supposed to play.
“That was wonderful, class.” Timmy looked at her in disbelief. “Just wonderful. It does sound like we need a little more practice, though, so keep up the good work, and let’s try that again.”
Several kids groaned, but for the next fifteen minutes or so, the painful sounds of brakes squealing, pigs grunting, fingernails raking the chalkboard accompanied the valiant few who could actually play the instrument which is the bane of fifth graders everywhere.
Mrs. Clark was rubbing her temples like she had a headache, but when they finished, she smiled. “Excellent progress, class! Just wonderful. We’ll be ready for your parents to listen to us in no time at all if you just practice, practice, practice.”
All around him, the other children were putting their music away, but Timmy kept playing softly, but none of the notes were on paper.
He tried to play the song he heard in his hands, in his feet, in the air, through the desk. The more he tried the louder he played. Louder and faster, trying to hit all the notes that surrounded him. The song coursed through him, and when he ran out of breath, he realized with some embarrassment that everyone in the room was staring at him. Some looked like they had been surprised by brussell sprouts in their lunch, but Mrs. Clark just stared at him with her eyes and mouth wide open. "My lands." she muttered.
“Class, take out your recorders.” Mrs. Clark had one of those voices that was too cheerful, like the Glenda, the good witch in The Wizard of Oz.
“Turn in your practice sheets, now. Hand them toward the front.” Papers rustled in desks and backpacks as they looked for the sheets that proved they practiced at home.
Timmy sighed as he handed his forward. He didn’t practice Monday and his mother refused to sign that he did and let him make it up later.
Pulling the overhead proctor forward, Mrs. Clark turned it on and soon the music for “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” shone on the screen, and painfully, screechingly, the class played something that barely sounded like what they were supposed to play.
“That was wonderful, class.” Timmy looked at her in disbelief. “Just wonderful. It does sound like we need a little more practice, though, so keep up the good work, and let’s try that again.”
Several kids groaned, but for the next fifteen minutes or so, the painful sounds of brakes squealing, pigs grunting, fingernails raking the chalkboard accompanied the valiant few who could actually play the instrument which is the bane of fifth graders everywhere.
Mrs. Clark was rubbing her temples like she had a headache, but when they finished, she smiled. “Excellent progress, class! Just wonderful. We’ll be ready for your parents to listen to us in no time at all if you just practice, practice, practice.”
All around him, the other children were putting their music away, but Timmy kept playing softly, but none of the notes were on paper.
He tried to play the song he heard in his hands, in his feet, in the air, through the desk. The more he tried the louder he played. Louder and faster, trying to hit all the notes that surrounded him. The song coursed through him, and when he ran out of breath, he realized with some embarrassment that everyone in the room was staring at him. Some looked like they had been surprised by brussell sprouts in their lunch, but Mrs. Clark just stared at him with her eyes and mouth wide open. "My lands." she muttered.
posted by Kim in Training | 12:47 AM
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