Help Wanted Page 9

  "He's a pig," she whispered. Sip-sip. "One day he'll see." Sip-sip. "I'm going places, and he's not!" Sip-sip.

  When she saw Rachael coming into the cafeteria—Jason Harvey was at her side, his arm in hers—she hurried outside into the yard, fighting against the tide of students entering.

  "I hate school," she moaned. She sat on the cement bench, alone. A pigeon visited her and stared her straight in the eye. It scratched and pecked at the ground. The pigeon soon left when it received no shower of bread crumbs or potato chips. But two sparrows arrived at her feet. Their chirps had the sound of flutes. They also sounded to her like rusty latches, but she preferred thinking of them as little flutes.

  "What are you saying?" Norma asked.

  Chirp, chirp.

  "Are you, like, boyfriend and girlfriend?"

  Chirp, chirp.

  When the first bell rang, the birds flew into the bare wintry tree. Norma got up, spilled her hot chocolate on the cement, and started toward her first class. She imagined that the two sparrows were boyfriend and girlfriend. She imagined that they would dart down from their branch, drink, and maybe wash themselves in the sweetness of romance.

  Mr. Burrows lifted off his eyeglasses and peered at Norma. He wanted to hear it again. He wanted to know where her flute was.

  "A boy stole it," Norma answered. Her arms were across her chest. A curtain of bangs half hid her face.

  "'A boy stole it,'" he said slowly as he slipped his eyeglasses back on. His eyes themselves grew large and luminous. "Did you hear that, class?" He got up and started to pace in front of the band members.

  Some of the boys laughed. Only one girl laughed, and that was Rachael, whose arm was scribbled with answers to the next period's geography quiz. Her laughter revealed a wad of blue gum on the back of her molars. It also revealed that Rachael was truly not Norma's friend.

  "It's not funny," Norma said without turning to Rachael, even though they sat next to each other on squeaky metal folding chairs.

  Rachael raised her hand, her bracelet jangling like a tambourine. The geography notes resembled tattoos and were revealed to the class.

  Mr. Burrows's eyes got bigger behind his eyeglasses, his way of saying, Yes?

  "I got an extra flute at home," Rachael said. She told the teacher that she could bring it tomorrow.

  Yuck, Norma thought. I have to put my lips to the mouthpiece of her flute? She closed her eyes and pictured Rachael and Jason Harvey kissing. She pictured their tongues touching.

  It was settled. Rachael would lend Norma her extra flute. It was also settled that the band members would meet, rain or shine, in front of city hall on Saturday for the Presidents' Day parade.

  Rachael's hand went up.

  Mr. Burrows lifted his shaggy eyebrows.

  "What presidents are we marching for?" she asked.

  Mr. Burrows sucked in his lower lip and then spat out, "All of them. But especially President Lincoln."

  Out of habit Rachael wrote that piece of information on her palm. No telling when that answer might come in handy.

  They would march with members of Hamilton Middle School. Like their own middle school, Hamilton had few members in the band. Their own band had three trumpets, two flutes, a trombone, a dented tuba, a glockenspiel that gave off the sounds of doorbells ringing all at once, a bass drum carried by a small boy, and three snare drums that always got all the attention from passersby. Together they still didn't have enough members to make up a true marching band. And neither school had uniforms. Hamilton Middle School sported sweatshirts—green and white ones, Norma recalled—or maybe blue and white. Her own school—Franklin D. Roosevelt—had red and white ones, with a picture of an ancient battleship.

  Mr. Burrows spent time discussing the march. To do that, he called band members into the yard, where he first demonstrated a sort of cadet march, but with a swagger.

  Three boys laughed. It struck them that their teacher looked like a girl as his legs kicked up in a march.

  "Do you get it? We've done this before—remember?" Mr. Burrows was unaware that the boys were making fun of him.

  The band members nodded. They were then pushed into four lines—the flutes and glockenspiel up front, and the trombone and trumpets in the second row. The tuba had its own line, and the snare drums and bass drum filled out the last line.

  "Now march slow, and listen to each other's steps." He stood in front, walking backward and waving a baton. Occasionally he would look where he was going, but his attention was drawn mostly to the band members. "It's all coming back, no? Remember when we marched last year for Columbus Day?"

  Norma felt stupid. She had no flute to bring to her mouth.

  "Okay, that's not bad. Let's try 'Stars and Stripes Forever.'" Mr. Burrows ordered the band to attention and, after inspecting the lines, called out, "One, two, three, and—"

  The band started playing, the beat of their instruments moving everywhere but in time. Their music was the sound of a car crash, or a pyramid of cans falling all at once. It was the sound of pipes falling off a tall rack, or a kettle whistling on a stove. It was the death moan of a Scottish bagpipe.

  "Stop, stop, stop!" Mr. Burrows's chest heaved. He stared angrily at the trumpet players, then at the tuba. He let them know that they had better play better. "Let's start again." He waved his baton and called out, "Now one, two, three, and—"

  This time the musicians fell into a reasonable tempo. Mr. Burrows smiled. It was imperfect for sure, but good enough.

  But Norma was not smiling. She was marching with the band members but had nothing to contribute except a woeful look.

  Still, as Mr. Burrows waved his baton, the band members became confident, and even proud, the boys parodying the swagger of Mr. Burrows that had had them laughing only a few minutes before. The roll of the snare drums brought out a few lingering students and teachers from the classrooms. They watched silently as the band marched up the yard and then back down.

  This is stupid, Norma thought. Everyone's watching me. She believed that everyone—students and teachers, plus the afternoon janitors—was watching her, the only one without an instrument. It got even worse. Samuel Ortega, the boy who had spurned her, was watching, too. He was holding a metal trash can by its handle. He was picking up litter as a punishment for something. Norma wanted to believe that it was for being mean to her. When Samuel started to bang the side of the trash can, Mr. Burrows threw him the dagger of a mean look. He stopped at once and continued to pick up litter.

  "Very good!" a beaming Mr. Burrows called out. "Very, very good." He gave a command to march in time, and then a forward, then flank left, then flank right.

  They marched until the afternoon became shrouded in dusk. Norma had nothing to do but march and think about love. Like everyone else, she wanted a boyfriend, and wanted to go places with him—a movie, a park, maybe to a lake where they could rent a boat. But she had no boyfriend to hold, nor a flute, that chrome instrument that could send a beautiful melody up into the air. Her fingers tapped at her sides, as if she were playing a flute, as if she were suddenly involved in the music echoing throughout the school yard.

  After band practice Norma went into the principal's office and cried into the comfort of her palms. She told Mrs. Conway that her flute was lost and almost whimpered, "Stolen."

  "Let's look right now," Mrs. Conway suggested. Her eyes cut a glance at the clock. It was 4:30, late. She prodded Norma outside her office and into the hallway. Mrs. Conway's shoes rapped like gavels in the empty hallway.

  "Where are we going?" Norma asked.

  "The place where lost things go," Mrs. Conway answered mysteriously. She also told Norma that she should have reported the missing flute sooner.

  Norma wanted to tell her she thought that Samuel Ortega had taken it from her locker, but her explanation would have been too complicated, if not false. Plus, she realized, he was already being punished for something.

  Mrs. Conway tried three keys before she had succes
s in turning the knob. When she pushed open the door, Norma faced a treasure of things that had been lost and never claimed—backpacks, lunch boxes, basketballs, coats and jackets, sweaters and sweatshirts, and—what was that?—a stuffed frog holding up a tiny umbrella? There were skateboards, shoes, skates, a box of eyeglasses, girlish umbrellas pink as flowers, and a flag of Great Britain. There were lots of books. There was also a trumpet and a black case, just like the kind she carried her flute in.

  "Is this it?" Mrs. Conway asked.

  Norma ran her hand over the case. "No." Tears filled her eyes and spilled down her face. She told Mrs. Conway about the Saturday march for Presidents' Day and how she had nothing to play.

  "Then take it," Mrs. Conway said.

  "But it's not mine."

  "It's yours now." She wiped the tears from Norma's cheek.

  Norma's hand reached up, and her fingers wrapped around the handle. When she pulled the case off the shelf, dust rose into the dark air. Mrs. Conway and Norma took turns sneezing as they walked down the hallway.

  Norma left a message on Rachael's answering machine, informing her that she had a flute and not to bother bringing an extra one to the parade. She was so glad that she didn't have to put her lips on something touched by Rachael's lips. The thought made her shudder.

  Norma cleaned the flute in her bedroom. It was old for sure, and pitted with rust marks and dented in places. But the keys worked nicely. She pressed the mouthpiece to her lips and blew a long A. She worked the keys as she played her exercise of "Do Re Mi." She then started playing a sorrowful Japanese melody called "Dawn in a Stone Garden," a melody that touched her deeply. The day had been a long one. She would have kept playing, but she heard a key in the front door—for a second, she pictured the principal, Mrs. Conway. But it was her mother, she knew. It was Friday night, which meant pizza and maybe a video.

  "Hi, Mom!" Norma called when her mother pushed open the front door.

  When Norma ran into the living room, ending with a slide on the wooden floor, she discovered her mother balancing pizza in her right hand.

  "Hey, girl," her mother said. She tossed her car keys onto the coffee table. "What are you doing?"

  "Practicing for the parade." The old flute was in her bedroom. She didn't want to risk upsetting her mother by confessing that she had lost her flute.

  Her mother asked if she was hungry.

  Norma touched her stomach. That simple touch produced a growl from the depths of her stomach.

  "Let me make a quick salad," her mother said, and rushed off to the kitchen.

  No, it wasn't a video night but a night of girl talk. After the salad was made and the pizza reheated in the microwave, the two, sat on the living room floor. The house was quiet, and for a while the two, exhausted from the day, were quiet. After her second slice, Norma asked, "Mom, will I ever have a boyfriend?" Norma amazed herself by her boldness. She and her mother had never talked about boys—or men for her mother, who sometimes sighed about her single status. Norma's question came up when her mother was bringing a forkful of salad to her mouth.

  "Sure you will," her mother said after she cleared her throat. She set her fork down.

  "But I'm, like, you know, chubby."

  "No, you're not, honey. And anyway, everyone finds someone." Her mother looked off dreamily, as if she were looking for someone for herself.

  "Were you and Dad boyfriend and girlfriend for a long time?" More bravery as Norma picked up a third slice. "Was it, like, love at first sight?"

  "For a long time," her mother answered. "Two years. And yes, it was love when I first saw him." She explained that she first saw him when he was dancing with another girl. She didn't care. She knew that she was going to get him. But she would never believe that she would lose him years later to the same girl he had held in his arms—Betty Ugly Face, her mother called her.

  "Did you have other boyfriends?"

  Her mother smiled. "Lots." She let the word lots grow big in significance. Then she laughed with her hand over her mouth. Her mother confessed that was a fib.

  Norma waited for her mother to finish laughing and then asked, "You sure? You sure I'll have a boyfriend?"

  "Of course! You'll have lots." She then eyed the pizza. "But what you won't have is more pizza—the last slice is mine."

  Norma went to bed early and stared up into a ceiling that was black, black, black. She thought for a while that it was like the night sky, but realized that the sky had stars and, beyond the stars, a heaven brilliantly lit with God's love. She rolled onto her side and went to sleep, with the feeling that love was possible. Hadn't her mother said so?

  The next morning she dressed in her school sweatshirt, practiced on the old flute while standing over the floor furnace, and turned down a ride to city hall from her mother. She jumped over rain puddles and felt a happiness that made her light-headed. The sun broke through the February sky and lit the streets with a glare that nearly hurt her eyes.

  She uncased her flute and played it on her way to the parade. People watched her and smiled. She lifted her head and trilled her flute at the birds. Her happiness wasn't even dispelled when she saw Rachael, who was licking her fingertips and rubbing something from her hand—an answer she no longer needed?

  Mr. Burrows was talking with the band coach from Hamilton Middle School. They suddenly jerked with a laughter that made their bellies bounce over their belts. They patted each other's shoulders and turned to the mingling band members. They called them into squads.

  "Come on, let's hurry," Mr. Burrows barked.

  The two schools assembled into one band, with each Hamilton student standing next to a Roosevelt student. They took their position behind a platoon of soldiers in chrome helmets. In front of the platoon stood a somber color guard with the flags of California and the United States whipping in the wind.

  "We're going to play what you know—'Stars and Stripes Forever' and 'This Land Is Your Land.'"

  They practiced both tunes as Mr. Burrows winced dramatically. He covered his ears to make his point. "Let's do better, boys and girls. I know you're not used to each other, but you can do better." The Hamilton band members looked at the Roosevelt band members, and the Roosevelt band members returned their confused looks. They shrugged and smiled. It apparently sounded okay to them.

  They practiced for ten minutes. They would have practiced longer, but the parade was about to begin. The parade marshal, a man dressed as President Lincoln, called on them to get ready.

  Norma gazed behind her at a baton unit in red glittery outfits. The very young girls—the five- and six-year-olds—were up front, and the older, more glamorous girls in their midteens were in the back. Norma noticed that some were chewing gum.

  She then noticed the boy next to her. She had first seen him when Mr. Burrows was yelling at them, and he was running a rag down the throat of his flute.

  He smiled at her, shivering.

  She thought he was cute and just like her—a little chubby.

  "It's cold, huh?" he remarked. He hugged himself for emphasis. He chattered his teeth and said, "Brrrr."

  Norma flushed. She thought he was so cute. Was this love at first sight? Like when her mom first saw her dad?

  "Yeah, it's pretty cold," she agreed. She then called in return, "Brrrr." She had never used that sound, but then, she had never been standing next to a boy that might like her.

  "What's your school like?" he asked. His teeth were white and straight, and his eyes clear and sincere.

  "Big," Norma answered, throwing out her arms. She touched her hot cheek. Yes, it's happening—it's love at first sight. She began to wonder how far Hamilton Middle School was from her school. Was it a mile away? Across town?

  "Norma!" Mr. Burrows called. "Let's pay attention, young lady."

  She parted her bangs and, standing on tiptoe so that she could see over the trombones, apologized, "Sorry, Mr. Burrows."

  Her attention was drawn to Mr. Burrows and the drum major, a boy f
rom Hamilton. He brought a shiny whistle to his mouth as he marched in place and in cadence with the platoon of soldiers in front of them. He blew once, then filled the air with a series of rhythmic blows that had the band marching. He twirled around, baton in hand, and inspected the band. Suddenly they were part of a parade in honor of presidents who at that moment didn't matter to Norma. She felt dizzy with happiness. What could it be but love?

  Norma turned and smiled at the boy, who returned her smile before he brought his flute to his mouth.

  "It's happening," she told herself. "I'm falling in love."

  Because her flute didn't have a clip to hold sheet music, she followed his sheet music. She noticed that he played well, and marched well. And if he didn't play or march in cadence, who cared?

  Norma trilled her flute on a high note, and, she noticed, the boy next to her returned her trill. We're like birds, she thought, one lovebird talking to another. She trilled her flute at him again, and again he responded with a trill. Her heart thumped. For years she had heard that romance had something to do with the heart, but she never believed it. Now she could see that it was true!

  Norma felt pretty. She eyed the crowds lining the streets. The little kids were waving and some adults were clapping. When a boy began to wave frantically, as if he were drowning, she narrowed her eyes at the figure. Was it Samuel Ortega? It was! She made a face and, shrugging, explained to her new friend, "Just some pest from school."

  The traffic up ahead slowed. The drum major turned and had them march in place. A wind lifted the leaves from the gutters and made them swirl and dance overhead. The sun disappeared behind clouds gray as elephants.

  "Brrrr," the boy said to Norma.

  "Brrrr," she said in return, though her cheeks were pink, a sign that she was anything but cold.