This is what she tells me. Like it’s the key to unlocking the Secrets of the Universe. Like they’re some Magical Words of Wisdom I can’t possibly afford to ignore. Like she’s that crazy little psychic woman from Poltergeist telling Carole Anne to “Go into the light.”
Normally, Jessica Clark Putnam is the nicest teacher in the whole wide world. The kind that allows you to hang out in her office after school eating popcorn. The kind that takes you to Downtown Detroit to see the Symphony, along with every other kid in Band at Webb Jr. High School. The kind that talks to you like you’re a Real Adult…And not a 12-going-on-13-year-old.
She’s one of the prettiest teachers, too. With short brown hair, curled back on the sides, kinda poufy on top—a slight wisp of gray at the temples. She’s also got a nice smile. Full of straight white teeth. But at this very moment, the look on her face makes her totally unrecognizable.
“After everything I’ve done to get you that scholarship?” Mrs. Putnam asks in utter disappointment. “You realize what a wonderful opportunity this is, don’t you? You’d be a fool to pass it up.”
I can’t even believe this is the same woman who stands before us every morning in 2nd hour Varsity Band, flailing her arms about in 4/4 time, head nodding in rhythm, pounding the beat into our brains from high atop her podium. Like she’s God.
I proceed to explain how totally grateful I am for the “wonderful opportunity” and all. But I really don’t wanna spend two whole weeks at a stupid Summer Band camp all by myself.
“What about Bradley?” she reminds me. By whom she’s referring to VB trombone player and my new Best Friend, Brad Dayton.
As outstanding 1st chair musicians, Brad and I have been awarded partial scholarships to attend the prestigious Blue Lake Fine Arts Camp. The only problem is…BLFAC costs like $300 for a two-week session. And Brad hasn’t explained to Mrs. Putnam how his parents recently got divorced and his Deadbeat Dad is refusing to pay child support for him and his three sisters. Which means no money for Brad to spend two weeks at an exclusive Summer Band camp.
Which is what I tell Jessica Clark Putnam. But she’s not having it…Not one little bit.
“Just because Bradley Dayton can’t go to Blue Lake,” she informs me, “doesn’t mean it should stop you from going by yourself.”
The other problem is…I live in the Detroit suburb of Hazel Park. Better known as Hazeltucky to the folks who don’t live there. And Blue Lake Fine Arts Camp is located in Muskegon—all the way on the other side of the state. And two weeks is a long time for a 12-going-on-13-year-old to spend away from home. Especially one who’s never done it before.
Which is when Jessica Clark Putnam tells me, “Friends hold you back.”
She proceeds to explain how when she was a kid growing up in Rochester, NY, all she ever wanted was to be a Professional Flautist. For those of you not in the know, this means “flute player.” Which explains why she left home at the tender age of 18 after receiving a full scholarship to the University of Michigan. Never once looking back or contemplating for one moment the family or friends she left behind.
I have no idea what else to say. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s disappointing a teacher…So I say nothing.
Ever so sweetly, Mrs. Putnam responds to my silence. “You do want to go, don’t you?”
I nod my head. What kid in his right mind wouldn’t? After all, this is a “wonderful opportunity.”
How I ever got myself into this mess, I have no idea…
I’ve gotta admit, being picked as 1st chair when 7th grade started back in the Fall came as a surprise to me. Out of the nine other trumpet players, I never expected to be The Best. Though I did practice my butt off for an entire week till I got every last note of my sixteen bars right. Let’s just say…If my Dad had to listen to “Irish Folk Dance” one more time, he was gonna kill me!
One of the hardest things I’ve had to get used to about being in junior high is…being forced to stay for Lunch every day. Back in elementary school at Longfellow, I used to go home on account of we lived right around the block. But at Webb, if you look around the cafeteria, it’s like, all the boys sit together and all the girls sit together. At totally separate tables. Even the guys and girls that are going together don’t sit with each other during Lunch. Sure, you see them walking down the hallways together all the time—arms around each other’s waists, hands in back pockets. But when it comes to eating lunch, they won’t be caught dead at the same table! Which I think is totally stupid. I mean, I’m a guy and I’m supposed to like girls. Which is why I don’t pay attention to those dumb rules. I sit with whomever I want.
In fact, sitting with a group of girls during Lunch is how I met my Best Friend…
One afternoon in early September, I was sitting in the cafeteria with Ava Reese, Varsity Band 1st chair clarinet, Carrie Johnson, VB 2nd chair clarinet, and Katy Griffin, VB 2nd chair trombone. Even though she’s super skinny, Ava’s always on a diet and hardly ever eats anything. Which is why she was busy going around the table with her Sign-In Book, asking everybody the questions and marking down our answers with her trusty #2 pencil.
“Calvin’s or Jordache?”
“Calvin’s,” answered Ava’s new Best Friend, Carrie. Though she barely opened her mouth since she just the day before got her braces tightened and they were killing her.
“Calvin’s,” agreed Katy, as if there was no other choice. Which was kinda weird, if you ask me. Not weird-weird, but…Katy’s kind of a Tomboy and since I’ve known her, I’ve only ever seen her wearing Levi’s or cords. In fact, when I saw her walk into the Band Room on the First Day of School, I totally thought she was a guy. Not that I’m saying I don’t like her or anything, ’cause I totally do. Maybe it’s her short feathered-back hair, I don’t know. All I know is…Boy can she throw a football!
“Ladies and gentlemen…” An adult male voice cut in over the cafeteria loudspeaker. Followed by the obnoxious sound of banging on the microphone. “Is this thing on?”
Lucky Mr. Grant…He gets the honor of babysitting us every day during Lunch. His main job is to read Today’s Announcements so we know things like when yearbook pictures are being taken. Or to remind us how important it is to sign up for fluoride treatments. Stuff like that. Though the girls I’m friends with would probably listen to Gorgeous George talk about anything.
Personally, I don’t get what’s so great about him. I mean, he’s got this totally cheesy mustache! Though I guess his hair’s kinda cool. Sandy brownish-blond, feathered-back on the sides, kinda spiked on top. He’s also got nice eyes. Bright blue. And a nice smile, I suppose. I guess he’s kinda attractive. Not that I judge other guys, ’cause I don’t.
“We interrupt this program,” Mr. Grant said, “to bring you another episode of…Dear Bobby.” He sounded more like a cheesy radio announcer than a junior high Social Studies teacher. Every day for the past week and a half, Mr. Grant had been reading us a letter he confiscated from one of our fellow 7th graders. He always started off with a recap from yesterday’s installment. Which was what Gorgeous George was about to do at that very moment…
“When we last left Dear Bobby,” he began, “Shelly had invited Bobby to meet her at the Roosevelt playground after school…”
A chorus of hoots and hollers erupted from the Jock table at the far end of the cafeteria. Sitting among the group was the Star of the Show, himself. Though from the shade of red his face was turning, Bobby Russell was clearly not enjoying being the Center of Attention.
I don’t think I’ve mentioned…Bobby’s also in Varsity Band. 2nd chair trumpet. Which means he sits right next to me. Which always seemed kinda odd that he could be like, Mr. Popular and be in Band. But somehow Bobby pulls