by Helen Rutter
When I get to school, Josh finds me at break. He’s saved me some of his apple crumble. I take it around to the Oaks after school. Mrs. Gibbens is there again, which is a bit annoying. She is always there now. I want it to be just me and Granny Bread, but Granny Bread doesn’t seem to mind her hanging around all the time. When I show them the apple crumble, they both want to try some, so I feed it to Granny Bread from a plastic spoon. I think she really likes it. I definitely don’t want to feed Mrs. Gibbens, but luckily when I hold out the other empty spoon, she reaches out and takes it and helps herself. It’s a bit like looking after two strange tiny wrinkly old babies, I think to myself, and then feel instantly bad.
When Mrs. Gibbens has gone, Granny Bread whispers, “She was crying earlier, poor woman.”
“Why?” I ask, not really wanting to know the answer. Mrs. Gibbens still scares me every time I look at her haunted face.
“Before she came here, she used to live in a little apartment. No family at all. All alone, apart from her little Scraggles. He was her world.”
“Is Scraggles the dog in the picture she always carries around?” I ask, slightly interested now.
“She has shown me photo after photo of that scruffy animal. Honestly, Billy, I think that dog was the love of her life.”
“Did he die?”
“No,” she whispers, and then leans in towards me and looks around as though what she’s about to tell me is highly confidential. “That’s the tragedy. Here, have some juice and I’ll tell you all about it.” As I sit back, Granny Bread begins the story.
“So, Mrs. Gibbens is making herself some soup, in her apartment, one Sunday afternoon. Scraggles is curled up in his bed as usual, and BOOM, out of nowhere she has this terrible heart attack. She ends up in hospital, and she’s there for weeks and weeks, poor woman. None of the doctors think she’ll make it—she’s in a terrible state. When she comes around and realizes where she is, do you know the very first thing she asks about?”
“Scraggles?” I say.
“You’ve got it.”
“Well, what happened to him?” I’m hooked now. Granny Bread really knows how to tell a story.
She pauses and leans in again. “GONE!” she whispers.
“What do you mean, GONE? Where is he?”
“No one knows, Billy. He wasn’t there when the ambulance turned up. Not that it would have made any difference. We aren’t allowed pets in this place anyway. I don’t think there is a day that goes by that she doesn’t cry over that ball of fluff. She spends every minute when she’s not in here staring out of her window, hoping to see him. That’s never going to happen, poor thing. That’s why I invite her around so much. Take her mind off it a bit.”
“Surely someone could find him. Put p-posters up or something.”
“She brings around pictures to everyone in here and asks us to look out for him. That’s no use, though, is it? We are all half-blind or doolally in here! As I said, Billy, she’s got no one. No one who would bother. Sad, isn’t it? Makes me count my blessings that I’ve got you. Come here and give me a hug.”
As we are polishing off what’s left of the crumble, I tell her I’m not going to tell jokes at the talent show anymore, and she looks really sad. Even though I tell her I’m going to play the drums instead. I try to sound excited, like it’s an even better plan, but she doesn’t buy it. She knows me too well. She knows how much I wanted to be a comedian. I think she wanted it just as much.
I feel bad, like I’ve really let her down. But I have to concentrate on the band now. We have to get through the open rehearsal and then we can start figuring out what to do for the talent show. I can’t embarrass myself in front of Ellie and everyone else. So I can’t think about Granny Bread’s sad face now.
Why was the math book sad?
It had too many problems.
“Wh-wh-what are you into?” I ask Blakemore as he’s getting his math book out.
“What are you talking about?” he scowls.
“What stuff do you like? Then w-w-we can use it in the questions to make them s-s-s-seem more interesting.”
“You’ll never make math interesting, Plimpton.”
“Just tell m-m-m-me, or else I will use unicorns.”
“Fine. Minecraft,” he says.
“Anything else?”
“No.”
“Okay, th-th-this could be tricky since I’ve never played M-Minecraft, but that’s fine. You can tell me about it.”
“You’ve never played Minecraft? You’re weirder than I thought.”
“Is there anything wrong with being different, William?” asks Mr. Osho, not even looking up from his book.
“No, sir,” says Blakemore reluctantly.
When Blakemore starts telling me about the game, I get lost pretty quickly, but he seems really excited by it. It sounds to me like it’s just like Lego with some characters in it, so that’s what I’ll use. Bricks and bad guys.
“I can’t draw to save my life,” I say, “but you can, so I need you to draw a Minecraft wall of bricks, okay?”
When I tell him that there is a special “mystery brick” called X that could be worth more than a single brick, he tells me I sound like his mom, but he’s still listening. When I tell him that there is only one way to find out what the mystery brick is worth, he rolls his eyes and says, “A sum?”
“Yes.”
He’s fine at the easy ones at first, and then as soon as I add Y, he starts going pink again. I can tell that he’s stopped listening and is just trying to get out of it. The more stressed he gets, the less he can do it. Then the bell goes and Mr. Osho saves us.
“Great work today, boys. See you next week.”
“Looks like you’re still doing the talent show, Plimpton,” Blakemore says as he puts his bag on.
I smile to myself knowing that I’m going to do it no matter what. He has no idea! He kind of waves at me as he leaves the room, so I say, “S-s-smell you later,” and I hear him laugh on the way out.
* * *
The Music Lounge is all set up for the rehearsal day. There are so many instruments. Ellie’s on a beanbag with two of her friends. She waves when she sees me and I really want to go and talk to them, but for some reason I feel really shy and my ears get hot, so I just wave back. Skyla makes a funny face when she sees me waving at Ellie. When I told Skyla about the band and the talent show, she knew something wasn’t right.
“You’re playing the drums?” she asked, looking at me and waiting for me to go on. When I didn’t, she said, “Okay, I’ll come and watch the auditions,” but she didn’t sound convinced.
I avoid looking at her, I don’t want to be reminded of her watching me on the stage, stammering my jokes. It’s embarrassing.
It’s so busy in the Music Lounge, it feels different from normal. You can use any instrument you want. Josh gives the huge double bass a shot and I try an electric drum kit. They’ve even put a table out with cookies on it, and Mr. Osho’s giving out juice. I have a bit of a headache. I’ve had a headache since I told Granny Bread that I wasn’t doing comedy anymore. I’m trying to ignore it.
Then they invite people up to perform. There is a set of twins, one of whom plays the violin and the other who does backwards walkovers. I’m not sure how the violin really goes together with gymnastics. I don’t really like violins—they make my muscles go tense, and it doesn’t help my headache at all. Then there’s this amazing girl on the piano. Her fingers move so fast and she closes her eyes when she’s playing. Then there’s a juggler, and then it’s us. We’re the first band. We’ve practiced twice, but we spent most of our time messing around, so I’m not exactly sure what we’re doing. All we know is that when I get a beat going, Alex can watch me for the rhythm and start a melody on the keyboard. Then the others can join in with his melody.
Mr. Osho comes up to the front with us. He looks really excited. He introduces us to the kids all sitting around on beanbags and playing board games, which seems a bit much
to me. “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, and everyone else. As you may know, I run the lunchtime Music Lounge and the boys here join me in the appreciation of jazz.”
He gestures for me to start playing, so I start a low jazz beat, on the ride cymbal—Ting Ting, T Ting Ting, T Ting Ting, T Ting Ting—as he continues: “Please put your hands together for the Regulars!” There’s a smattering of applause. “On keyboards, we have Alex!” It all seems a bit over the top, considering we can’t even play anything, but Mr. Osho looks really excited. “And on the guitar, we have Matthew!” I start to wonder what on earth we’re going to play. “On the box bass, we have Josh!” Josh is jiggling as usual and has a big smile on his face. “And finally, on drums, we have Billy Plimpton.” With that, Mr. Osho gestures for me to up the volume, so I do.
Brr-Rum Pap, Brr-Rum Pap, T-Ting Ting, Brr-Rap-Pap!
It feels good. People listening. Not knowing what’s going to happen. No plan at all. Alex comes in with a little loop on the keyboard. It’s just me and him for a while. Then I hear Josh’s box bass kick in with two big low notes. In a few minutes, we’re all playing and Mr. Osho is at the front, on his trumpet. He’s amazing. He takes a solo with just the drums and keyboard underneath and then the others join back in. We’re doing it! We’re really doing it! I can hear each of them and what they need. The conversation between us all. Without any words at all. I forget about the audience.
We must play for five minutes, and at the end, we’re all out of breath and laughing hard. We hug each other and bow. I look at Ellie and her friends—they’re clapping. Mr. Osho shouts, “Give it up for the Regulars!” Now that’s a good name for a band, I think.
After us, there’s a magician who gets all of his tricks wrong and a dance group that constantly forget the steps and start arguing with each other. Then at the end is the last band. Teenplay, they’re called. It’s the same band I saw setting up the room when I was with Ellie. They are ten times better than us. They have a lead guitarist whose hair covers his eyes. I wonder how he can see the strings. He does all the singing. There’s a bass guitarist with short dark hair and a drummer with very pink cheeks. They look like high school juniors, but I can’t be sure. They play a really loud rock song. They’re pretty amazing. Ellie claps loads and whistles with her fingers when they finish. I want her to clap and whistle like that for me.
At the end, when no one else wants to get up, Mr. Osho makes a little speech about how great everyone is and then says, “Obviously, today’s for everyone, whatever their skill. If any of you have enjoyed performing here and want to take it up a notch, there is the annual Bannerdale’s Got Talent Show in December.” I look at the Regulars. They all nod at me and put their thumbs up. “For the musicians among us, there is a sign-up sheet for rehearsal slots so you can get in as much practice as you need before the big show!”
As I look at the boys, I think, Maybe this will be better. I can still do the show and be on the stage. The audience will still be cheering. It is nearly as good as the original dream, just without the jokes, but I’ll have my friends by my side. I can’t help feeling a little bit sad, though.
Mr. Osho goes on. “We’ve seen some wonderful musical acts in the past years, along with all sorts of other performers. Dancers, magicians, comedians.” He looks right at me and winks. “You name it, we’ve seen it here.” My tummy does a flip when he says the word comedians. I try to shove it down and pretend I haven’t felt it and avoid his eyes. He goes on, “It was even filmed by our local news team last year! So you could find yourself on the television. But most importantly, enjoy being creative!”
* * *
The next day in homeroom, Mr. Osho says seeing us play for the first time was one of the best moments of his teaching career. He looks really emotional. He makes us take a vow to start a band called the Regulars and says, “Will you let me come and be a guest trumpeter every now and then? Most importantly, boys, do not forget your jazz roots.” So that’s the new plan.
Our first real rehearsal as the Regulars is so much fun. We meet at my house, and Dad’s put loads of fairy lights and posters of bands up in the garage … or “the studio,” as he now calls it. It looks pretty good. We don’t play much music, as we are laughing too hard; I’m doing my Mr. Randall impression, and the boys can barely breathe. Mom comes in to bring us some snacks and finds us all on the floor in stitches. We’re howling with laughter, unable to stop.
I speak through my tears. “We are going to start soon, I p-promise.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” she says. “It’s all part of being a band. Just enjoy yourselves.” Then she gets that look on her face like she’s going to cry.
She’s been so worried about me. She won’t even let me close the door to my bedroom anymore, since the batteries. She even meets me to walk back from Granny Bread’s every day. I don’t know what she thinks I’m going to do. It’s horrible having someone watching you, worrying, all the time. As she looks at me lying there laughing, I think she’s just happy that I’m happy. I see her wipe her eyes but I’m laughing too hard to be embarrassed. I think being in the Regulars is going to be a lot of fun.
Maybe this is how it’s meant to be. Maybe I was on the wrong path all along. I never needed to get rid of my stutter anyway. I just needed to realize that comedy wasn’t right for me. That I’m a drummer instead. The talent show might be even more amazing than I had ever dreamed now that I’m not worrying about my stutter anymore.
What’s the difference between a fish and a piano?
You can’t tuna fish.
Mr. Osho has put us down to rehearse every Monday and Wednesday after lunch. I feel a bit giddy when I realize that I might get to see Ellie. I imagine her sitting on a beanbag while we rehearse, whistling with her fingers.
After shoveling down my pizza super fast, I say, “Bye,” to Skyla and head to the Music Lounge. We don’t know what song we’re even going to practice yet, but it feels exciting. We get there five minutes early, and Teenplay are just at the end of their rehearsal.
We stand in the doorway, watching. When they get to the end of the song, the boy with the floppy hair on the guitar says to us, “You were the guys who played the other night with Mr. Osho?” We all nod, and then he looks at me. “Your drumming was awesome, little man.” I laugh and shake my head. As he strums his guitar, he says, “Just one more song, boys, then it’s all yours.”
They start up the same song I heard them play when I was with Ellie after cross-country. When they get to the tricky section, the drummer stops. They try it a few more times until he throws his sticks down. He looks really mad, and his cheeks go brighter pink. “I just can’t get it! I’m better on keyboards.”
The guitarist looks over to us with a sorry expression on his face. “We’re not putting on a very good show for you, are we? Let’s pack up and call it a day.”
“Seriously, Sam, I just want to go back on keys,” the drummer says as he’s putting his backpack on.
Then the floppy-haired boy looks right at me and says, “I don’t suppose you want to be the drummer in our band, do you, little man?” I can’t tell if he’s joking, but he just keeps looking at me, waiting for an answer.
I laugh and look at Alex, who just looks down at the floor. Josh is twiddling his tie and Matthew shrugs. I don’t know what to do. I feel really trapped.
“It would mean rehearsing every day, though,” he adds as he picks up his guitar case.
Just as I’m about to say, “Sorry, I can’t,” something stops me. I can’t let the boys down like that, though, can I? Not when this has all been my idea in the first place. But the words won’t come out. I can’t say it. I’m stuck, and this time it isn’t just my stammer. I can’t speak and I can’t think straight.
The floppy-haired boy walks past us in the doorway and says, “Think about it. I know it’s not easy, but we could really do with someone like you. We’re gonna do some paid gigs soon too, so you know, it would be like a real band. When are you next
rehearsing?” he asked, looking up at the schedule.
“Wednesday,” I whisper.
“Great, well, you can tell us then.” He winks at me, shrugs an apology to the others, and slinks off down the hall.
The rehearsal feels a bit weird after that. The excitement we felt has vanished, and we all seem a bit miserable. When we start playing, it sounds like we’ve never even picked up our instruments before. It’s awful. I look up, hoping that no one is laughing at the terrible noise we’re making.
After ten minutes of getting nowhere and no one saying anything, Alex stands up and asks, “What are you going to do, Billy? There is no point us even being here if you’re just going to join them anyway.”
“Yeah,” adds Matthew. “It does seem a bit stupid to practice if we don’t know that you’re staying with us.”
I look at Josh, and he’s looking down at the floor like he wants to sink into it. I can’t do it to them, I think. I started this, so I should finish it and they are my friends after all. The first real friends I’ve ever had.
“Of c-c-c-course I’m sticking with you guys,” I say as lightly as possible, trying to make it sound like I didn’t even consider ditching them.
The truth is that for the rest of the day and night I can’t stop thinking about being the drummer for Teenplay.
* * *
The next morning, after everyone has headed off to class, I ask Mr. Osho what he would do.
“Gosh, that’s a tricky one, isn’t it, buddy? Only you know how committed you are to the boys. Have you chatted to them about it?”
“N-not really. I told them I was staying.”
“Why did you tell them that?”
“I didn’t want to upset them. They’re my friends.”
“Well, maybe there’s your answer.”
“I know, b-but I can’t stop thinking about it. I had a d-d-dream last night that I was a drummer for Teenplay and we were playing in a s-s-stadium.”
