Been There, Done That

by Mike Winchell

  I don’t mind walking most places. I cut through people’s yards and make my way down to the flat streets to see my friends. It’s almost as fast as riding the bike, because the road loops around the hill like the tail of a cat. My friends like to go bowling when we can get the money together. Once a week we take the bus downtown to the public library to check out books. The last few days we’ve been meeting up at the park on Fairmont and practicing cartwheels. We’re too old now to make up games on the swings, even though I still like to do that.

  After the park we usually go to the drugstore to buy ice cream or candy. Last summer we bought a little turtle instead of chocolate. They were for sale in a big bowl of water at the checkout stand and were the size of Oreo cookies. They had dark green shells and a red stripe on their faces. We were going to share the tiny, swimming turtle—four of us girls would split her, and that would mean one week a month at each of our houses. But no one’s parents went for the idea, and we had to return Petula. The store wouldn’t give us our money back, which wasn’t fair. We like to say we miss her, but that isn’t true, because we only had her for two hours. According to Katie’s mom, who is a doctor, we had put ourselves at risk for getting salmonella.

  So far this summer everything’s been going along according to plan, which is not to have a plan, and then yesterday my mom says that I should go audition at the university to be in some kind of play. She talks me into doing this before I can think it through. The next thing I know, I’m waiting with my little brother in a long line of kids. We have to sing on a stage in a very dark theater on campus. My dad teaches here, but not performing arts, which is what the building sign out front said. I listen to the adults talking as I wait my turn to sing and I hear a combination of voices.

  “Six of the actors are professionals.”

  “Really?”

  “That’s what the woman in the office said. They’re getting paid. One is flying out from New York.”

  “Anyone we would have heard of?”

  “I guess we’ll find out when they make their big announcement.”

  “The director’s from Florida. He should be here. He’s supposed to have worked on Broadway.”

  I’m happy that my mom isn’t talking to these women. She’s reading a book as we stand in line. My little brother, Randy, has a marble in his mouth. My mom doesn’t know. He’s way too old to have a piece of glass in his mouth, but he likes to do stuff like that, and I’m not going to rat him out, because maybe he’s nervous standing here waiting to sing. I know I am. I hope Randy takes the marble out of his mouth when it’s his turn, because he could choke to death.

  Randy has a nice voice, and all year long he can be heard singing Christmas songs. He doesn’t care that it’s June. He still vocalizes about snow and sleigh bells and sounds good doing it. I’m not musical. Two years ago my parents bought a piano from some people who lived across town who were moving to Utah. Mom and Dad gave it to my two brothers and me for Christmas. I had to act really happy, because it was such a big present, but I pretty much hated the thing from the second it was carried into the basement, right next to my bedroom. The piano glared at me. It was like a dog that was chained up. It wanted to be set free and be played. But I just didn’t have the talent.

  Once a week, for almost two years, I had to go to this old lady’s house right after school and take my lesson. The torture lasted for forty-five minutes. I learned the scales, because a person can probably do that in one class, but I didn’t advance. Mrs. Sookram had other students and they were girls around my age, but I was lucky because we went to different schools. I never wanted the girl after me to hear me. She would know for sure how bad I was and that I was not progressing.

  Part of the reason I wasn’t progressing was because of the practicing. My fingers just didn’t feel right on the keys. They didn’t glide or find a mind of their own, which was what was supposed to happen. It was such a struggle, not like my big brother Tim and his music. He’s thirteen years old and plays the guitar and he begs for his lessons. He practices for hours and hours in his room. Tim’s guitar picks can be found all over the house. They’re like the droppings of some kind of animal. Kids are just different, but he’s firstborn, so he gave my parents unreasonable expectations.

  But I did learn something in the two years of piano class with Mrs. Sookram. I learned how to make conversation with an adult and get them off track. I watch interview shows on TV, and the key to the whole thing is to ask a big first question, and then follow that with smaller ones that prove you are listening. My big question was always about Mrs. Sookram as a child. Where did she grow up and when did she know that she liked music?

  If I got her going, which wasn’t hard, she just floated back to a town in Idaho. I unraveled her past, piece by piece, week by week. I know more about this lady than about my own parents. She grew up on a potato farm, and she loved music so much that she walked every day to listen to a lady play a harp five miles away in the lobby of a hotel. I think the harp must be the saddest instrument to fall in love with because you can’t haul it around with you, and also because it’s not like a piano. You can’t just go into someone’s house and expect the person to point over to the corner and say, “Yeah, we’ve got a harp. Why don’t you play us a song or something?”

  Once I figured out that the old lady liked talking better than listening to me hit the wrong keys, the lessons were more manageable. But then one day she said, “Natalie, I’m going to call your mom this afternoon. I just don’t feel right taking her money.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say, but I managed, “She doesn’t mind.”

  Mrs. Sookram looked like she was going to smile, but she didn’t. She said, “Honey, I just don’t think the piano is your instrument.”

  I nodded in a way that was half yes and half no. This involved sort of swinging my head around, and then I heard, “I’m going to miss you, Natalie.”

  She took my hand. It was way warmer than mine. I realized she was telling the truth because her eyes got all watery and stuff leaked out of her nose, and then I could see she was crying.

  I should have said that I was going to miss her.

  I wanted to say it, but a lie that big would have been impossible. So I put my arms around her waist and I gripped her really tight. She was a big lady, so there was a lot to hang on to. I felt lighter than air walking out the door and down her driveway. I didn’t realize until I was on the sidewalk how much I hated the piano, and how much I’d learned about potato farming.

  I pretty much haven’t thought about music since, and now here I am waiting to sing “Over the Rainbow” with a zillion other kids at some big-deal audition that half the town has shown up for. I thought long and hard all day about what to wear to this torture session, and I settled on my leather sandals and my jean shorts and a white shirt that’s called a peasant blouse. The shirt is my favorite, and it has puffy sleeves and a round neck and it’s made of thin cotton. I didn’t give the shirt the name “peasant blouse,” because that’s like saying “poor-person shirt.” But that’s just what they call these things. We don’t have peasants in our area. We have some farmers just outside of town, and to my knowledge they hire workers, and don’t have peasants in festive blouses pulling weeds. But what do I know?

  Anyway, I have on what I consider to be one of my best outfits, and that’s important, because one of the things I’ve learned is that it’s good to feel comfortable with what you’re wearing when you’re going into a situation that is uncomfortable. There’s only so much discomfort a person can take. My little brother has on a striped shirt and brown shorts with an elastic waist that I consider very unfashionable. And he has a marble in his mouth. We all make our own choices, except of course when it comes to the big things. Those decisions seem to be made for us.

  After what feels like forever, it’s my turn to get up on stage and sing. Most of the kids that went before me sang “Ove
r the Rainbow.” But I watched a girl ask the man at the piano if she could sing “Amazing Grace,” and they didn’t have a problem with that. So when I get to the piano I say, “Can I sing ‘This Land Is Your Land’?” The guy nods and then winks at me. This is a nice thing to do, because his wink makes me think he knows something I don’t know—like what I’m doing singing in front of two hundred strangers.

  As I sing “This Land Is Your Land,” I look right out at the auditorium. I don’t want to be here, but I’ve been short all my life, and I guess I decided somewhere along the way not to be the kid who was short but also invisible. So I sing loud, and I make sure my hands aren’t all knotted up in fists. I watched some of the other kids who went on before me, and they looked like they were ready to throw a punch. After I finish my song I look back at the piano player and say, “Thank you.” He winks at me again. I can’t help it—I laugh.

  I guess my mom knows that today was hard on us, because we go right to the bakery and we each get a chocolate cupcake. We eat them in the car on the way home, even though dinner is only a half hour away.

  I don’t think about the audition until four days later. We had a water fight today at Katie’s with big soaker shooters, and it went on forever and washed off some of my sunscreen, because I can feel my face tingle red. My mom is in the kitchen and she doesn’t say anything, but she is really smiling when I come in. Instead my little brother yells, “Natalie, we’re Munchkins!”

  For a second I think he’s saying I’m short, which of course I already know, but then my mom adds, “We got the call. You were both chosen!” I go through a lot of emotions. Mom and Randy are both smiling, and it seems as if we’ve won. But then I start to think about this. What about my summer? What about doing nothing? What about my friends and the park? I still haven’t mastered a good cartwheel.

  I work on my plan for hours, but the next day when I try to explain that I sprained my ankle and can’t go to the first rehearsal, my mom won’t even listen.

  There are other kids being dropped off as my brother and I walk into the theater. Most of the other kids have parents with them. Mom figured we could handle it, and she took off as soon as we were out of the car. I’m grateful for that now, especially when right away a woman with a clipboard tells the parents they can’t stay and watch. We will be having “closed rehearsals.”

  The parents look really sad about this. I have no idea why they’d want to watch us turn into Munchkins (which we are told is going to take four full weeks). The woman with the clipboard tells them to go around to the front of the building and buy tickets now. We have eighteen performances, and she seems certain they will want to come every night and bring lots of friends. All I can think of is that four weeks of rehearsals and three weeks of performances is almost the whole summer. Poof. Gone.

  Once they get rid of the parents, we are taken through the lobby into the theater. It is pretty dark in here, but I’m shocked to see three kids already up on the stage by the piano and two of the three are smoking! I can’t believe this is happening. Who lets a ten-year-old smoke a cigarette? No wonder the parents were told to leave. I just can’t wait to tell my mom and dad. My mom really doesn’t like smoking, and this is going to change everything.

  But then one of the three kids turns, and I see his face. That’s when I realize he isn’t a kid at all, because he has a beard! So he’s a little adult. He’s the perfect Munchkin. The rest of us are just big fakers, because as we get closer, I can see that these three have the right look. They are just like in the movie. It seems obvious to me now that there are not enough of these small people in our community to play Munchkins, so we kids are going to fill in.

  I’m standing with my brother waiting with the group of kids, when the small woman comes over and sticks out her hand and says, “I’m Olive. Nice to meet you.”

  She goes to each kid and says the same thing, which breaks the ice. This causes the two men to come alive. The man with glasses is named Larry. The man with the beard is named Cookie. I don’t think of Cookie as a man’s name. It seems like something I’d name a small dog. Cookie is a lot older than Olive and Larry, and it doesn’t take long before he explains he’s been a performer all his life. He’s mostly worked in circuses, but he’s also had jobs as a clown in rodeos to distract the bucking broncos. Everything Cookie says is interesting. He’s trained elephants, and he also can ride a unicycle and do a great backflip. After Cookie does a few tumbling moves, Larry warms up a bit. He knows how to talk in a funny voice and speak with crazy accents, plus he can make great animal noises.

  The stage is a beehive of activity when Don, our director, shows up ten minutes later. Don is tall and thin, and he’s dressed in what’s called a jumpsuit, which means the top is connected to the bottom, sort of like the kind of coveralls a car mechanic wears. But Don’s jumpsuit isn’t navy blue. It’s the color of a cantaloupe, and it has a fake belt that clips together in front with a gold buckle. Don’s not wearing a costume. This is just his outfit, and I know this because I can see his wallet in his back pocket and it has a worn spot, which means the jumpsuit gets a lot of use. I try to think of my father wearing Don’s orange outfit, and it just makes me go crazy inside. But somehow Don doesn’t look strange in this piece of clothing, because he seems very comfortable with what he has on.

  Don claps his hands together and shouts, “Performers! I need quiet!”

  All of us stop making noise; even Cookie, who seems to love talking. Don then explains that we will work very, very hard. We will learn to sing and dance. We will be a team that works together with the main cast toward one goal: putting on a great show. He ends his big speech by saying, “I need the best from you. I need your brightest light! You will all shine! You are all my stars!”

  I look over, and Olive is sort of crying. But she doesn’t look sad, so maybe she’s crying because she’s so happy. Larry puts his arm around her, and then Cookie takes her hand. Across the stage a mirror is leaning against the back wall, and I glance in that direction and can see myself. I also spot my little brother, and I realize that somehow, without me even noticing, he’s now taller than I am. But for the first time it doesn’t matter. That’s when I decide that this is going to be the summer that the short people call the shots. And moments later we are all singing “Follow the Yellow Brick Road.”

  Mike Winchell

  SCHOOL ABROAD

  Just when you thought you’d experienced everything school had to offer, suddenly a curveball gets thrown your way. You’re going to school next year, all right—but you’ll be taking classes in a whole new country.

  Author Tommy Greenwald had this curveball pitched at him when he was young, so he took a swing at writing a story based on that year inside a foreign classroom.

  Tommy Greenwald

  WHAT REALLY HAPPENED

  HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS IN A FOREIGN COUNTRY

  My mom was way ahead of her time. Nothing she did surprised us: not that she’d kept her maiden name, not when she went back to college and then graduate school, not when she became a professor at a college three states away and lived there from Monday until Thursday every week.

  Nope, nothing shocked us, until she came home one day and announced that she’d gotten a visiting professorship in Germany for a year, and she was taking my brother and me with her. I was in sixth grade; he was in seventh. We were smack in the heart of middle-school life—friends, sports, the occasional flirtation—in short, it was not the best time in the world to go live in a foreign country.

  But it wasn’t like we had a choice, so off we went. We ended up living in a small suburb of Bonn, which was then the capital of West Germany. There was a significant American military presence there, so my mother enrolled my brother and me in the local American school.

  When I walked into my sixth-grade classroom, I noticed one thing right away: All the boys had crew cuts. It turned out everyone in the class was from a military
family and had been living there for a number of years. And all the other students knew one another really, really well.

  Let’s just say I was a bit of an outsider.

  This was new for me. Back home, I was a pretty social kid—not record-settingly popular or anything, but I had plenty of friends. But Germany was a very different story. For the first few weeks I was there, I sat alone at lunch, or occasionally with another kid or two who felt sorry for me. I had no buddies coming over after school. I had no girls passing notes to me when the teacher wasn’t looking. Nobody even called me “Tommy”—they just called me “you” or “kid.”

  Then, one day, everything changed.

  It had been a rainy morning. We got to school, took off all our rain gear, and stashed it in the hall. Our teacher, Mr. Williams—who wasn’t very nice, by the way—launched into that day’s lesson. Slightly bored, I glanced down, and noticed that I’d forgotten to put away my umbrella. It was dripping all over the floor.

  Oh, great, I recall thinking.

  I considered my options.

  Should I raise my hand and tell Mr. Williams?

  Absolutely not.

  Should I just get up and take my umbrella out to the hall, dripping all the way, with everyone staring at me?

  Forget it.

  Should I close my eyes and magically transport myself back to peaceful, friendly Connecticut?

  Yeah, good luck with that.

  I decided to go with my fourth option: Stuff the thing out of sight without anyone noticing.

  I bent down and tried to kick the umbrella farther under the desk, but things went wrong right away. First, it got stuck under my chair. Then, one of the spokes in the umbrella got bent. And finally, the kid next to me saw me and whispered, “What’s going on?”