My stomach makes a little gurgling sound, and I wonder if I am getting hungry for lunch or if it’s responding to the nerves I feel just holding the saxophone in my hands. I take a closer look at the instrument, trying to figure out how I am supposed to use this weird-looking contraption to make music. On the top end, a small, black, curved part narrows almost to a point, presumably where my mouth goes. It has a strange silver band attached to it, and for a moment I wonder if it might be what holds the mouthpiece to the rest of the saxophone, but upon further inspection I decide that doesn’t really make sense. My eyes move down to the mass of golden buttons, which appear sort of jumbled, like they are not in any kind of real order. I push a few of them for testing purposes. My fingers go down easily and I am surprised by how quickly I can switch from one button to the next. At least there is one thing I feel confident I can do…push buttons down really fast.
Here are a few other things I feel fairly confident I could do if tested:
• Eat an entire box of cookies.
• Draw stick people.
• School Luke on a video game.
• Imitate Jodie’s eye-roll. (That didn’t happen overnight, either. It has taken hard work and dedication.)
Why can’t the big test be on that stuff?
I let out a sigh and turn my attention to the bottom of the instrument, which curves up into a horn shape. Looking into it, I notice a piece of chewing gum that another kid has obviously left from last year. Fantastic. I grab a piece of tissue from the front of the room and work on chipping the hardened substance from my saxophone, if only to delay actually trying to play the thing.
—
GAME TIP #5: Parents will often say things that are not true to try and scare you out of doing something. Like telling you your face will get “stuck like that!” if you keep making a silly expression. Or if you don’t eat your vegetables you will stop growing and stay kid-sized forever. But when your mom tells you not to fall asleep chewing gum…she’s not kidding about that one.
Okay. No matter how I feel about this, I am going to have to learn the saxophone in order to pass grade six Music, so I had better make my peace and get to it. If I can score in the last two minutes of the third period to tie up a game while killing a penalty, how hard could it be to make a few sounds out of a horn?
Here it goes. I am bringing the saxophone up to my mouth, I am blowing into the saxophone and—
“You need a reed, you know.” Kaylee Gifford is looking at me as if I were sitting in my chair completely naked. With four arms. And a monkey in a clown suit on my shoulder.
“I need a what?” I try to shoot her back the same look, but I don’t think it works.
“A reed?” Kaylee pulls out a thin rectangular something and hands it to me. “It makes the vibrations that cause sound to come out of the saxophone. It’s the same thing with the clarinet.” She points to her instrument, and then continues. “You put the reed in your mouth to wet it, like this.” She stops talking to put the reed in her mouth. “And then you attach it right here.” Kaylee unscrews that tiny silver part on her instrument, slides the reed in, and tightens the screws to hold it in place.
That’s what the silver part is for! That was definitely going to be my second guess. Or maybe my third.
“But I’m sure you knew that.” Kaylee smirks, and then plays a few notes on her clarinet. “I’ve been taking private clarinet lessons for years, so this class should be a breeze.”
As I am trying to figure out how to slide the reed thingy in, it is dawning on me that I would actually rather be naked in class than have to learn the saxophone. And a couple of extra arms would come in handy. And, really, who doesn’t want a monkey?
The rest of the day goes by in a blur. Science. Social Studies. French. The only thing making this terrible day tolerable is the fact that I have hockey practice after school.
As soon as I walk in the door to my house, I run up the stairs, shove my new “friend” into a corner, and start packing my equipment bag. Practice jersey. Skates. Pads. Gloves. Helmet. I grab my stick and race back downstairs to meet Luke at the car. My dad’s driving. We load everything in and are just getting buckled up when my dad turns up one of the “classics” so that he can make the drive to the rink as painful as possible.
You know when you try really hard not to think about something but it ends up being the only thing you can think of? For instance: It’s Friday morning and you are going to see a movie after school that you have been WAITING AND WAITING to see. You try not to think of it. You do everything in your power to concentrate on something else. But what’s the only thing you can think of while school drags on, slower than usual, sucking the very life right out of you? That’s right. The movie. (Also the fact that at the movies you will be ordering a large popcorn with butter and then adding a bag of candy to it. That way, every once in awhile you go to grab a handful of popcorn and BAM…a delicious, sugary surprise! It’s the only way to eat popcorn.) Well, that’s how I feel right now. But instead of looking forward to something, all I can think about is how much I’m dreading my musical “situation,” and Dad’s horrible radio station selection is not helping me forget my worries. In fact, it occurs to me, as my dad sings/screeches along to “Sweet Home Alabama,” that it is most likely his fault that I am so terrible at music in the first place. Thanks for that, Dad. And as long as I’m thanking you for your genetic contributions, I also really appreciate the sticking-out ears and the awkwardly large middle toe.
—
GAME TIP #6: Although it might seem like a good idea to just ask your dad to stop belting out “the oldies,” doing so will actually only encourage him to sing louder and/or add dance moves. Just keep your head down and wait it out.
Luckily, the rink isn’t too far, and both Luke and I dive for the door handles as soon as we come to a complete stop. I hear my dad calling out “Where’s the fire?” as we quickly grab our equipment bags, sling our skates over our shoulders, and head indoors. As soon as we are inside, I take a deep breath and instantly feel a sense of calm. I may not be able to make even the slightest squeak on that saxophone, but this…this I can do.
The dressing room is already full of my teammates, putting on equipment but mostly just messing around. I grab a seat on the bench and let the hum of the room drown out all of the thoughts running through my mind. The sound of tape ripping, wooden sticks being tossed onto the floor, a distant whistle from the ice. I unpack my equipment bag and then begin getting ready, already forgetting the troubles of the day. Everything slides on quickly—after all, I’ve done this routine a million times before.
Sometimes, when I’m getting ready for practice, I imagine what it would have been like for the real #4, Bobby Orr, to lace up his skates before heading out onto the ice. Did his dressing room look anything like mine? Did he feel nervous getting ready before a big game? Were his thoughts preoccupied with the terror of having to play the saxophone? Doubtful.
I finish lacing up my skates and turn to grab my stick before noticing it is not where I left it, leaning against the wall.
“Looking for this?” Mick Bartlet is standing in front of me holding my stick. I try to grab it but he jerks it away. “Look at that. Squirt here is slow on and off the ice.” I hear laughter coming from Mick’s gang, now assembling behind him.
Oh, did I forget to mention that not only do I have to deal with Mick at school but I’ve also had to play with him on the same hockey team since Novice? It has been totally awesome (and just in case it didn’t come across, that was sarcasm). I can always count on him to try and ram me into the boards during a scrimmage, or pull some other kind of stunt. Like taking my stick.
“Hey Mick, c’mon…” I say, trying to sound nonchalant about the whole thing. “Practice is about to start, just give it back.” I can see Luke getting up from his seat but I shake my head, signaling for him to stay out of this.
“Calm down, Squirt. I was just taking your stick to get it cut down. So that i
t’s more, you know, your size?” Mick is laughing hysterically at his joke and he tosses my stick to one of his gang, who throws it across the room. “C’mon, guys, let’s go.” They make their way to the door, laughing as they exit the dressing room.
I walk across the room and pick up my stick, easily identifiable by the single strip of black tape in the middle of the blade, a little something I do in honor of my hero. Luke is beside me but we don’t say a word to each other. We just make our way out of the dressing room and onto the ice.
I tighten my grip on the stick. Okay, Mick Bartlet. Here comes #4.
CHAPTER 4
My blades hit the ice and I begin to warm up, trying to focus my attention on getting loose and ignoring Mick and the rest of his crew, who are still laughing at the opposite end of the ice. I shoot a few pucks at the empty net, nothing too fast or fancy, just easing my way into practice. Coach blows his whistle and tells us to take a knee.
“All right, gentlemen, we’re going to start with some battle-drills today. Let’s get set up for Machine Gun.”
We’re starting with the Machine Gun drill? Apparently it is going to be one of those practices. What Coach refers to as “battle-drills” are a set of on-ice challenges designed to put us in pressure situations and possibly FREAK US OUT. Because it’s one thing to skate with a puck around an orange cone, but something altogether different when someone puts a stick on you, or a shoulder into you. That’s when you see who can play.
If Coach really wanted to put me in a pressure situation, he should have considered having some skating or shooting drills that include a saxophone. But let’s not give the guy any new and terrifying ideas.
Okay, so this is the Machine Gun drill.
It isn’t merely a one-on-one drill, or even a two-on-one drill. This is a three-on-one drill. You’ve got one person in front of the net who has thirty seconds to try to shoot as many pucks toward the goal as he possibly can. The problem? That would be the three guys between the shooter and the goal, doing everything they can to stop him. The three defenders can’t use their sticks during the drill, so they only have two ways to achieve their objective—block any shot taken, or hunt down the shooter and make contact. It’s fast. It’s physical. It’s exactly the type of drill I am not feeling up to at this precise moment. It looks like this:
“Roberts?” My coach is pointing to a bucket beside the boards. “Grab the pucks from over there, dump ’em out on the ice, and take your place in front of the net. Bartlet, Smith, and Richards—you know what to do.”
Perfect. I get to start out as the shooter. Well, so much for “easing” my way into practice. I grab the bucket and skate over in front of the net as instructed.
“Don’t worry, Squirt. I’ll take it easy on you. I only pick on people my own size. I wouldn’t want to really hurt you,” Mick says, stretching his arms from side to side.
I pretend that I don’t hear him and turn the bucket upside down to drop the pucks onto the ice so they fall in a random pattern in front of the net.
“Everyone ready?” Coach already has his whistle in his mouth, and with a nod from each of us participating in the drill, he gives it a short blast.
I immediately start firing the pucks toward the net as quickly as I can, with the three defenders coming toward me at the same time. The first two pucks are just wide of the goal, but the third one whizzes in. I take another shot but hear a crack as it bounces off Smith’s shin pad and sails in the opposite direction. The next one is blocked by Richards’s skate, and then one hits the post. I keep shooting, one puck after another, all the while trying to dart and avoid the three guys coming at me. Some of my shots end up in the net, others near it, but most of them are blocked by the defenders. It’s thirty seconds of insanity.
Mick has managed to do the majority of the blocking (not to mention some holding, clutching, and grabbing), and as the whistle blows again, signaling us to stop, he skates over to me and shoves me, saying, “C’mon, give me a challenge!”
Practice continues with more of Coach’s battle-drills, followed by some conditioning work. He finishes things off with a short game of half-ice four-on-four. By the time we’re done, I am drenched in sweat, ridiculously tired, and happy to see my dad’s car already waiting in the parking lot. I am definitely ready to have this day OVER.
Dad asks us about practice on the way home and I try to engage in small talk, but Luke realizes I am not in the mood for conversation and answers most of the questions. When I get home he has already messaged me.
Jay you there
Yep
I can almost hear my mom: “I don’t understand it. Whatever happened to proper punctuation? And since when did ‘yep’ become a full sentence?”
mick was being dumb
just doing it because he knows you can smoke him on the ice
i know
not upset about that
?????
(See, Mom? We totally use punctuation.)
sax.
you’re going to get all the ladies
not funny
chill
can’t you just get a tutor?
i got one for math
A tutor! Why didn’t I think of that? Luke, you’re a genius! You’re a godsend! You’re…
k bye
I turn off my computer and start getting ready for bed. A tutor, of course! It’s not as if I am unteachable…I just haven’t ever really given it a shot before. I will get a tutor. And in a few days, a couple of weeks at the most, playing the saxophone will be as easy as skating. I close my eyes, and for the first time since Music class, the huge knot in my stomach is gone and I can breathe easy once again.
There are 58 seconds on the clock.
I’m not sure where the puck came from, but somehow it’s now on my stick blade. I start to skate up the ice, but my legs feel heavy, and it takes all of my strength just to weave around my opponents. I look up to see if one of my teammates is near the net, waiting for a pass, but no one’s there. Why can’t I move faster? I will myself to keep going, to keep possession of the puck. There’s the net. C’mon, Jay. Everyone is watching. It’s all on you. Just get the puck in the net. I pull back my stick, but something about it feels wrong. My hands are not gripping the layered, worn-down tape that is usually there. Instead, I feel the distinct coolness of metal, and it sends a shiver down my spine. I bring my stick down, only to realize it is not a stick at all.
It’s a saxophone.
“Play for us, Jason, dear!” Mrs. Jennings is in the net, wearing a full goalie uniform but still sporting her usual scarves and accessories. “Just a little tune? We’re all waiting…”
All around me, I can hear people starting to chant: “Play! Play! Play!” I look up at the stands but all I can make out are dark shadows.
Mrs. Jennings is moving closer. “It’s time to play, Jason. You need to play.” I turn around to try to find one of my teammates but I am alone on the ice. “Jason? Jason!” Mrs. Jennings is almost in front of me now and getting closer with each passing second. “Jason! JASON!!! For goodness sake, Jason, do you really want to be late on the second day of school?”
My eyes pop open. A nightmare! It was all just a silly nightmare. My mom is picking up some clothes from the floor and asking if I think she’s my maid. I give a quick apology, which seems to appease her, and she grabs a pile of my laundry on her way out the door. I have dealt with some pretty tough opponents on the ice, but trust me…none of them have anything on my mom when she’s in a mood.
—
GAME TIP #7: It’s a good idea to learn the meaning of the word “rhetorical.” When someone asks a “rhetorical” question, it means they are not expecting you to answer. So, when your mom makes a really bad meal (I mean, you’re not even sure what’s on your plate), and she says, “Oh, I suppose you would rather eat at Luke’s house?” Yeah…she doesn’t want an answer for that one. Pick up a fork and eat. Any inquiries relating to: the state of your room/your mom being a maid, bad m
arks on your report card, a hockey bag that has not been cleaned out for a week, the second hat that has gone missing at school, a last-minute project that you haven’t brought up until the night before…all rhetorical questions.
I take a quick shower, get dressed, and grab a piece of toast on my way out the door. I find Luke sitting on my front steps. He shoots me an unimpressed look, I assume because he has had to wait for me, and I mutter an excuse about not hearing my alarm. My mom wasn’t kidding about the time, and Luke and I have to sprint across the playground just to make it in by the bell.
We take our seats just before Mrs. Vanderson instructs us to take out last night’s Math homework. I pull out my binder and start flipping to find the correct page when a tiny, crumpled piece of paper lands on my desk. I turn to Luke, expecting that it came from him, but he’s grabbing loose papers out of his backpack and seems concerned that he hasn’t found the right one. Luke is good at math, much better than I am, but his organizational skills are a little lacking.
I unfold the paper and find a small cartoon that looks like this:
I immediately know that Mick is behind this, and I try not to give him the satisfaction of looking in his direction. Unfortunately, this is hard to do. Sitting at the back of the class may have a lot of advantages (you are picked on less to give homework answers; it’s much easier to grab a quick nap when you are reading a really boring novel in English; you’re right in front of the heating vents, which comes in handy when December rolls around), but the one disadvantage? I can see everyone, whether I want to or not. Mick is completely turned around in his chair, so it is only a matter of time before our eyes meet. He mouths the word “Squirt,” whispers something to the kid next to him, and starts laughing. I turn to say something to Luke, who is still frantically searching through wrinkled papers, when suddenly I hear my name.
Jay Versus the Saxophone of Doom Page 3
