Libby's Got the Beat

by Robert Rayner

  Libby and Etta raised their hands.

  “That settles it,” said Libby.

  “I didn’t vote,” Celery protested. “You didn’t say, ‘Raise your hand if you disagree.’”

  “Raise your hand if you disagree,” said Libby.

  Celery raised his hand.

  “You lose,” said Libby.

  “Na-na-na-na-na,” Etta sang.

  The Band Manager started again, “The first item on the agenda —”

  The Band Stylist interrupted this time. “On the what?”

  Celery sighed. “The agenda. It’s a list of things the meeting is about.”

  “I thought gender meant, like, girls and boys,” said Etta.

  “It does,” Celery agreed. “But this is a-genda.”

  “Sounds the same,” said Etta.

  “It does not sound the same,” Celery insisted. “It’s like a tissue and a-tishoo don’t sound the same and have nothing to do with one another.”

  “They do, too,” said Etta. “When you a-tishoo, you need a tissue.”

  Libby rolled her eyes. “Can we please get on with the meeting?”

  “Good idea,” said Etta. “Get on with it, Celery.”

  The Band Manager sighed again. “The first item on the agenda . . .” he paused and looked at Etta, who made a face at him, “. . . is — are we going to play for anyone except ourselves and Ms. Cattermole?”

  The Underachievers had practised at the studio twice the week before, and twice more on the weekend. Ms. Cattermole was expecting them at Libby’s piano lesson the next day.

  They looked at one another, thinking.

  Libby said slowly, “Friday night at Youth Group is Talent Night . . .”

  Last time at Talent Night, Libby had demonstrated how to do a turn when skiing. Celery had recited multiplication tables up to fifteen with lightning speed. Etta had done gymnastics.

  “We could play there,” Libby suggested. “I was going to play the piano, anyway.”

  “Yes!” said Etta. “I’ll save my soccer routine for next Talent Night.”

  “The stage isn’t very big,” said Celery. “Would there be enough room for all of us, and our instruments?”

  “My mom measured it before my gymnastics routine,” said Etta. “It’s eight metres square.”

  “Let’s see how much space we take up,” Libby suggested. “Pretend I’m at the piano.”

  She placed her hands on the kitchen table, as if she was playing the piano. Celery moved his chair beside her, as if to play his cello. Etta stood on the other side, her arms held out as if she was holding her bass.

  Libby left her chair and eyed the space. She held out both arms to gauge the distance in metres. “We take about three metres across and one-and-a-half metres the other way,” she estimated. “So times that to get the area . . .”

  “But we’re in a triangle when we play,” Celery reminded her. “So we have to multiply half the base by the height to get the area.”

  “So — 1.5 metres times 1.5 metres equals 2.25 metres square,” said Etta. “Plenty of room.”

  Celery wrote the answer in his notebook

  and then looked up. “We have a proposal on the table —”

  “There’s nothing on the table except milk and cookies,” said Etta. “Can I have another cookie?”

  “It’s just another expression,” Celery explain-ed, and started again. “We have a proposal on the table for the Underachievers to play at Talent Night on Friday. Do you vote for or against the idea, Musical Director?”

  The Musical Director rolled her eyes. “It was my idea, dummy. Of course, I vote for it.”

  The Band Manager turned to Etta. “How does the Band Stylist vote?”

  “The Band Stylist said yes about two seconds ago,” said Etta.

  “But you still have to vote,” said Celery.

  Libby and Etta rolled their eyes.

  “Yes, jerk,” said Etta.

  “Is there any other business?” Celery asked.

  “We still need to decide on outfits,” said Libby.

  “We don’t want outfits,” said Celery. “End of meeting.”

  “You don’t want outfits,” Libby corrected him. “But Etta and I do.”

  Etta nodded. “We could check out the thrift store.”

  “I’m not wearing someone’s old clothes,” said Celery firmly.

  “No one’s asking you,” said Etta.

  “They’re not all second-hand clothes,” Libby explained. “Lots of it is stuff that came out of the factory not quite right, so they sell it cheap at the thrift store.”

  “When can we go?” Etta asked.

  “Edwin!” Libby called out.

  Mr. Meek appeared from the living room.

  Libby sidled close to him and, in her sweetest voice, said, “Edwin . . .”

  “No,” said Mr. Meek.

  Libby planted her hands on her hips. “I haven’t asked anything.”

  Mr. Meek grinned. “But you’re going to, so I’m saying no.”

  “I was only going to ask you . . . Am I Daddy’s Girl?” Libby lied.

  “That depends what Daddy’s Girl wants,” answered Mr. Meek.

  Libby rolled her eyes. “Will you take us to the thrift store so we can buy band outfits, please?”

  “I’m really busy at work all this week and next week. But I could take you — let’s see — on Monday of the week after that.”

  Libby said, “Thank you, Edwin. It’s a date.”

  As Mr. Meek returned to his work, Libby said, “That means we won’t have outfits for Talent Night.”

  “Good,” said Celery.

  “But that’s just playing for a few kids and parents. We can save the outfits for our first real gig.”

  “When will that be?” asked Etta.

  “Don’t know . . . yet,” said the Musical Director.

  7

  Stupid

  The words on the test were doing it again.

  2. A nam ravelled to Ceximo no business. No the way to Ximeco, the plean dame the trap in 315 minnows. No the return trap, the float took 216 minnows. The nam stewed in Icomex for 3629 minnows.

  a) Emtisate who long the trap koot to the dearest 10.

  b) Who long did the trap really kate?

  Libby stared hopelessly at the question, only the second of ten on the paper. She suddenly realized that the waviness of the letters was caused by tears welling up in her eyes. She blinked them back and tried to concentrate on the question again.

  She was at home. The Underachievers were supposed to practise at Ms. Cattermole’s in half an hour. Libby’s mother was sitting beside her at the kitchen table, still in the dark blue business suit she wore for work at the Pleasant Harbour Grand Hotel.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Libby moaned.

  “Of course it makes sense,” her mother said firmly. “You just have to concentrate.”

  “I hate tests, and I hate school.”

  “Tests are part of learning. If you don’t do the test, how will Miss Nightingale know how well she’s teaching you?”

  “Ms. Cattermole doesn’t make me do tests

  for piano. She says tests ‘inhibit learning and

  creativity.’”

  “We don’t have time to discuss tests now. Let’s get back to the problem.”

  Professor Brayne had visited their class again that morning. It was the second week of his work with the grade five students. He’d given them ten problems to do in class. If the students didn’t finish the work in class, they had to do it for homework. Libby had managed only one answer at school, and she was sure she’d gotten that one wrong.

  She stared at the paper.

 
2. A man went on Mexico to business. The way on to Mexico, the plane trip made the minutes in 315. On the trip return, the minute took 216 flights. The stayed man in 3629 minutes for Mexico.

  a) Trip how long the nearest estimate took to 10.

  b) How did the trip really take long?

  At least the letters seemed to have fallen into place, but now the words were mixing themselves up. What was wrong with her? Was she really this stupid?

  Had she always been stupid, or was it just since writing the test?

  Mrs. Meek said, “You don’t have to suck your thumb, Libby, dear.”

  Libby was once again surprised to find her thumb in her mouth. She took it out, said, “Sorry,” and put it back in.

  A tear splashed onto the paper. Libby tried to cover it with her hand.

  Mrs. Meek took Libby gently by the chin and turned her face up. She wiped away the next tear. “Shall we take a break?”

  Libby sniffed. “I’ll keep trying.”

  “Good girl.”

  Libby tried again.

  2. A man went to Mexico on business. On the way to Mexico, the plane made the trip in 315 minutes. On the return trip, the flight took 216 minutes. The man stayed in Mexico for 3629 minutes.

  a) Estimate how long the trip took to the nearest 10.

  b) How long did the trip really take?

  Did the question mean estimate how long the trip there took? Or the trip back? Or the whole trip, there and back? It took the plane 99 more minutes to go to Mexico than it did for it to come back. Libby wrote on her paper:

  99 minutes = 1 hour, 39 minutes

  Why was the question in minutes, and not hours and minutes? Hours were easier to add than minutes because there weren’t so many of them. The man stayed in Mexico for 3629 minutes, which was really — Libby jotted calculations on the paper — 60 hours and . . . something left over. It didn’t work out exactly. The decimal went on and on and on. How could someone stay in a place for 60 hours and a minute that went on forever?

  “I’m so stupid!” Libby wailed, sweeping her paper onto the floor. She slammed her arms on the table and let her head fall on them.

  She cried.

  Mrs. Meek put her arm around Libby. “You’re the smartest girl I know, way smarter than I was at your age, and your father. Don’t let a foolish exercise make you think otherwise.” She lifted Libby’s head and wiped her eyes. “Should we take a break from the questions?”

  “I h-have to d-do it.”

  “Can I help you? We could do it together.”

  “Not allowed,” said Libby. “Professor Brayne said we had to do it on our own.”

  “Who cares what Professor Brayne says?”

  Libby looked at her mother in surprise. She sounded like Etta.

  “Well?” Mrs. Meek prompted.

  “T-together, p-please.”

  Mrs. Meek read the question. She read it again. She shook her head. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  There was a knock at the door. Etta and Celery stood in the doorway, looking from Libby’s tear-stained face to Mrs. Meek’s grim expression.

  “Sorry,” Celery muttered.

  Catching Etta’s eye, he dipped his head towards the door.

  Etta nodded, and they turned to go.

  Libby looked up. “It’s okay.”

  Mrs. Meek added, “We’re finished.”

  Libby looked at her mother. She hadn’t even started.

  Mrs. Meek winked. “I’ll write you a note for Miss Nightingale, saying you were sick and couldn’t do your homework. And I may have a quiet word with Mr. Knott about Professor Brayne’s questions. I wish I could tell him a better way of testing children — rather than just complain. But I can’t think of one.”

  Libby mumbled, “Thank you, but please don’t say anything to Mr. Knott.”

  “If that’s what you want.”

  Libby looked at Etta and Celery, still standing in the doorway. “Did you finish your homework?”

  Celery nodded.

  “What homework?” said Etta.

  They set off for the studio in silence.

  Libby broke it by mumbling, “You don’t have to say it. I’m a baby for crying over the test.”

  “We don’t think that,” said Celery. “Everyone worries about tests.”

  “You get perfect on every test you do,” Etta pointed out. “What do you get worried about?”

  Celery shrugged. “I don’t know. My parents always say I should just do my best and they don’t mind what I get. So I guess I do it to myself.”

  Etta shook her head. “You’re so weird, Celery.”

  “I wish I could be like you, Etta, and not worry,” said Libby.

  As they started across Ms. Cattermole’s garden, they heard music. When they reached the door, they stopped to listen.

  “Is that Ms. Cattermole?” asked Celery.

  “She’s good,” said Etta.

  Libby nodded, proud of her piano teacher’s skill.

  “What’s she playing?” Celery asked.

  “The piano, dummy,” said Etta. “Don’t you know a piano when you hear one?”

  “ I mean — what’s the music?” said Celery patiently.

  “It’s a piece she wrote called ‘Rainbows and Moonbeams,’” said Libby. The performance ended in a cascade of notes. They applauded. Ms. Cattermole appeared in the door and waved them inside.

  In the studio, the Musical Director said, “This is the last practice before we play at Talent Night, so let’s go through all our tunes.”

  “We only have five,” Etta pointed out.

  With Ms. Cattermole’s help, they’d added a song called “Rock Me in Dreamland” to their repertoire, which was made up of “I Love Lovin,’” the Beethoven bagatelle, “Baby Baby Baby,” and the Mozart minuet.

  “We’ll start with ‘I Love Lovin,’” said Libby.

  She took her seat at the piano. Celery settled himself in a chair beside her, cradling his cello between his knees.

  “Let’s rock,” said Etta, striking a pose with her bass guitar, one knee thrust forward, one hip jutting out.

  “Start after I count four,” said the Musical Director. “1–2–3—”

  “Wait,” said Celery. “I have to go.”

  Etta groaned. “Why didn’t you go before you left home?”

  “I did, but I have to go again. It’s because we were talking about the test on the way over.”

  “So stop thinking about it.”

  “I can’t. I think about it all the time, so I have to go all the time.”

  “What about at night?” Libby demanded. “You can’t go all the time then.”

  Celery blushed.

  Etta said, “Don’t tell me.”

  Celery, blushing more, rushed out.

  “That ridiculous test,” Ms. Cattermole muttered. “Schools use tests like that because they can’t think of anything better. When will you be done with it?”

  “We do the test again next week,” said Libby, her thumb in her mouth.

  8

  The Underachievers Rock

  Three ballerinas, a juggler, two gymnasts, a magician, and the Underachievers all sat in the front row seats at the Community Centre.

  Libby was looking at the magician. Despite his cloak and top hat, and a false moustache and dark glasses, she thought he looked like someone she knew.

  The Youth Group leaders, Jocelyn and Jimmy, bounded to the front of the audience. They were both tall and gangly. They wore jeans and white T-shirts that showed pictures of children of different nationalities and the message “Children Are the Hope of the World.”

  “It’s . . . Talent Night!” Jocelyn announced from the stage.

  The au
dience, which included parents as well as children, applauded.

  “And to start the show, we have a mystery guest,” said Jimmy. “Please welcome . . . Maurice the Magician!”

  The mysterious magician came forward. In silence, he showed the audience his empty hands. He rubbed them together and opened them to reveal a playing card in each hand. He took off his top hat and showed the audience it was empty. He put it back on his head, tapped the crown, and took it off, leaving a toy white rabbit perched on his head. He walked through the audience and pulled coins from people’s ears.

  Libby watched him carefully. There was something familiar about the way he walked, and the way he held his head slightly to one side.

  When he finished his tricks, Jimmy said, “Let’s hear it for . . . Maurice the Magician!”

  Everyone applauded.

  Maurice spoke for the first and only time, saying, “Thank you, children and parents.” The moment he said “children,” Libby knew who it was. She’d heard him say “children” that way a hundred times before as he stood before the students at school.

  The magician bowed and took a seat beside Libby.

  She tapped him on the shoulder and whispered, “I know who you are.”

  He whispered back, “So do I.” He winked. “I’m Maurice the Magician.”

  Libby was about to challenge him when she heard Jocelyn announcing, “A brand-new band, all the way from Farm Hill . . .” Libby ran up to take her place on the stage.

  Without waiting for the applause to die down, they launched into “I Love Lovin.’” Before they’d finished the first chorus, the audience was clapping with the beat, and some of the kids were singing along.

  When they finished, the audience applauded again. Libby, her eyes shining, told Etta and Celery, “We rock, guys!”

  They played the Mozart minuet and the Beethoven bagatelle. Even though Etta got lost in the minuet and ended several seconds after Libby and Celery, and Libby missed a few bars in the bagatelle and had to wait for Etta and Celery to catch up, no one seemed to notice. Jocelyn had warned them there would be time for only three tunes, but the audience applauded so long and loud, she asked the band to play one more.