“He’s right,” said Nana. “Let the kid live a little, for God’s sake.”
“Rose, you’re not helping,” my dad said, calling Nana by her real first name.
“Well, I’m not hurting,” said Nana.
My mom tried to hug me, but I squirmed away. “Honey, there will be other parties,” she said, “but this recital is very important, and you’re such a wonderful cellist.”
She was right. I was pretty good. And I actually liked playing the cello, usually. Right then, I couldn’t stand it.
“But, hey, that’s great you got invited,” said my dad. “And the fact that you can’t go will just make them want you even more next time.”
“What next time?” I said. “Who says there’s going to be a next time? I don’t know what it was like when you went to middle school, but kids like me don’t usually get a second chance. Thanks for nothing.”
And with that, I went upstairs to not do my homework.
4
“Whatever,” Leo said, shrugging his shoulders.
“What do you mean, whatever?”
It was the next day at lunch, and I was telling him about the party invitation, the cello recital, and the fact that my dad had ruined my life.
Leo shook his head, his long curly hair flying all over the place. “So you miss the party. I don’t get what the big deal is.”
“What the big deal is? This is Cathy Billows we’re talking about here! SHE called ME. On the PHONE. And she called me ‘FUNNY’!” (Actually, she’d said “kind of funny,” but Leo didn’t need to know that.)
I sat back in my chair and took a sip of chocolate milk, reliving the memory of the phone call for approximately the 4,385th time.
“Sometimes I wish music had never been invented,” I whined.
“Music is important,” said a voice from the next table. I turned and was shocked to see it was Lucy Fleck. She was an amazing piano player who went to the same music school I did. I’d never heard her say a word outside of class before.
“Um, okay,” I said.
“More important than Cathy Billows’s party,” Lucy added.
“Uh-oh. Speak of the devil,” Leo mumbled. I looked up and saw Cathy’s bright green eyes, jet-black hair, and flawless bone structure.
“Hi, Jack!”
“Hey,” I tried to say.
Alex Mutchnik was standing right behind her, which was completely unsurprising, since he had a thing for her. Alex nodded at me, but not in a good way.
Cathy smiled, and I could swear one of her teeth actually sparkled. “So, I just wanted to make sure you were coming to my party tomorrow night!”
“Did you have to invite the whole homeroom?” Alex butted in.
I decided to stand up and take my punishment like a man. “Well, here’s the thing,” I began. “I would love to go, I completely and totally would, but as it turns out I have this major cello recital, and my parents won’t let me skip it.”
Alex reacted first by sneering, “Your parents?”
Cathy was frozen. It was like she couldn’t process the fact that someone would turn down an invitation to one of her parties. Finally, she blinked once.
“A cello recital?” she asked, as if I’d said it in Swahili.
I nodded. “Yup. I know, it’s a bummer.”
“A bummer for YOU,” offered Alex.
“Why don’t you stay out of it,” Leo said to Alex bravely.
“Why don’t YOU stay out of it,” Alex responded uncreatively.
Meanwhile, Cathy was beginning to process the fact that I would not be attending her party. Her smile faded and was replaced by a stare that was so cold it’s probably illegal in several countries.
“Fine.”
No exclamation point this time.
Then she shook her head and walked away without another word.
Alex had one word left, though.
“Loser.”
5
The cello recital, like all recitals, had a strict no-escape policy. Which basically meant, if there were twenty-eight musicians performing and your kid was third, you didn’t get to sneak out the side door after he or she performed.
I think they might have even locked everyone inside.
I was twenty-third on the program, so by the time I went, most of the audience was tired and resentful. People were staring out the window. Cell phones were burning holes in pockets. And there was a lot of coughing and shuffling.
I began to play one of Bach’s unaccompanied sonatas. And here’s the funny thing: even though I was so mad at my parents—and mad at my cello, mad at basically everything and everyone—when I started to play, I forgot all about it. I got into the music. Like I said, I really like the cello. And I sounded pretty darn good.
Until I looked up and saw Mrs. Fleck.
Mrs. Fleck is Lucy Fleck’s mother. I told you Lucy was quiet, and an amazing piano player. But I didn’t tell you that she has the craziest mother in America.
Mrs. Fleck is the most intense person I’ve ever met, by far. She makes my dad seem like a marshmallow. She goes everywhere her daughter goes, watches her do everything, screams the loudest at her soccer games, claps the loudest at her concerts, complains the loudest when her grades are less than straight A pluses.
And not only that—she’s one of those parents who doesn’t like it when other kids do well.
So when I was playing my cello and I happened to look up and see Mrs. Fleck, she was staring at me and making this face that basically said, I hope you drop your bow.
So what did I do? I dropped my bow.
Yup. I did. It slid right out of my hand and clattered across the wood floor. Everyone gasped. Even the parents who had fallen asleep were suddenly wide-awake.
I sat in my seat for a second, not sure what to do. Then I mumbled “sorry,” went and got my bow, sat back down, and finished the piece. But the magic was gone.
I hated the cello again.
Afterward I went back to my seat, my ears burning with embarrassment. Two people later, Lucy Fleck performed some incredibly hard Beethoven piece on the piano and was amazing. She actually got a standing ovation. Mrs. Fleck jumped up and down like a kangaroo on steroids.
Meanwhile, all I could think about was that somewhere across town, Cathy Billows was having a party that I’d been invited to. Alex Mutchnik was there, probably telling dumb stories that everyone was laughing at, because I wasn’t there to tell funny ones.
What was wrong with this picture?
Everything.
6
After the recital, there were snacks and juice in the lobby. Kind of like a reward to the audience for making it all the way through.
“I thought you were fantastic,” said Nana, chomping on a cookie.
“Thanks, Nana.”
She could tell I was upset, so she tried to cheer me up by smacking me on the head, which was kind of an unusual method. “What the matter? So you dropped the bow? I’m sure Casals dropped his bow all the time!” Pablo Casals was like the most famous cellist of all time, and I’m pretty sure he never dropped his bow in his entire life.
“I guess so,” I mumbled, more than ready to change the subject.
My mom and dad were a couple of feet away, talking to some other parents about how wonderful we all were. Eventually they made their way over to me.
My mom hugged me. “Fantastic, honey!”
My dad was smiling, but I could tell he was thinking about the bow incident. “Great job, Jack.”
“Sorry about the bow,” I said.
He shook his head. “Hey, it happens. You didn’t let it get to you; you plowed right through it. That takes guts. I’m proud of you.”
Then he hugged me, too. I felt like I had disappointed him, and I was mad at myself for caring that I disappointed him, but I hugged him back.
“Let’s get ice cream,” Nana announced, and I immediately felt better. Ice cream is a much better way to cheer up a grandson than a smack on the head, by the wa
y.
On our way out we passed Lucy Fleck, surrounded by her family. Mrs. Fleck was taking pictures and shouting at her daughter, trying unsuccessfully to get her to smile. Lucy saw me and came over.
“I’m sorry you dropped your bow,” she said.
“Thanks. You were awesome tonight.”
“Thank you.” Lucy still didn’t smile. I’m not sure she knew how to smile. Maybe because Mrs. Fleck was her mother.
“LUCY, WE NEED YOU! EVERYONE WANTS A PICTURE OF THE STAR PIANIST!” shouted Mrs. Fleck.
“I have to go,” Lucy said to me, and went back to her mom.
Nana shook her head at Mrs. Fleck. “Something is wrong with that woman,” she announced, way too loudly.
My mom went white. “Mom, sshhh!”
My dad chuckled.
“What?” said Nana. “She’s a whack job, and I don’t care who knows it.”
Luckily, the whack job was too caught up in her daughter’s amazingness to hear a word my grandmother said.
7
“How was the party?”
It was later that night, and I was on the phone with Leo, who wasn’t actually at the party, but who had talked to David Cussler, who was.
“David said it was pretty fun, until Alex pushed Becky into the pool with her clothes on, and her cell phone was trashed,” Leo reported. “Then Becky started to cry, and when her brother came to pick her up and found out what happened, he smacked Alex on the back with his lacrosse stick, and Alex got so mad he left the party and just started walking down the street and never came back. Apparently his dad ended up picking him up at the Stop & Shop on Westlake.”
I whistled. Wow, there was a lot of action at these parties. And I was no fan of Alex Mutchnik’s, but walking all the way to Stop & Shop by yourself on a dark night sounded pretty scary.
“How was your cello recital?” asked Leo.
“Horrible,” I answered, without going into details.
“That’s too bad. What are you doing tomorrow? Do you want to meet downtown or something?”
I sighed. “I don’t know. I have orchestra at nine, Chinese at noon, and baseball practice at one-thirty.”
“Dang,” Leo said, “I thought I had it bad.”
After I got off the phone, I lay down on my bed and tried to make myself think that it was good I didn’t go to the party after all. I imagined spilling a drink on some fancy rug, and then knocking over a lamp while trying to clean it up.
But then I imagined Cathy Billows trying to cheer me up and help me forget about my clumsiness by dancing with me and holding my hand.
Ugh. The last thing I wanted in my imagination right then was a happy ending.
8
There were twelve kids in my Chinese class, and half of them were Chinese-American. I guess their parents wanted them to speak the language of their ancestors. I already spoke the language of my ancestors, at least going back to my great-grandparents. My great-great-grandparents were from Europe somewhere, but according to my dad, Chinese is a more important language to learn than French or German, or even Spanish.
“It’s the future,” my dad said. “Did you know the United States owes more than a trillion dollars to the Chinese? If you know the language, you’ll be able to write your own ticket in this world. Yup, China is where’s it at.”
Yeah, well, China may be where it’s at, but Chinese class was where I was at on a beautiful Saturday afternoon, and I wasn’t too happy about it. Neither was anyone else. Even the Chinese kids.
Oh, and did I mention that Chinese has its own alphabet? As if learning a foreign language isn’t hard enough.
“Okay class, let’s review last week’s lesson,” said our teacher, Ms. Li. She was okay I guess, but very strict. I was obsessed with her glasses. She wore them so close to the tip of her nose that I kept staring at them, waiting for them to fall. But they never did.
I opened up my book and stared down at the page. We were in the middle of a unit about items in the house.
“Lamp,” said Ms. Li.
“Deng,” we all chanted.
“Table.”
“Ji.”
“Brush.”
“Hao.”
“Window.”
“Chuang.”
BUZZZZ!!!
No, buzzzz is not a household item. It’s the sound a phone makes when a text is coming in.
More specifically, it’s the sound MY phone makes when a text is coming in.
BUZZZZ!
I froze, a little shocked that I actually forgot to turn off my phone. If there’s one thing Ms. Li can’t stand, it’s phones going off in the middle of her class.
Everyone turned around to stare at me.
The teacher’s eyes narrowed. “Well, Mr. Strong, are you going to tell us all what’s so important?”
“You mean, you want me to see what it says?”
“Please.”
I fumbled for my phone and opened the text. It was from Leo. I read it quickly, swore a little under my breath, and then put the phone back in my pocket.
“Well?” asked Ms. Li.
I hesitated. This wasn’t really a text I wanted to share with the class.
“Well?” she repeated.
“Um, it said that today is Sundae Saturday down at Super Scooper. Free sundaes from twelve to one.”
Evelyn Chang, who never says a word, actually giggled a little bit.
Ms. Li nodded. “I see. Well, that’s very nice to know—”
BUZZZZ!
Omg. Again?
“I’m so sorry,” I mumbled.
Ms. Li walked over, stood right over me, and stuck out her hand. Her glasses dangled dangerously close to the cliff of her nose. I took the phone out of my pocket and handed it to her. She opened it.
“‘THE WHOLE TOWN IS HERE,’” she read out loud. “‘WHY CAN’T YOU SKIP CHINESE JUST THIS ONCE AND COME DOWN?’”
This time everyone giggled.
Does the word blush come from combining the words blood and rush? Because that’s what happened to my face. I got incredibly red, I think my nose started to run, and little drops of sweat started popping out all over my body.
It wasn’t fun.
Ms. Li handed me back my phone. “You might want to turn that off.”
My mind was a jumble of Chinese lamps and hot-fudge sundaes. First the cello recital fiasco, and now this. Here I was again, stuck someplace I didn’t want to be while everyone else in the world was hanging out and having fun, like normal human beings.
I turned off the phone and put it in my pocket.
Ms. Li smiled.
“By the way, the Chinese word for ice cream sundae is sheng dai.”
9
After my mom picked me up, I asked her to take me down to Super Scooper. Even though the Sundae Saturday special offer was over, maybe I’d run into a few kids, and I’d get a milkshake out of the deal.
My mom thought for a second. “Don’t you have baseball practice? It’s important that you go, right? Big game tomorrow?”
“Practice is at one-thirty. I’ll be fine. Come on, mom.” I was trying to be nice, since I really wanted that shake, but I was running out of patience.
“Okay, you deserve it,” she said, sensing my mood. Moms are good at that. My mom is, at least.
But by the time we got downtown, there was only one person there.
Cathy Billows.
She was sitting outside polishing off her free sundae, licking the spoon clean. I don’t think I’d ever seen her alone before, and it didn’t look natural. Maybe she was waiting for a ride. In any event, one thing I did know is that I didn’t want her to see me. I was trying to figure out how to avoid her when she spotted me.
“Hello, Jack.” No exclamation point, but at least no stare of death, either.
“Hey. So, I’m really sorry I couldn’t make your party last night. I heard it was awesome.”
She almost smiled at the compliment. “It was pretty awesome. At least, until Alex st
arted acting like a jerk.”
It was my turn to smile. Finally, the rest of the world was discovering what I’d known for years: that Alex Mutchnik was the world’s most annoying person.
“Yo, Strong!”
I turned around. Cathy’s brother Baxter was running toward us, grinning from ear to ear. Baxter Billows was a grade above us, and he was the happiest person I’d ever met. Probably because he was really good-looking, really good at sports, and really popular. I’d be happy all the time, too, if I were even one of those things.
Baxter stopped and caught his breath. “Traffic is horrible,” he said to his sister, “so Mom wanted me to tell you to meet her at the post office.” Then he turned to me. “We got practice in an hour. You gonna be ready? Big game tomorrow!”
I tried to sound confident. “Yeah, I’m definitely going to be ready.”
By some fluke of nature and birthday cut-offs, Baxter and I wound up on the same Little League team, and the championship game was the next day. Since he was the star and I was, well, let’s just say not the star, we had different definitions of “being ready.” His definition was taking an hour of batting practice and two hours of fielding practice. My definition was being able to find my hat.
Baxter smacked me on the back, which kind of hurt a little. “All right dude, see you at the field.” And off he went.
“Well, I better get going, too,” said Cathy. “See you later.”
“Bye, Cathy!” I said. Great. Now I was the one using the exclamation points.
My mom, who was sitting in the car, leaned out the window. “Was that Baxter? He’s such a nice kid.”
There was no higher compliment in the world than being called “nice” by my mom, by the way.
“Yeah, he’s really nice.”
I headed inside to get my consolation prize milkshake. Ricky, the kid who worked there, was reading a magazine.
“Hey, bro,” he said.
“Hey, Ricky. If my milkshake isn’t the best milkshake ever, I’m going to call your boss.”
Jack Strong Takes a Stand Page 2
