I turn my light off, welcoming nighttime, when most sounds sleep. I’m glad Dad gave me earmuffs. If only they could act more like a filter, blocking words I don’t want to hear. And letting nice ones through.
One more thought slips in, unwanted, as I shut my eyes: My only friend not in a book is a fish.
CHAPTER 3
Welcome to music!” Ms. Parker says when everyone from room twelve arrives. The music room is large, with double doors and no windows. “This year you’ll learn to play an instrument!”
Worry gathers between my ears, which are warm under my muffs. Music by definition is making sound. I find a chair near the back wall.
Ms. Parker wears a long sweater as loose as her hair around her face. She opens a closet and takes out three different-shaped cases—little, medium, and long. She twists together metal pieces with holes for noise to come out, assembling three instruments. She explains that she teaches trombone, Ms. Min flute, Mr. Tingle trumpet, and Mrs. Spitz directs the choir.
“Listen.” Ms. Parker blows into the flute, and it makes a bubbly stream of high-pitched sound. I place my hands on my already covered ears, elbows straight out. She picks up the trumpet, and when she presses her lips to the brass, her three fingers make a loud parade of blaring notes. Last, she slides the long piece of the trombone all the way to her knees and back, making a thundering sound. When she’s done, I count to five before I ease my hands down.
“Think carefully about what you’d like to play,” she says. “If you choose one of the three instruments, I have rental forms here to take home to your parents. We’ll begin next week.”
Deb-and-Kiki say “Flute!” at the exact same moment, and then “Jinx!” and laugh.
“Trumpet for me,” Noah, José, and Jayden shout all together.
Most of the girls pick flute, except Madge. “I want to learn trombone,” she says, and stands up to slide her arms down low as if she is playing already. She doesn’t seem to care if she’s the only girl in trombone class.
My stomach clenches. I will not choose flute. I will not play trumpet or trombone.
I raise my hand. “What if you don’t want to learn an instrument?”
“You can join choir,” Ms. Parker says. “Your voice box is an instrument too.”
Jax waves his hand high. “I want to be in choir!”
I close my mouth, sink back into my chair, sweaty and tense. I can’t imagine me—even with earmuffs on—shoulder to shoulder with everyone, making noise on purpose.
* * *
After lunch, back in room twelve, everyone keeps talking about music. Jayden plays air guitar, and Madge dances, jingling her shoelace chimes.
“I already play piano,” Cassie says. “That’s why I chose choir.”
“I’m going to sing like Stevie Wonder,” Jax says.
“Why can’t I learn drums?” Noah complains.
“Sit down, everyone,” Mr. Fabian says, “and open your social studies books.”
We take turns reading paragraphs out loud about the thirteen colonies, and then Mr. Fabian hands out worksheets. “Answer the questions as best you can,” he says.
I can’t concentrate, pausing after every sentence I write. No way am I playing an instrument. Ms. Parker said I could tell her on Monday, but no matter what I choose, music class will be a disaster. I put my pencil down and drop my head into my hands.
“What’s up, Amelia?” Mr. Fabian squats down next to me.
I lower my earmuffs. “Do I have to learn an instrument?”
“Does that worry you?” he asks.
I nod, hoping he will make an exception. He must know that making music is out of the question for me.
He pats the page. “Finish this, and we’ll come up with a plan after class.”
Maybe I will be excused from music! The thought excites me, and I finish the worksheet fast. For fun, I take out the weekly spelling list and start writing the words backward, sounding them out in my head:
“Boycott” is T-toc-yob.
“Colonial” is Lain-o-loc.
“Representative” is Evitat-nes-erper.
“Revolution” is Noi-tu-lover.
It makes me giggle. I look around. Deb is still working on her sentences, like Kiki. Jax is pressing down hard as he writes. Noah has stuck his pencil through a block eraser and keeps tapping it on his desk. No one asks me what’s funny.
“Partner up,” Mr. Fabian says. “It’s time to practice spelling.”
Everyone pairs off: Deb-and-Kiki, Ryan and José, Emma and Lina, Cassie and Jayden, desk to desk. And even though I’m next to Madge, she scoots over to Jax. I push my earmuffs back on as her chair screeches across the floor away from me.
Mr. Fabian notices that I am the odd one out. “Amelia,” he says, “work with Tyler and Noah.”
Noah frowns. “Why us?”
“The three of you will be a group,” Mr. Fabian says, as if that is an answer.
I move over. Noah begins: “B-o-y-c-o-t. Get it? Boys only,” which makes Tyler laugh.
I don’t point out that he’s spelled it wrong. Instead I keep my earmuffs on, keep my eyes on the words, eager for the end of the day.
* * *
Mr. Fabian’s plan is not what I had hoped.
Instead of asking Ms. Parker to excuse me from music, he called a meeting after school with Mr. Skerritt. Mom had to leave her job at the hotel early to come.
We all cram into the counseling office, and Mom sits in the small chair next to me. Mr. Fabian stands. The office is barely large enough for four people, especially when three of them are adults.
It feels like I’m back in fourth grade, when I saw Mr. Skerritt every month. Mom gives me a look, and I take off my earmuffs and nervously hold them.
“Thanks for coming, everyone,” Mr. Skerritt says. He wheezes when he speaks, like I remember. Last year, I used to stare at the posters on the wall and try to block out the sound of his breathing while he waited for me to talk about my feelings. The posters haven’t changed. There’s YOU MATTER and the one that says MISTAKES ARE PROOF YOU ARE TRYING.
“Let’s review my notes from last June.” Mr. Skerritt peers through old glasses at some pages. They are in a fat folder with my name at the top. “Ah yes. Like a security blanket, Amelia was using her noise-canceling headphones to soothe her sound sensitivity, making her social isolation worse.”
Mr. Skerritt’s ears are big. A few hairs poke out of one. “Social isolation,” Mom had explained to me last year, means “difficulty making friends.” I should remind everyone I do have friends—they just live in stories, that’s all.
Now Mr. Skerritt addresses Mom and Mr. Fabian. “We recommended that fifth grade would be a good year for Amelia to reduce her reliance on the headphones.”
He’s talking about me as if I am not here. Like I am part of the chair. I stare at the poster over Mom’s head and count how many words are on it (six).
“Yes,” Mom says. “That’s why this year, we’ve put them away.”
“And the earmuffs?” Mr. Skerritt’s disapproving gaze shifts to me. My fingers dig into the purple fluff.
“They’re temporary,” Mom says. “My husband thought they would help her adjust.”
Mr. Fabian turns to me. “Amelia, are the earmuffs helping?”
“I like them.” If Dad were here, he’d explain. But this meeting is not supposed to be about earmuffs or headphones. I ask what I really want to know. “Do I have to take music class?”
“It may be hard, but I think it will be good for you,” Mr. Fabian says.
“Ah, yes, to acclimate to everyday sounds,” Mr. Skerritt murmurs. He makes a note and then opens his calendar. “If you don’t go to music, we could use that time slot to meet.” He leaks a long rattling breath through his nose, which makes me shrink into my chair.
I grip my earmuffs, wishing I could snap them on right now. I look at Mom for help. The last thing I want is to get pulled from class again to talk about feelings. Fortunately
, for once, Mom figures out what I’m thinking.
“Amelia, what do you say you promise to give music a chance?” Mom says. “And a little less earmuff- wearing during school, okay?”
I will try anything to get out of meetings with Mr. Skerritt and his noisy breathing. Even singing. “I promise,” I say. “I’ll join choir.”
“Great,” Mr. Fabian says. “I’m glad we’re all in agreement. Amelia and I will check back with you, Mr. Skerritt, and we’ll see how it goes.”
I’m so happy to be out of the small room and excused from Mr. Skerritt. But I didn’t really win. I still have to sing.
CHAPTER 4
As we enter the choir room, Mrs. Spitz plays heavy chords on the piano. “Pair off, everyone,” she says, “and get ready to sing!”
I hold my earmuffs to my ears and move toward the back. All weekend I thought of my promise to Mom and Mr. Fabian and Mr. Skerritt. I know I have to sing, but I didn’t expect it to be in the first five minutes. I breathe in through my nose.
Who will be my partner? I look around. Jax is already standing next to Ryan. Cassie has linked arms with someone from the other fifth-grade classroom. More people signed up for choir than I expected. Five people in front, plus four on my right side, including me, plus six on my left equals fifteen. Two goes into fifteen seven times with one leftover—me.
Mrs. Spitz doesn’t seem to notice. She is short, and her white hair flies like her hands on the piano keys as she tells us about the four parts of a choir. “Sopranos sing the highest notes, altos lower.” She strikes tinkling notes at the top of the keyboard and then ones in the middle. “Tenors are higher than basses,” she says, “which is easy to remember because basses are in the basement.”
Everyone laughs at the deep thunder she plays on the piano. I don’t. I crush my earmuffs to my head.
Mrs. Spitz stands up. “Our choir will only have two parts, soprano and alto.” She sings “La, la, la,” her voice rising up steps like a ladder. “Everyone, sing with me!”
The la, la, las are about a seven out of ten, so I keep my hands on my earmuffs. I can’t open my mouth.
“Now let’s see where your voices naturally fall.” She begins to work around the room, moving from pair to pair, listening to the singing. She sorts each of us, sopranos to the right, altos to the left. I keep inching left, to avoid Mrs. Spitz’s pointing fingers.
“La, la, la,” Mrs. Spitz sings again, and the same rising notes are echoed back. I am amazed to hear that Jax’s voice is clear and sweet. His wide-open mouth looks like Finway’s. Mine is the opposite: balled up like a sock in the laundry.
Mrs. Spitz stops when she reaches me. “Amelia, is it?” she asks.
I nod. Everyone stares at me. I wish I could burrow into the wall.
“So wonderful to have you in choir,” she says. “Can you be brave and take off your earmuffs and sing a little bit?”
I look at my feet. It isn’t being brave, I want to say. It’s foolish to slide down my muffs, with all the noise in the room. I slowly lower them anyway.
“I’ll do it with you so you don’t have to sing alone,” she says. “And, sing! La, la, la.”
I part my lips, but no sound comes out. A few snickers fill the silence. I close my mouth. What I need are invisibility earmuffs.
“That’s all right. I’ll place you later.” Mrs. Spitz pats me on the shoulder as if I’m a pet. I flinch.
“Beautiful, beautiful!” Her words bounce up and down as she sits at the piano again. “Now we have a choir!”
I don’t know where to stand. Jax is in the middle, so I slide behind him.
“Let’s start with something you all know,” Mrs. Spitz says. She plays the first notes of the national anthem, and everyone sings as if we are at Fenway, shouting to fill the stadium. The “rockets’ red glare” high part explodes in my ears, and my shoulders tense at “bombs bursting in air.” I jam my earmuffs back on. “Land of the free” lands like a screech.
My mouth is dry, hands hard against my muffed ears. There is no space around me, no space left in my head. Everyone presses in and I’m trapped, like I’m in a crowded elevator.
I will not sing. I will not add to the noise.
As the last note dies, Mrs. Spitz walks over to me, and all eyes turn my way. My stomach squeezes. Why can’t she pretend I’m not here?
“Are you okay? I didn’t see you singing.” Her voice is sweetened like when grown-ups talk to babies. “I’d like to see you try, Amelia. And with no earmuffs.”
Everyone’s gaze is like a hundred headlights. I cross my legs even though it is my throat that is constricted. “May I be excused?” I ask, my voice wobbly.
“Sure.” She pats me on the shoulder again and returns to the piano bench. “From the top,” she says, and the class starts singing again.
The sounds spray against my head as I rush out. I close the door on the bellowing choir. The sudden silence in the hallway rings in my ears. I take one, two, three deep breaths. My sneakers squeak against polished floor, and I move slowly until my ears calm down.
One thing is certain. I can’t be in choir without earmuffs.
* * *
Lunch is nearly over. I’ve barricaded myself behind my book and under my earmuffs. It works—no one notices me. If only I could stop picturing Mrs. Spitz patting me. And stop hearing the national anthem in my head.
I get up to sort my lunch trash into the recycling, compost, and waste cans. I’ve waited too long, though. The corner is crowded, and people bump into each other, rushing to clean up before we go to recess.
A shove—someone rams the trash can. It clatters over, spewing garbage. Everyone screams, “Eww!”
The sudden shout pushes me over the edge. I drop my book, press my hands hard against my earmuffed ears. I back away, run outside, straight to my tube.
Count, Dad always says. Breathe.
Three grades times two classes times twenty kids is one hundred and twenty One hundred and twenty kids with two pieces of trash each is two hundred forty things to throw away.
My breathing slows. Two hundred and forty divided by three trash cans is eighty. Eighty items pouring from one knocked-over bin is gross.
A gentle knock on plastic. Madge is standing on the ladder at the mouth of my tunnel.
“Here,” she says, and hands me back my book.
I blink my eyes, my throat tight. She turns and climbs down before I can manage to say thanks.
It’s unexpected to be seen.
* * *
The final bell rings on cue. I’ve memorized the bell schedule so that I can always be prepared to hold my hands over my muffed ears.
On the school steps, Madge sings out, “Can’t wait to get home! Oma’s always cooking something.”
“Cake? Cookies?” Jax asks. As if he’s angling to come over. I’m hungry too.
“Not sweets. My grandmother usually makes sausage. Bratwurst is not the worst!” Madge laughs. Jax joins in.
Their laughter is nice and warm, like a bowl of soup. I am not quite next to Jax and Madge, and yet maybe I can say thank you now to her for returning my book. But first I turn over in my mind which snack I should mention—peanut butter banana or tomato soup.
I take too long. Madge is down the stairs and turning onto her street. Jax runs to catch up with Deb. The moment to say anything is gone. If you listen but don’t speak, are you even in the conversation?
Slowly I head for home, counting the lines and cataloging all the loud sounds my earmuffs don’t really muffle: cab honks, bus brakes, slammed doors.
Today my earmuffs are blinders too: I pretend I don’t see Jax and Deb walking together a block ahead without me.
* * *
After dinner, Mom suggests stoop sitting. I do not want to go outside, but Dad says I can wear my earmuffs, so I agree. The three of us sit on the top step to our apartment building, Dad in the middle. It’s warm with a crisp wind, a signal that nights will soon be colder and darker.
“Isn’t this perfect?” Mom sighs and leans into Dad’s shoulder. “Fall is here.”
“It is,” he says, then tugs on my earmuff band. “Listen.”
I take down my earmuffs slowly. I hear cars, of course, and someone’s radio playing. A dog barks somewhere, and a bicyclist goes by, small tires crunching on pavement. The wind moves the changing leaves in the trees.
“Doo, doo.” Dad sings two notes over and over. “Doo, doo.”
I find the small bird in the tree overhead. “Chickadee.”
“A beautiful song,” Mom murmurs.
The chickadee sings again. A truck growls by, a trash can lid bangs shut, reminding me of the sound of the trash bin toppling at lunch. I slide my earmuffs back up. One bird singing is bearable but not with the other sounds happening all at once. I don’t know how Dad has trained himself to concentrate only on one bird call amid all the outside noise.
“Amelia, how was choir?” Mom asks.
I can’t tell her I hated it, or that Mrs. Spitz is anti-earmuffs, or that she patted me on the shoulder twice. I’m afraid if Mom knows, she will send me to Mr. Skerritt again.
“Fine,” I say, muffling my lie into Dad’s other shoulder.
“What did you sing?” Mom asks.
“The national anthem,” I say. “It was like at Fenway.”
Dad looks at me sideways. “Was that a good or bad thing—”
“That’s fun!” Mom interrupts, and starts singing.
“Stop!” I say.
A hurt expression crosses Mom’s face.
“Amelia, there’s no need to yell,” Dad says. “What happened?”
“When we’re at Fenway, the song floats away into the sky,” I explain. “Inside, the song had nowhere to go.”
“That sounds loud,” Dad says. “Did the earmuffs help?”
“Sort of,” I lie again.
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