Emmy in the Key of Code Page 2

  in option A.

  Music class.

  That’s where I’m supposed to be.

  Dad’s a pianist.

  Mom’s an opera singer.

  Even my own heartbeat thumps in three-quarter time:

  boom-bah-dah

  boom-bah-dah

  boom.

  I can’t remember a time before music.

  I don’t think I ever existed without it.

  I was born with it like a twin

  or a vital organ.

  Music swims in my bloodstream

  burrows in between my bones

  and if it disappeared

  I’m not sure what would be left.

  I’d like to call myself a musician

  but after nine years of lessons

  from piano

  to flute

  to violin

  to voice

  to saxophone

  to drums

  to bass

  to guitar

  when we moved to San Francisco we gave up.

  I’m no good.

  Turns out loving music

  isn’t the same as being a musician.

  I should sign up for the winter play

  or Cooking Around the World

  or Introduction to Computer Science

  but how can I sign up for something else

  when all I want

  is to be a

  musician?

  Empty

  I look around the room

  at the other kids

  trading papers with their friends

  making sure they’re writing the same options

  in the same order.

  I don’t have anyone to trade papers with

  and I don’t fit anywhere on the sheet

  so I leave my future up to fate.

  While the teacher is still handing out papers

  I turn mine in

  blank.

  What I Hear from Across the Room

  “Everyone, make sure you sign up for music.”

  “Okay!” “Okay!” “Yeah, okay, I guess so.”

  “What do you mean, you guess so?”

  “Well, it’s just

  that’s a lot of singing.”

  “Isn’t that the point?”

  “I mean

  we already have SFCC after school

  and concerts for that.

  It’s already kind of a lot.”

  “Yeah but don’t you want to get into

  the Honey Bees?”

  “Well . . .”

  “My sister does say the Honey Bees give priority

  to girls who are in the middle school choir.”

  “Besides, what else would we even take?

  Cooking?”

  “It could be fun to do something different

  like the play or something.”

  “Or computers?”

  “I can’t believe we’re even having this conversation.

  We’re signing up for music,

  end of discussion.”

  “Okay!” “Okay!” “Yeah, okay, I guess so.”

  The Girl in Braids

  When all my classmates

  except me

  have scattered

  a voice from down the hallway

  reaches me:

  “I left my headphones! I’ll catch up with you later.”

  So says a girl

  a back-to-class girl

  a whispering chattering giggling girl.

  The “Yeah, okay, I guess so” girl.

  Now she’s back sifting through papers

  searching searching searching . . .

  and I can’t help but see

  her headphones

  peeking from her back pocket

  where they never left.

  She lifts her paper she

  takes a deep breath she

  erases.

  Replaces her ranking

  1, 2, 3, 4

  with

  4, 3, 2, 1.

  She catches me looking

  lifts her finger to her mouth and

  Shhhh!

  The Cafeteria

  Dad’s piano is a baby grand.

  It’s yellow

  and missing the top key.

  He’s had it since he first started learning how to play

  and he never got a new one.

  Not when he signed his first private student

  not when he booked his first wedding reception

  not even when the piano started to wobble

  after Jeopardy

  our golden retriever

  confused the back leg with dinner.

  Mom calls it ugly

  but I love it.

  It isn’t ugly.

  It just is.

  When something stands out

  you look at it funny.

  You cock your head

  squint your eyes

  twist your mouth

  before you get used to it

  and it just looks like

  itself.

  In my old school I wasn’t exactly popular

  but I had a place to sit

  and friends I’d known since forever.

  People dressed like me

  and talked like me

  and ate the same foods as me

  but here I stand out.

  I may as well be an

  ugly

  yellow

  piano.

  Spotlight

  I’ve never been able to eat

  when I’m nervous.

  I must be nervous now

  because my first bite of BLT

  turns to sand in my mouth.

  Dry and flaky

  tasting like empty.

  I spit it into my napkin.

  You’d be nervous too

  if you were the only one

  in a room full of duets

  trios

  symphonies

  singing a solo.

  Standing Out

  I dissect my sandwich

  rolling bits of bread into marbles

  but I drop one in my lap

  oozing a mustard smear onto my jeans.

  The napkins

  are on the other side of the cafeteria

  and when I stand up to get one

  I knock the table

  and all my bread marbles

  fall

  on the ground

  scattering

  tracing a dozen arrows

  pointing to the weirdo

  who made them.

  I sit back down

  napkinless

  and glue my eyes to what’s left of my sandwich.

  Are people staring?

  They’re probably staring.

  I need to know if they’re staring.

  So I look up.

  Looking Up

  When I look up

  No one even notices I’m

  here.

  And that

  is even worse.

  Attempted Duet No. 4

  “Hi, I’m new here. My name is—”

  “You’re sitting at our table.”

  If You Close Your Eyes

  The Beatles

  The Monkees

  The Turtles

  The Cars

  Madonna

  Rihanna

  Adele

  Bruno Mars

  Schubert and Schumann

  and Chopin

  and Bach

  Spamalot

  Hamilton

  Rent

  Schoolhouse Rock.

  The Vienna Boys Choir

  The Philharmonic

  Yo-Yo Ma

  Miley Cyrus

  Taylor Swift

  (and my favorite)

  Lady Gaga!

  So maybe I have no friends

  and eat under the stairs

  but wearing my headphones

  I kind of don’t care.

  When I have music

  nothing matters at
all

  and anywhere

  everywhere

  can be

  Carnegie Hall.

  Elective Assignments

  At the end of the day

  we go back to homeroom

  where we are handed slips of paper

  no bigger than a gum wrapper.

  Elective assignments.

  Around me fly cries of

  “Yes!” “No!” “You?” “Same!”

  I look at my slip and see

  Computer Science: Frankie Delaney HT210

  And I guess that settles it.

  For the first time in my life

  I’m not taking piano lessons with Dad

  or voice lessons with Mom

  or guitar lessons with the music teacher at my old school

  and now

  I’m not even in the Symphony Orchestra and Choir.

  It’s official.

  I’m not a musician.

  Cacophony

  Through the chorus of kids comparing classes shouting:

  “Yes!” “No!” “You?” “Same!”

  A melody floats above the choir:

  “Computer science—?”

  It’s the girl from before

  the one with all the braids

  and she’s trying to make her voice droop

  as best she can.

  But she’s not a very good actor

  because even though she’s making her voice sound sad

  she cannot stop

  her smile

  from cutting through the classroom concerto

  like the trill of a piccolo.

  Try Tone

  I try to catch her attention

  using my friendliest voice

  but she is so focused

  on harmonizing

  with the rest of her string quartet

  that she doesn’t even notice

  me.

  The diminished fifth.

  Attempted Duet No. 5

  “Hi, I think we’re both in computer science. My name is—”

  “Maybe they made a mistake?”

  “What do you mean, you didn’t get into music?”

  “Wasn’t computer science your last choice?”

  “If it’s a mistake

  I’m sure they’ll let you change.”

  “Or maybe do the choir without me?”

  “Sure, but you can’t expect to get into the Honey Bees

  if you aren’t even in our awful middle school choir.”

  “Umm . . .”

  “This sucks!

  Now they’ll never let Abigail into the Honey Bees!”

  “Ugh!

  What’s the point of even trying out

  if Abigail’s not on alto.”

  “Hey! I’m an alto!”

  “You’re no Abigail!”

  “None of us are.”

  “Are you sure

  you put down music first?”

  “Well . . .”

  Maybe

  The girl in braids

  keeps her voice soft

  wavering

  not quite telling the truth

  and not quite lying either.

  Her friends tells her

  to escalate all the way to the top:

  Principal Fitzgerald.

  They’re sure

  that if she explains the situation

  the principal will have to let her switch.

  The girl in braids says:

  “Okay. Maybe I will.”

  and her friends seem convinced.

  But when she stares down

  at her elective slip

  and smiles

  I know that her maybe

  is more like

  a maybe not.

  Fitting In

  Mom is beautiful.

  She’s opera-singer big

  strong in the diaphragm

  strong in the lungs.

  She’s a mezzo

  a Carmen

  a Dido

  a Princess de Bouillon

  and when she sings

  her voice

  is a roar of applause.

  Mom is beautiful

  on and off stage.

  Even when she’s picking me up from school today

  next to the magazine moms

  in their blue Priuses

  even when she sits in our gas guzzler

  leaning on the horn

  and even when she steps out

  wearing her own Packers hoodie

  to haul open the trunk

  so her not-so-beautiful daughter

  can throw in her backpack.

  People say we’re two peas in a pod

  but I don’t think so.

  Those people just haven’t been looking close enough

  and they definitely haven’t heard me sing.

  I sound like

  what Jeopardy sounded like

  that time he got his tail caught in the car door.

  I wish people were right.

  That we really were two peas in a pod

  because wherever Mom goes

  she fits.

  Four-four time

  Mom is driving me home this week

  but starting Monday

  I take the train

  because Mom has a first day

  of her very own.

  But for this week

  this first week

  this first day

  I’m glad she’s here.

  After a day like today

  it feels good to be with someone

  who marches to the beat

  of my drum.

  So I Don’t Worry Her

  Before I can click my seat belt

  Mom asks:

  “How was it?”

  I almost tell her everything.

  I almost tell her

  how the teacher was so busy

  she forgot to introduce me to the class

  how I ate lunch under the stairs

  how I wish California really were

  just a song.

  But then I remember

  what Mom has told me

  nine times since July.

  It’s a song and dance

  so old and familiar

  I would sing along

  if it were actually a song

  (and if I could carry a tune).

  So instead of the truth

  I say:

  “Fine.”

  Evening Music

  My favorite part

  of every day

  is four p.m.

  When I get home

  and I can sit

  and tap my toes

  and clap along

  to any song

  Dad wants to play.

  Fast and slow and fast again

  I watch him bend his bony back

  and bop his chin and close his eyes.

  The sweat falls down

  staccato drops

  and I feel better

  when he plays.

  Griiiiiiiiind

  The music changes

  and now Dad’s playing something new.

  Something he’s learning for his gig here

  as the backup pianist

  for the San Francisco Symphony Orchestra.

  I don’t like it.

  It feels clunky and dissonant

  and makes me want to grind my teeth.

  Even Jeopardy leaves the room.

  But it’s his dream to play on stage

  in front of a sold-out crowd

  and that’s what we’re here for.

  This song could be his big break.

  So I cover my ears with a pillow

  and wait for the song

  and wait for the night

  and wait for the year

  to be over.

  Whole Rest

  This is the part of the day

  when I used to practice piano.

  After dinner

  when Dad would clean the k
itchen

  and Mom would be at a show

  I’d sit at the keys and try to make them sing.

  Mozart’s Rondo in C Major

  Burgmüller’s “By the Limpid Stream”

  Beethoven’s Sonata, op. 49, no. 2

  I’d play and play and play

  but no matter how hard I tried

  my fingers never matched up

  with the music on the page

  the music in my head

  the music in my heart

  the music in my blood.

  And don’t even get me started

  on what would happen

  when I’d try to perform.

  Now it’s eight o’clock

  and the house is quiet.

  The kitchen is clean

  Mom has no rehearsal

  and I have nothing to practice

  so I lie on the couch

  with Jeopardy at my feet

  and stare out the window

  into the fog.

  Option D