Emmy in the Key of Code Page 4
public static void main(String[] args) {
System.out.println(“Hello, World!”);
}
Ms. Delaney says that’s it.
That we wrote a whole program
and all we need to do
is play it.
But I don’t see how that’s possible.
How could I have written so little
and understood even less
and yet
somehow
have written a program?
I find the little green play button
at the top of the screen
and even though I’m sure
I did something wrong
I press it anyway.
First Words
>Hello, World!
Lunchtime Music
It’s stuck in my head
like a song.
public
static
void
main
string
bracket
bracket
args
I give it a melody
and a back beat
which remixes itself
over my fingers tapping
on my thighs.
PUB-lic
STAT-ic
void, main, string.
BRACK-et
BRACK-et
ARGS!
And while I eat
the pesto and pine nut quinoa
that Mom bought for me
in a last-minute run
to Whole Foods
to replace my Wisconsin food
I sing
under my breath
my whispers echoing beneath the stairs
in my own private
concert hall.
So I Don’t Get My Hopes Up
Today when Mom asks {
“How was your day?”
}
I almost tell her everything.
How the teacher wore lipstick
the color of allegro.
How I met Abigail
who’s been coding since last summer
and singing since forever.
How maybe California
isn’t such a terrible song after all.
But then I remember
Francis
and how he made me feel like I’m an ugly yellow piano
so
once again
I say {
“Fine.”
}
4:00 p.m.
Usually Dad plays piano
the way some dads play golf.
For himself.
But tonight he’s not playing
he’s practicing.
It’s that song again
the one that sounds like badly tuned violins
dropped drum kits and rusty tambourines
and your parents telling you
that you’re moving away from the only place
you’ve ever called home.
I still don’t like it
but there’s something to it.
A rhythm
a bounce
a drumbeat.
With my voice and ears muffled beneath my pillow
and Jeopardy hiding in the kitchen
I sing.
4'33"
There’s music in me
I can feel it
surging
m g
u p n
j i
cha-
cha-
chaing
So while Dad cooks dinner
and Mom is walking Jeopardy
I
cha-
cha-
cha
my way over to the piano.
I sit on the bench
put my hands on the keys
and the music in me
disappears
Scenic Route
On Thursdays there is no
PUB-lic
STAT-ic
void, main, string.
BRACK-et
BRACK-et
ARGS!
There is only
homeroom
math
science
lunch
gym
humanities
humanities
spanish
But after science
I take the scenic route
past the computer lab
before eating my lunch
beneath the stairs.
I put on my headphones
to distract
my anxious stomach.
But today
I surprise myself.
I barely even pay attention
to the Vivaldi in my ears
because in spite of Francis
I can’t wait to see
what we’re going to make in class
tomorrow.
Just Almost
Ms. Delaney gives me another chance
to say my fun fact.
Ms. Delaney grins allegro-red
while Abigail sticks up her thumb
and I think maybe I can talk about how last night
I beat my parents for the first time ever at Monopoly.
Or about how Dad thinks this gig
as the backup pianist
is finally going to be his big break.
Or maybe I can say that my favorite ice cream flavor is
lemon cardamom
from Purple Door back home.
I almost talk.
I was ready to talk.
I would have talked
if it wasn’t for
a SNORT.
An eye roll of a sound
from an eye roll of a boy
and I don’t even need to look up
to see the way he’s looking at me.
Stage Fright
Maybe it’s pathetic
that all it takes is one little SNORT
to make my larynx freeze up
like I’m about to sing a high note
and I forgot to inhale.
But it’s more than just a SNORT
it’s how he’s looking at me.
A head-cocking
eye-squinting
mouth-twisting
look.
It’s a look I’ve seen before
every time I walked on stage
with a cello
or a flute
or a stack of music fit for my voice part.
It’s the You don’t belong here face.
The one that once came
with whispered words {
“She’s their daughter?”
“I would have expected more.”
“She doesn’t look like she belongs up there
at all.”
}
And now
just like what happened
the last time
I stepped on a stage
before I can perform anything I rehearsed
my mind starts to
f u z z
and so I stop
before it gets any worse.
Turning Away
After class a voice calls {
“Abigail!
We’re here to rescue you!”
}
There is a group
a giggling group
a group saying
Choose whose side you want to be on
with folders full of sheet music
dangling down at their sides.
It’s the Option A group.
The choir girls group.
The musical group.
The group
that in a world
where I could sing on pitch
might have been my friends.
They say {
“I’m so mad they didn’t let you switch.”
“Ms. Sinclair keeps saying
how much we need more altos.”
“I dunno . . .
something seems weird to me.”
“Hey
it could be worse
at least you’re not the one stuck in computer class.”
}
I say goodbye
but Abigail must not hear me
because the back-to-class girl
has her back to me.
Don’t Belong
I guess Abigail
doesn’t want to be my friend.
I guess no one does.
Usually
Usually
used to be a song I knew well.
Usually
I could eat at home.
Usually
all it took was one round of Moonlight Sonata
and I could forget about whatever happened
during the school day.
Usually
I could enjoy the lasagna
the garlic bread
the Caesar salad
without my stomach
pretzeling.
Usually.
I must have forgotten the tune to
Usually
when I left Wisconsin.
A Good Weekend
Over the weekend
I let myself forget about school.
Saturday morning
Dad wakes me with Debussy.
I solve a jigsaw puzzle
—the one with the close-up of the hummingbird—
while tapping out the rhythm to Dad’s rendition of
Suite bergamasque.
We walk Jeopardy
through Golden Gate Park
with a packed picnic.
It’s foggy
as always
but Jeopardy licks at the grass
and I wonder what fog tastes like
so I stick out my tongue
to sip it.
On Sunday
Dad plays Chopin.
Jeopardy splats his front paws
on my shoulders
and we waltz through the kitchen
boom-bah-dah
boom-bah-dah
boom
while Mom records on her phone.
It’s a good weekend.
So good
that I almost forget
what comes after Sunday.
Anticipation
Dad makes chili on Sunday night
to celebrate Mom’s first day
of work tomorrow.
Chili
with jalapeño cornbread
is our fall treat
even though the weather here
feels more like
the rainy season
than fall.
It’s usually my favorite
but today
I can barely eat.
I’m too nervous
worrying about tomorrow
and if I’ll ever
find anyone
who wants to be my friend.
But Dad takes his third bowl
and asks
did he make it too spicy?
There’s never leftovers
on chili night.
Mom sighs
stirs up the kidney beans
the ground beef
the sour cream.
She takes a bite
then stirs some more.
Maybe I’m not the only one
nervous about tomorrow.
Songs in the Key of Life
When I was little
three
maybe four years old
we had a record player in our basement.
The records were always dusty
crackly
but when I’d get sad
Mom and Dad would play me this song
called “Sir Duke”
about how music is the one language
that everyone speaks
and you can tell because
as soon as it starts to play
everyone can feel it.
We’d listen to this song over and over and over again
singing
dancing
clapping our hands
until I couldn’t even remember
what it was that had made me sad.
So this morning
as I walk up a hill
to take a bus
to the train
to another hill
to school
I listen to the song.
I let the words rush through me
feeling it all over
and in the quiet of my head
I am singing
I am singing
I am singing.
Give Me Time
Today Ms. Delaney asks
once again
if I’m ready to share my fun fact.
But I don’t need to look at Francis
to know that he’s still crossing his arms
like he doesn’t want to risk touching me
to know that he’s still crinkling his nose
like I smell like rotting salmon.
And I don’t need Francis’s face
to know
that if I try
to say my fun fact
my head is going to fuzz
so I say {
“How about I tell you
when I’m ready.”
}
Ms. Delaney’s smile
paints a cherry streak in the air
and she says {
“Sounds good to me!”
}
Building Blocks
Ms. Delaney says this week we will be learning
primitive types.
Primitive types are the programming bits that exist
without us having to play a single note
on our keyboard.
They are the pieces that come built-in.
The building blocks
for every single program
in the whole world.
She says with these primitive types
we have the power
to make anything we could ever want.
Games.
Robots.
Music.
Francis
without even looking at anyone
says {
“Not a spaceship.”
}
But Ms. Delaney doesn’t even pause—she just
shrugs and says {
“Why not?”
}
And so we spend the period
stacking building blocks
trying to reach the moon.
Purple
Ms. Delaney gives us eight words
and tells us to type them on our screens.
I type
like I used to play scales.
Carefully.
Training my fingers.
In my head
the words feel like nonsense.
int
char
short
long
boolean
byte
double
float
See?
Nonsense.
But when I type them
they turn purple on my screen
and the nonsense
becomes music
taking shape right before my eyes.
It’s like the computer just smiled at me
and said {
“Hello, Emmy!
I see what you’re doing.
I see.
I see you.”
}
Booleans
My favorite building block
is a boolean.
I roll the word around in my mouth
like it’s a caramel candy.
boo-lee-in.
A boolean is like
a Lego
with only one bump.
It’s the smallest building block
and it represents
either true
or false.
I look around the room
at Ms. Delaney’s you-belong-here smile
at Abigail’s you-belong-here thumbs-up
at Francis’s
you-don’t-belong-here
SNORT
and I wish everything
could be boolean.
Hopes
Mom gets home from her first day of work
around six.
I ask {
“How was it?”
}
and she says {
“Fine.”
}
I hope her “fine”
is better than mine.
I hope Mom’s boss took her around the office
and introduced her
to his other assistants.
I hope she didn’t try to sit
at the wrong desk.
I hope they had freezers full
of her favorite flavor of ice cream