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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