Jay Versus the Saxophone of Doom Page 2

  “Honestly, Dylan, you are so immature,” Jodie says, and she demonstrates her award-winning eye-roll.

  “That’s all right, Jay. Have a piece of toast.” My dad starts to pass me a piece of his marmalade-slathered breakfast but I am able to cut him off in time (I feel I need to say this again, MARMALADE IS GROSS).

  “It’s okay, Dad. I think I’m just going to toast a bagel.”

  Dylan is still snickering, so I shoot him an unimpressed look and he responds with an innocent shrug. I stick half a bagel into the toaster and open the fridge, only to find that there is no cream cheese. No cereal. No cream cheese. This is beginning to feel like a bad omen for the first day of school. Letting out a frustrated sigh, I pull out the jar of peanut butter and wait for the bagel to toast. I try to remember if I have everything I need for school, but my thoughts are disrupted when my dad starts talking excitedly in between marmalade-toast bites.

  “…and this guy says to me—well, this kid, I should say, couldn’t have been more than sixteen years old—he says to me, ‘Maps are kind of…like…old school.’ So I tell him, he’s darn right they’re old school. Old school and reliable. I’m telling you, all this GPS gadgetry, it all runs on batteries that have to be charged. Charged! And what happens if there is some kind of energy crisis? I’ll tell you what happens. Everyone will be coming to see old Jon Roberts to get a map. Old school! You bet I’m old school…” Dad continues, only now he’s just talking under his breath (or perhaps the correct term is mumbling), while my mom smiles and nods, listening to yet another map rant.

  My dad has always had what I would describe as an unhealthy map obsession, which led to him quitting his job as an insurance salesman to open his very own map store three years ago. Let me be honest with you. I might have thrown around the words “terrible” and “crazy” and “the worst idea ever” when Dad first talked about opening a store in downtown Parry Sound. Our downtown is not exactly “booming with business,” and a lot of shops have had to close because of bigger stores being built just outside of town. But every summer, my dad’s store gets a rush of cottagers and campers making their way through Parry Sound, and when my mom isn’t working at the dentist’s office, she helps him run an online division of his business. Apparently maps are, like, some kind of decorating thing now? So I guess, in a way, some people might actually consider my dad “trendy.” (I am not one of those people.)

  To be honest, I really enjoy going into my dad’s shop. Sometimes I stop by after school if I don’t have practice and thumb through the pages of a huge atlas, or spin one of the globes super fast and stop it with my finger, pretending that spot will be my next travel destination. (If I land on Antarctica I get a free spin because, well…it’s Antarctica.) The shop always has this new-paper smell that I love, and Dad keeps a small dish of candy by the cash register that I am allowed to take from, “within reason” my mom says. Plus, the store is always pretty empty so I can do my homework there in peace and quiet, which is often impossible at home with my family.

  I finish the rest of my bagel and quickly half-smile for the pictures I will soon come to regret (my mom tossed me a pile of books before I could realize they were props), just as Luke is walking through my front gate. His backpack is slung over his shoulder, half open, and he motions through the window for me to hurry up. Luke Benson lives six houses down from me, plays on the Shamrocks, and has been my best friend since kindergarten. To say the two of us look different would be what my mother refers to as “an understatement.” Luke is huge, with dark, curly hair that people refer to as “the beast.” Me, I’m a bit on the smaller side (“scrawny,” according to Jodie) with a short haircut that is too boring for a nickname. On occasion I have actually been mistaken for Luke’s little brother, and my so-called “best friend” does nothing to correct this mistake. In fact, he gets a strangely satisfied smile on his face and usually replies with something like, “Yeah, I’ve got to keep an eye on this little guy, he’s always running off!” Thanks, Luke. Really appreciate that. But it’s all good. As different as we look on the outside, at any given time he’s thinking exactly the same thing I am:

  —

  Is there a hockey game on tonight? When’s our next hockey practice? Hockey, hockey, other stuff…hockey, hockey, hockey, pointless stuff…hockey.

  So, yeah. We get along pretty well.

  I finally manage to duck out of the house, safe. At least I think I am.

  “Hey, looks like your mom wants you.” Luke is grinning and pointing behind me at my mother, who is frantically waving from my front door. I turn and give her a small wave back, fearing that the waving will lead to yelling and/or hugging if I don’t respond. I turn back to Luke, who is still grinning, and give him a friendly punch on the arm.

  “Do I really need to bring up the note from your lunch last year?” I put on my best mom voice. “Dear Lukey. Do not trade your cookies for pudding cups. You know what pudding cups do to you—”

  “All right, all right,” Luke interrupts, punching me back. “Point taken.”

  I push open our old metal gate, wiping the bits of rusty black paint off my coat before slamming it shut. It isn’t a very long walk to school, but when you live in a place like Parry Sound, population 6,200, most things are pretty close, which is great. Living in a small town is not without its disadvantages, though. I mean, besides the movie theater and the mall (and I refer to it as a “mall” in the loosest sense of the term), there isn’t much going on around town most of the time. However, Parry Sound is the home of the Bobby Orr Hall of Fame (I may have visited it a few…hundred times), and it does sit right beside Georgian Bay, which is part of Lake Huron. And that means…

  Pond hockey.

  Playing hockey on an indoor rink is great, but there is something amazing about a mid-February game on the frozen bay, often with most of the kids from the neighborhood, sometimes with just a few. It doesn’t really matter how many people play. There aren’t any real nets, just some pieces of old wood or a pair of boots, a couple of markers that the puck needs to slide between to count as a goal. The feel of the ice is different, and you can almost hear a cracking sound as your blades make contact with the frozen surface. When the wind is at your back it can seem as though you are gliding, downhill, barely needing to exert energy to make your legs move toward your goal. When it’s coming at you, it’s as though imaginary hands are pushing you backwards, causing you to fight hard for every inch up the ice. But no matter what the conditions are outside, and I don’t have any scientific data to back this up, it always seems like I can skate faster on an outdoor rink. Go figure.

  When you’re out on the bay, the only rules are your rules. We are the coaches, the referees, and the players, and aside from an occasional argument, the games go off without a hitch. Sometimes we play until dark, and sometimes even later, if Mark’s dad brings the lights from his construction site. My mom doesn’t understand how we can play all day without freezing, but you don’t always feel the cold when you are skating from one end of the “rink” to the other. We’ll worry about the cold later. Can I feel my toes? No. But I am fairly certain they are still there, and the fact is, when I’m out on the ice, nothing else matters, and I don’t want it to end. When the game is finished, well, that’s another story. Suddenly the cold creeps in, and we run home quickly, hoping our moms will heat up a bit of hot chocolate to warm our hands and our insides. When you finally climb into bed and pull the covers up, it only takes a few seconds to fall fast asleep.

  We may only have five stores in our mall, but having that big “pond” right there makes it all worth it.

  The road I live on in our little town is narrow, dotted with tiny, old houses all snuggled close together. I know most of the people on our street, and as Luke and I pass by on our way to school, most of the neighbors nod or wave, unless they are preoccupied with their outdoor chores.

  —

  GAME TIP #3: DO NOT start a conversation with someone who is trimming their lawn, by h
and, with scissors. You will end up on their porch listening to how things were in the “good old days” and how “kids these days” just don’t know about a hard day’s work. You may also be served and expected to eat stale maple-flavored cookies.

  When we get to school, Luke and I slip into our classroom just as the final morning bell rings. We choose the same seats every year, in the back row, right next to each other. Our homeroom teacher’s name is Mrs. Vanderson, and it just so happens that she was our homeroom teacher last year.

  “It’s so nice to have you all back,” Mrs. Vanderson says, snapping a few pages into her clipboard. “I hope you all had a wonderful summer and are ready to start a new year of learning!”

  Luke turns to me and rolls his eyes, but I don’t respond. Mrs. Vanderson is the best teacher I’ve ever had, even if she is a little, well, excitable when it comes to school. I quickly scan the room, not believing my eyes. Is it possible? Could it really be true? Have I managed to be put in a class that is free from Mick Bar—?

  “Sorry I’m late, miss.”

  I look up to see Mick Bartlet at the classroom door quickly making his way toward a desk. Annnnnnd…my unlucky streak continues.

  “Let’s not make this a habit, Mr. Bartlet. All right, we’re going to take attendance and then we’ll look at our classroom rotation schedule for the year. When I call your name, please raise your hand and say ‘Here’ in a nice, loud voice.”

  She calls through the entire list, and then Mrs. Vanderson asks if there is someone who would like to take the attendance to the office. I raise my hand quickly, but a girl, Sarah, beats me to the punch. I know taking the attendance to the office is only a five-minute job, but I will take five minutes out of class ANY day.

  —

  GAME TIP #4: When you get the chance to bring the attendance to the office, your teacher does not tell you which ROUTE you have to take. I have devised a series of turns on my path to the office that extends my time out of class by 2.5 minutes. Worth it? Absolutely.

  “Okay, I’m going to hand out the classroom schedules, so just take one and pass it on.”

  Mrs. Vanderson places a stack of papers on the first desk of the front row.

  “Now, I expect everyone to be following along as we all go through this information together. Our first class on Day 1 will be Math, so that means no one will be able to fill in their math homework over the lunch hour…I think you all know who I’m talking about.” Mrs. Vanderson raises her eyebrows and a few kids in the class giggle. Chase is famous for asking everyone around him at lunch for answers to the math homework. He shrugs his shoulders and gives her an I-have-no-idea-what-you’re-talking-about face.

  “Let’s see…moving on, you will have a full period of History, for which I will be assigning textbooks in just a moment. Be sure to write your name inside lightly in pencil, and remember that I expect them back in the same condition you received them.”

  I slink down a bit, wondering if she is referring to my Social Studies textbook from last year, which may or may not have had a few pages slightly damaged. But, I mean, no one ever told me not to put my open textbook in the bottom of a bag that also held skates with no guards on. It could have happened to anybody.

  “Twice a week after History you will have a period of Music, which we will be extending to a full hour since you will be learning to play band instruments this year.”

  One hour. Music. Instruments.

  My mouth instantly goes dry and my arms drop heavy at my sides. How could I have forgotten? Grade six is the year we have to choose and play musical instruments. Musical instruments. The words swirl around in my brain, and I realize that Mrs. Vanderson is still talking and I haven’t heard a word she has said. I shake my head and try to focus.

  “…all be little Schuberts by the end of the year,” Mrs. Vanderson is saying, and she finishes by clapping her hands together. What’s this about shoes? And who is Burt? I am clearly losing it.

  I look around to see if anyone else is sharing in my terror, but all the other kids seem to be following along with the schedule without a care in the world. Don’t they know what happens in Music class? Every student is required to play a piece of music on their instrument in front of the WHOLE class. My brother had to learn the trumpet in the sixth grade and he told me all about it, probably with the intention of completely terrifying me.

  It worked.

  It’s not that I can’t take pressure. I mean, let’s say there is a minute to go in the game, we’re tied 3–3, and the puck comes my way. There’s a good chance that story ends with me scoring the winning goal and the crowd going wild. But playing a music solo? In front of everybody? That’s more likely to end up with me playing a song that is completely unrecognizable and the crowd throwing things at me.

  And it’s not that I don’t like music. I just lack a few of the skills required to play it. Like rhythm. And pitch. And everything else that has to do with music.

  EVIDENCE: My parents have a video of me in my very first school play. I was in grade one, and we had worked for months to prepare a musical presentation all about how the caterpillar turns into a (SPOILER ALERT) butterfly. Now, I realize that it is not expected that a seven-year-old is going to give a flawless performance in a grade-school play, but I was TERRIBLE. It is seriously hard to watch. I am completely out of time with all of the actions, and my squeaky, out-of-tune voice is clearly heard above everyone else’s. (I was singing super loud because when you’re seven you don’t know you should be embarrassed yet.)

  I feel dizzy. I fold my arms on the desk, put my head down, and close my eyes.

  It’s official. I, Jason Roberts, am doomed.

  CHAPTER 3

  There are some things in life that you just can’t control. One of those things is your last name. I met this guy once who had the last name “Sucker.” Unfortunate, right? I mean, what did this kid do to deserve the last name Sucker? Nothing. And it’s worse when you’re young. When he grows up, people might chuckle a bit when he signs his name, but in grade school? That’s like walking around with a “Kick Me” sign on your back.

  I suppose I was lucky that I didn’t end up with a last name like Sucker. However, having “Roberts” is not without its disadvantages. Okay, let’s do a little alphabet review.

  The first letter of my last name is near the middle of the alphabet. Right? Wrong. Since I go to a small school in a small town, it just so happens that there aren’t any kids with last names that start with O or Q or U or V or W or X or Y or Z so it really looks more like this.

  Where does that leave me? One of the LAST kids on the attendance list. Do you know what the LAST kids on the attendance list get? They get everything LAST. And getting things LAST is about to really suck. Big time.

  “You must dig deep, deep inside of your soul to find the music that is within, and then channel that through the instrument into the ears of your listeners.”

  I am sitting in my third-period Music class and Mrs. Jennings is standing at the front, giving us a music pep talk. (It is not making me feel peppy.) Mrs. Jennings is everything you would expect from a music teacher. She has long, blond, frizzy hair that drapes over a large collection of multicolored scarves tied around her neck. (It basically makes her looks like she has no neck. If I drew one of those “All About Me” assignments that featured Mrs. Jennings, I would totally nail it.) Her floor-length dress is made up of what looks like sewn-together patches, some with birds and some with flowers. At her waist, a kind of narrow, braided, rainbow belt is tied at one side, and the two ends spill down the length of her dress. There is so much color that—and I mean this—sometimes you literally have to squint your eyes a bit to adjust to the brightness. And then there are the bracelets. There must be a hundred of the heavy gold things on her wrists, so many that they make loud, clanking sounds every time she writes on the chalkboard or conducts the band with her little white stick. But if there is one thing that defines Mrs. Jennings, it’s the way she walks. It’s more like
an energetic bound that makes you think she’s always on a caffeine high, which might also explain why her eyes are perma-wide.

  Okay, keep reading: here’s when it happens.

  “When I call your name, you can come to the front of the classroom and pick out your instrument. Remember, an instrument is not a toy, but a friend. A friend that must be treated with respect.” Mrs. Jennings picks up a flute and gives it a small embrace, and I choose not to look over at Luke, who is without a doubt smirking in my direction. “All right, we’ll start with Maggie Anderson.”

  I know who comes next. Mick Bartlet. Raymond Beacon. Luke Benson. Alissa Douglas. Hayden Ferguson. Everyone makes their way up to the front, picking up flutes and clarinets and trumpets. With each name called, the contents of the table shrink, until, finally, I am at the front, looking at three sad instruments, each with differing dents and scratches but with the same long, brassy hook shape.

  “Well, it would appear the saxophone has chosen you, Mr. Roberts! It is one of the tougher instruments to play, but it is also one of the most soulful…” Her voice trails off and her eyes close, as if she is remembering something lovely.

  Great. I have one of the tougher instruments to play. If only my last name were Adams or Anderson or Abram I could have picked the drum and had a fighting chance. But no, my fate has now officially been sealed. I pick up the saxophone (which seems to weigh about a hundred pounds) and trudge back to my seat. As I turn the hunk of metal over in my hands, I can almost swear the saxophone has a mouth. And, furthermore, it is wearing a very wide, very devilish grin.

  By the time I sit down, the class has exploded with the sounds of kids laughing and making squeaks and blasts with their instruments. Somehow, Luke has managed to score a snare drum…the drum! I wonder how much allowance I would have to give him to switch with me. I catch his eye, and the mocking impression he is doing of someone playing the saxophone tells me I am out of luck.