The Secret Life of Ms. Finkleman (11 page)

“One! Two!
One, two, three, four!
”

Tenny called out the tempo, played the opening
lick, and the Careless Errors started in on “Holiday.” Ezra McClellan clabbered away at the drums, carefully counting to himself as he played, muttering under his breath to keep himself on rhythm. Lisa Deckter, who was a violinist, really, and still getting the hang of guitar, stared at her fingers as they churned out the rhythm riff that drove the song. Pamela Preston looked totally bored, shaking her maracas with obvious distaste.

Bethesda Fielding began to sing, nervous and tentative, pushing a loose strand of reddish tannish hair away from her mouth. “Let’s go away for a while,” she sang, “you and me, to a strange and distant land …”

With each phrase she moved a little closer to the microphone, and then a little farther back, unsure of how close you were supposed to stand. The mike was set too tall for her, and she couldn’t figure out how to get it closer to her mouth. When she got to the end of the third line (“Where they speak no word of truth”), she somehow took a big step forward with her right foot just as she jerked the stand up with her left hand, and it smacked her in the tooth. “Ouch!” she said, really loud and right into the microphone. The sudden noise totally messed up Ezra’s rhythm.

Only Tenny Boyer, coloring the spots between vocal
lines with fills (basically little mini-guitar solos) was completely comfortable. Eyes half shut, head thrown back, lips slightly parted, he looked like a rock-and-roll superstar.

Bethesda recovered her equilibrium in time to stammer out the words of the chorus (“Holllllllliday! Far away!”). As the song chugged forward, Bethesda looked at Tenny with awe.
He’s like a totally different person.

“All right, folks,” said Ms. Finkleman, clapping her hands sharply as soon as the Careless Errors managed to get to the end. “Let’s move on.”

Ms. Finkleman sounded different these days. Her kids noticed, of course, and figured it was only natural. They assumed that this new voice—icy, tough, unemotional—was that of the punk-rock lady who had emerged from within the nerdy band teacher. The truth was a little more complicated. There had been a time in Ms. Finkleman’s life when rock and roll had been the most important thing to her. But now, to hear these songs, this music, was the last thing she wanted. So to protect herself, she didn’t
let
herself hear it: She listened to the practice sessions without hearing. She watched without seeing. She stood with arms crossed, trying her hardest
to experience no emotion at all. And she spoke in the voice of a woman who was there in the room, but at the same time a million miles away.

Let Tenny pay attention, she thought as the Careless Errors set down their instruments and went back to their seats. Let him be in charge. Just get through this, and then life will go back to how it’s supposed to be.

“Okay,” she said. “‘I Got You’ folks? You’re up.”

“One! Two!
One, two, three, four!
”

Chester Hu clicked his sticks together as he called out the groove, and Band Number One lit into “I Got You.” Victor Glebe played the bass with his eyes shut tight, trying to see the next note with his mind, like a Jedi. Bessie Stringer blew feverishly into her baritone sax, her eyes wide, her cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk. As he drummed, Chester mumbled the words of the song, because he had timed his snare hits to the lyrics; Rachel Portnoy, the singer, glanced at Chester every once in a while because she kept forgetting the words.

But all of them were happy.

Unlike their teacher, the students of sixth-period Music Fundamentals were having a great time. The Choral Corral, their moment in the spotlight, was still
over a month away, but their lives had already been transformed. Every time a teacher “stopped by” to watch them in awe, every fresh rumor that made the rounds, further confirmed their status as the new celebrities of Mary Todd Lincoln Middle School. And nor were they celebrities for something school related, like Lana Pinfield, that girl from Grover Cleveland who came in fourth in the National Spelling Bee three years ago. No, the students of sixth-period Music Fundamentals were
rock
celebrities, and no one could imagine anything cooler.

Chester had been carrying his drumsticks everywhere he went, their tips poking from the inside of his coat like twin badges of honor. Carmine Lopez was inspired to carry his guitar case everywhere he went, even to gym class, where it was mildly dented by a flying dodgeball.

“Hey, aren’t you in Ms. Finkleman’s sixth-period class?” kids would say to them, rushing up to the Schwartz sisters or Rory Daas or Hayley Eisenstein or whoever. “That is
so
awesome.”

They even had their own language. Once, during one particularly raucous practice session (when the members of Half-Eaten Almond Joy had finally played “Livin’ on a Prayer” all the way through, while all the
others improvised a praying-themed group dance), Lisa Deckter had suddenly called out, “That is so R.” And when everyone looked at her, she said, “You know—R. As in, Rock? ”

Soon they were all ranking everything—pencils, lessons, teachers, movies, food, whatever—by its relative rockfulness. Something that was good was R. Something that was
really
good was WR, or Way Rock. Something that was so good you couldn’t stand it was Totally Way Rock, or TWR.

“This macaroni and cheese is WR! ” the kids of sixth-period Music Fundamentals would say. Or “A pop quiz? That is so UR! ” (As in, Un-Rock.) Or “Hey, the cafeteria was damaged in a grease fire—so they’re ordering pizza for school lunch! That is TWR! ”

And, as late March moved inexorably toward April, Ms. Finkleman’s students got better and better at rock.

“One! Two!
One, two, three, four!
”

Kevin McKelvey counted in “Livin’ on a Prayer.” As Half-Eaten Almond Joy played, Tenny sat in the back of the room, watching, his eyes flickering from deep inside his blue-hooded sweatshirt. If anyone glanced over, they’d think it was just good ol’ Tenny, spacing out as
usual. You’d never guess his mind was whirring like a motor, clocking mistakes, listing corrections.

He noticed that Carmine Lopez’s chording was woefully imprecise. He noticed that Rory Daas kept messing up the chorus, which only had about six words in it. He noticed that Hayley Eisenstein’s bass strap was in serious need of adjustment.

But somewhere along the way, Tenny realized something: This is gonna be good. This is gonna be
really
good.

As he played chords with his left hand, Kevin McKelvey sawed the air with his right, keeping time. The blue-blazered Piano Kid had emerged as the leader of the eighties rock band, and the others all looked to him for tempo. When he was satisfied that they were with him, Kevin brought both hands back down on the keyboard. His fingers leaped aggressively across the keys.

Kevin had easily mastered “Livin’ on a Prayer.” Actually, he had moved on from “Livin’ on a Prayer” to mastering all the other songs of Bon Jovi. As he learned each number, he studied the way the band’s keyboardist, David Bryan, handled them. What had seemed easy at first now seemed extraordinarily clever, the work of a
virtuoso musician finding small trills and little pockets of melody to make simple songs glorious.

From there, Kevin kept going. He had been using his hours and hours of daily piano practice to conduct a self-guided tour of all the greats of rock piano, from Little Richard to Billy Joel to Fiona Apple to Ben Folds. He had discovered that rock was about more than musicianship—it was about facial expression and physical contortion and, and, and …
attitude.

Kevin McKelvey had been working on his attitude.

Now, on the final chorus of “Livin’ on a Prayer,” he did something he had been meaning to try for a while. He kicked one foot out from under the keyboard, slipped off his tan loafer, and played a concluding glissando with his toes.

The class burst into applause. “Whoa!” everyone yelled. Chester Hu, as usual, yelled loudest of all. “That is TWR!”

Kevin gave a little salute and slipped back into his loafer.

Little Miss Mystery rapped her baton on the music stand, cutting off the applause. “Let’s do it one more time.”

“Hey,” said Ellis Walters, Half-Eaten’s drummer, as he
rubbed sweat off the back of his neck with a paper towel. “Maybe it’s time for you to practice singing the song with us, Ms. Finkleman. I mean, that’s still going to be part of the show, right? ”

“Yes,” she replied quickly, her voice echoing distantly. “But not yet. We’re not ready for that yet.”

That same Friday afternoon, the last school day in March, Ms. Finkleman was walking distractedly through the parking lot. She was thinking about Ellis’s question—she knew that soon enough she would indeed have to get up there, take the microphone and actually start singing along as she had promised. The idea turned her stomach.
Soon, Ida,
she counseled herself.
Soon this will all be over.

The final bell had rung and she was walking from the schoolroom door to her teal Honda Civic when she passed by a knot of kids lounging in the bright warmth of the first truly gorgeous spring day. These were the kind of kids of whom Ms. Finkleman the agouti was most fearful. They were like leopards, bright and sleek and supremely self-possessed. As she passed them, the two boys were playing a game that involved smacking each other hard on the back of the head, while the three
girls laughed high flights of laughter and tossed their chestnut hair in the spring wind. Ms. Finkleman lowered her head and hurried by, a stack of sheet music clutched to her chest.

Then she heard it. Clapping.
Oh, terrific,
she thought.
Ironic applause. How delightful. After years of barely knowing who I am, kids are now mocking me.

But then, from the corner of her eye, she saw that the kids weren’t just clapping—they were standing up. She stopped walking. And she saw in their expressions the same frank awe and admiration she saw every day from her own students in sixth-period Music Fundamentals.

They weren’t mocking her. These kids were
seriously
applauding.

“Yeah, Ms. Finkleman!” they shouted, and she ventured to give them a little wave. “You rule!”

“Ms. Finkleman rocks!”

Ms. Finkleman got in her Civic, turned on the engine, and—she couldn’t help it—she smiled.

That night,
at exactly 6:53 p.m., Tenny Boyer was sitting on a beanbag chair on the floor of his room, furiously writing out notes from that afternoon’s rehearsal. He cast occasional agitated glances at the clock, which was a collector’s item he’d gotten off eBay. It featured a photograph of the legendary guitarist Pete Townshend of The Who, midway through one of his trademark windmill guitar moves, in which he would bring his hand all the way above his head, pick gripped tightly, before bringing it down in a mighty swoop to hit the next power chord. Pete’s windmilling right hand was the minute hand of Tenny’s bedroom clock; with each tick forward, it was telling him to get up and leave.

But Tenny had a lot more to do. He wracked his brain, trying to remember everything the three bands weren’t nailing yet. Directing the rock show would be a lot easier
if he could just take notes in class—but then, of course, everyone would know it was him, not Ms. Finkleman, who was in charge.

Okay, so, let’s see. He needed to make sure that on the final chorus of “Holiday” all the Careless Errors sang backup, so the song would have a nice, satisfying build. Lisa was doing it, but Ezra needed to relax about his drumming and chime in, and so did that sulky blond girl on the maracas—what was her name? Pamela.

As for Half-Eaten Almond Joy, they had problems of their own. A big eighties-rock stadium song like “Livin’ on a Prayer” should definitely have a kind of ragged quality, but they were sounding downright sloppy. Carmine Lopez was enjoying himself a little too much on rhythm guitar, dancing around and waggling his tongue. Of course there was room in rock for a little tongue wagglin’, but you gotta keep the rhythm—that’s why it’s called
rhythm
guitar! And as for what’s-his-face in the suit, the Piano Kid …

Tenny stared out his window for a second, pencil idle. He was thinking he should tell Ms. Finkleman to have the Piano Kid dial it down a little with all the goofball stuff. Tenny liked showmanship as much as the next guy, but Kevin (that was his name, Kevin) was starting to get
a little over the top, vigorously bouncing up and down on the piano bench during his solos and whooping “whoo-hoos!” like Little Richard. But then Tenny crossed out the note. Better to let the Piano Kid have his fun.
Something about that guy,
Tenny thought.
That guy needs to rock.

Pete Townshend’s hand clicked forward meaningfully. Tenny muttered, “Argle bargle,” an expression he had picked up from Bethesda. He knew there was something he was forgetting. What was it?

Oh! Duh!

Tenny scrawled it in big letters at the very bottom of the page, his best idea ever.

(e?)
NSCONV

Tenny gave a grunt of satisfaction and set down his pencil as Pete’s hand reached directly above his head. Time to go to Bethesda’s house.

Pamela Preston stared at the evidence again.
Come on, Pammy. You can figure this out.

She was still trying to solve the mystery of why Little Miss Mystery had given up her rock-star existence and why she’d kept it a secret up till now. She’d sifted through
Bethesda’s Special Project notes a thousand times; she had skulked around the Band and Chorus room digging for clues and found nothing but a boring teacher’s room, with a boring desk and a boring bowl of clementines. She had even swallowed her pride and gone to the stupid Wilkersholm Memorial Public Library and dug through the newspaper archives, looking for anything about Ms. Finkleman that Bethesda hadn’t uncovered.

Now, Pamela turned back to the set list.
What had Bethesda missed? Wait! Where was the date? When was this set list from? Maybe—maybe it was from Little Miss Mystery’s last show! And maybe it was a total failure!