She was too old for me anyway. Besides, she wasn’t as cute as Kelly.
Mrs. Faddegan flashed a toothy yellow smile as I dropped the towel bag on the counter.
“Thanks, Joseph. And tell your mom and Aunt Foxy that I’ll stop over later to say good-bye.”
“Good-bye?”
“Guess you didn’t hear. We’re moving to Florida. No more high taxes and damp winters for us.”
Her news surprised me, though Mrs. Faddegan had been threatening to leave New Jersey for years.
“Herb and I bought a condo in Boca Raton,” she said, sliding a brochure across the counter. “Comes with a community hot tub and free cable TV.”
“Does that include HBO and Showtime?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” she answered, her face serious, like she wanted to call Florida to find out.
Mrs. Faddegan started to say something else, hesitated, and then started again. “You might like to know that the couple who bought the business are Korean.” She spoke loud over the rumbling of washers and dryers.
I nodded, not sure what to say. Mostly I was wondering how I could get out of there fast. Everyone knew that Randazzo’s ran out of sprinkle cookies around four o’clock, and I definitely didn’t want their anisette cookies, which taste nasty, like black licorice.
“The new owners open tomorrow,” she said. “They’re from Flushing. Too crowded for them in the city, I guess. ’Course, I didn’t tell them how traffic backs up on Grant Avenue once the packing plant lets out at five.”
The Jiffy Wash was sticky hot, and the strong smell of bleach was giving me a headache. I had to hurry to get to Randazzo’s and the library before they closed.
“Good-bye, Mrs. Faddegan. Good luck in Florida. And definitely get HBO. You deserve it.”
Playing Bongos for the Gods
“Stop right there. Clarinets, start earlier—after the refrain,” Mrs. Athena, our pint-sized band director, called from behind the podium. She lifted her mug toward the woodwind section in between sips of coffee.
We were warming up with “You’re a Grand Old Flag.” Mrs. Athena liked this tune a lot, I could tell. It’s a peppy piece with cymbals crashing and trumpets blasting, but this morning it sounded sluggish, like funeral music.
“Where’s that Uncle Sam spirit?” she asked. “Imagine it’s the Fourth of July and you’re marching down Main Street, with thousands of patriotic folks cheering and waving little flags.”
This time the clarinets came in a half note too late. And then all three bassoonists gave a not-me face when Mrs. Athena asked whose instrument was blowing like a moose with indigestion.
“I wish they’d get their woodwind act together,” I whispered to Steve, who was slumped over the xylophone.
“No. No. No. The tempo is way off. Back to the first measure!” Mrs. Athena called, directing her words to the clarinets.
A collective groan came from the brass section and the percussion gang.
Steve tapped my head with the xylophone mallet. “I say we kidnap the woodwinds, tie them up with violin string, and hold them hostage in the custodian closet until school gets out.”
“And make them listen to recordings of their own music,” I added, grinning. People misjudge clarinet players as the true band kids because they’re always walking around swinging their cases, but my ears have suffered the truth: most of them don’t know a full note from a Post-it note.
We started over again. It still sounded bad. And again. Now it was badder than bad.
“Time out for an instrument check,” Mrs. Athena announced, and she began walking from chair to chair, examining each clarinet like a laboratory specimen. I glanced over at the trumpets. Nash stared back and directed a thumbs-down at the clarinets.
“Here, Joseph,” Jeff Henry whispered from the snare drum. “I saved some candy for you.” He had a Three Musketeers bar tucked discreetly by his side, but Steve saw it too.
Steve tuned in when he heard “candy.” “Got some for me?” he asked, almost drooling. Steve begs like a dog until he gets a piece of whatever you’re eating. He actually looks like a Saint Bernard, with his square head and droopy eyes. A Saint Bernard with braces, that is.
I pulled my piece apart and handed half to him on the sly. Mrs. Athena was still looking at clarinets, and I didn’t want to get caught breaking the No Food rule. I glanced over at the flutes.
“Pssst. Joseph.”
Robyn was whispering loudly from the flute section. She put her flute between her knees, grabbed her eyelids with her fingertips, and popped them inside out so she looked like Tweetie Bird. Her lashes were sticking straight up, and I could see the whites of her eyeballs.