Quitting

Wednesday at noon, Mr. Holste conducted the 8th grade band. They performed really well, the eight clarinetists, four flutists, two tromboners, three saxophonists, and that quirky oboista. I had a big crush on her, she was so Diane Chambers. I wanted to sit next to her in band, but today I had to tell Mr. Holste I couldn’t play the bass clarinet. I had to go back to the regular clarinet section with the other eight.

“You’re first chair, Jimmy! You shouldn’t give that up.”

Mom had issued her orders the previous evening. She didn’t want a bass clarinet squawking in the basement every night for 35 minutes. She wanted to hear a pretty clarinet after I finished practicing for my piano lesson. So I had to give up dreams of sitting next to my oboe diva and squawking out some squeaky mistakes in the bass clef and getting her to laugh. She had a pretty laugh.

But Mom had given the decree and I had to walk up to Mr. Holste and tell him I wouldn’t play the bass clarinet. He’d be so mad on me. He was depending on me to round out the musical group and I would be letting him down. I walked back and forth in the auditorium, then out to the lobby, then back in again. Maybe if I waited a while, the problem would go away. But it didn’t. I had to face the music.