Chapter 2

Back in school, Gertrude puzzled over Gary's hint. She could see more than one way, but without hearing it again could not make up her mind. Finally 6th period arrived. The guys said 'hello', and she smiled at them as she got her viola ready.

"Hey there, white girl."

"Hello, black boy."

The others sucked in their breath at the racial slur. Gary's face turned angry, then sheepish. "I started it."

"Yes, you did."

"Then I'm sorry."

"Apology accepted." Gertrude rosined her bow.

"Can I try again?"

She nodded.

"Hello, Bertie."

"Bertie?! It's a Gertrude. Gertrude! Gertrude! And don't EVER call me 'Gertie'! Gertrude! You understand? Gertrude!" She was upset, and a lot of it was because she wanted him to remember her, and he didn't. The rosin in her hand broke, and she looked at it. Now she was completely pissed. "Look at this!"

He looked down, and she pulled her arm back and rotated her hips like her brother showed her, and threw it right at his chest. It hit his shoulder, and he yelped. "Hey! That hurt!"

"You hurt me first."

"Now I'm going to be all bruised."

Brian called, "Gary!" They all looked at him. "Don't worry, no one can tell if you're black and blue."

The white guys paled. Gary looked completely surprised. Brian was the exception to the rule that white boys don't have rhythm, but he was still the straightest white guy he had met. He stared, then slowly began to laugh. "You're right!" They all laughed too hard, relieved that he wasn't offended.

Mr. A had come out of his office. "That's more than enough. There will be no violence in here."

"There wasn't, sir." Gary spoke up.

"I thought I saw someone throwing things."

"No sir." Gertrude added.

He looked hard at Gary, then Gertrude, then all the others. The boys chimed in, denying anything serious. Mr. A tolerated a certain amount of horseplay, but he was so cool none of them wanted to cross the line. It was clear he had had enough now, and they all sobered up while he considered it. "All right. Play time is over." He looked down to pull out a score.

They all breathed relievedly. Gertrude and Gary were looking at each other, communicating their gratitude for the mutual support, when Mr. A suddenly looked at Gary. They were busted, but he merely said, "Better return her rosin, Gary. She'll need it soon."

He swallowed, but Mr. A left it there. "Thanks a lot, Gertrude. I've never seen this stuff before."

"You're welcome, Gary." Their excessive formality matched the somber mood, but Gertrude almost laughed anyway when she met his eyes. They had to turn away to prevent the smiles from getting out of control. The other boys saw it, and smiled a little too. It was enough to lighten up the room.

The band started with the same pieces. Gertrude had those rhythms mastered now, and Mr. A looked her way several times, smiling slightly. He pulled out LBJ, and the group had trouble staying together, again, so they restarted several times. The third time Gertrude clicked into the difficult syncopation, and closed her eyes to concentrate. When he stopped them, she missed it. He tapped his baton several times, ands he opened her eyes and flushed. "Sorry, Mr. A. I was concentrating and forgot to watch you."

He looked steadily at her. "Your eyes were closed. That's a good way to lose your place."

Gertrude blurted out, "I won't lose my place." Then she flushed again.

He looked at her again. "You've memorized it already?" The sarcasm was abundant.

Gertrude pressed her lips together and held her peace. Finally, Mr. A won. "I know I have to watch you for cues. I said I'm sorry."

He still looked at her, but she did not sense hostility. She didn't know what he was feeling. "All right. Let's break this down by section. Rhythm to start."

The boys grinned, and she flushed under it. Gertrude noticed Gary from under her bangs. He was smiling... but it felt friendly. She wondered why he was different.

"And a 1,..." They started from the pickups, and this time they all clicked. The drums, keyboard, bass, baritone sax,... and viola all playing in unison. The different notes that combined into chords meshed beautifully; her eyes drifted shut to concentrate. It was a great feeling, worlds better than the symphony orchestra. Mr. A noticed her eyes shutting, and he put a finger on her line in the score, taking them all the way through. On the last line, her eyes snapped open, and she fixed her gaze properly between the music and the baton. Mr. A shook up the beat at the end, but no one faltered.

When they relaxed, one of the bones muttered, "I don't believe it."

Mr. A glared. "Believe it. The rhythm section has rhythm. It's a good thing, too, because no other section is together. Trumpets."

He took all the sections once through. Each time he pointed out places they needed work, then moved on. "All right. Time's up for today. Freshmen, so you know, we usually stay after school Monday and Thursday, sometimes more for a concert. If you have a conflict, see me and we'll talk about it, but you can't miss both and keep up."

They started putting away their stuff, cleaning up the band room. "Gertrude, when you're done, come in my office."

She helped stack stands and chairs, then knocked on the open door, and peered in, nervous.

"Gertrude, do you have a viola teacher?"

"Not really."

He smiled. "What does that mean?"

"We, Mark and I, trade off getting lessons, half a year each. But when he gets one, I listen and practice what he's been told."

"He's a year ahead of you?"

"Two."

He looked at her. "Do you enjoy the lessons?"

She shrugged. "They're okay, but I've already gone through the book he uses."

"Are you interested in more classical lessons?"

"They're okay, but it's mostly just playing faster and more complex melodies, and I can practice that without a teacher."

"How do you know if you're doing it right?"

"I listen to recordings, listen to other violists, and our orchestra director tells us, too."

"What do you think of Jazz so far?"

"I love it!" She looked up. "When the rhythm section played alone, it was... amazing. I've only felt that in a small chamber group. I loved it. Please don't kick me out!"

"Whoa. I'm asking because I think you could benefit from some specialized lessons."

"I'm that far behind?" Gertrude swallowed, and he could see the moisture. The last thing he wanted was to make her cry.

"No! Listen to me. You're doing great. You've picked up the basics amazingly fast. I'm saying you have talent, Gertrude. I know someone who might be willing to teach you." The bell rang. "You'd better catch your bus. Will you think about it? Ask you parents if you can take lessons too?"

"My mother can't afford to pay for both of us."

"Just ask her. I'd like to talk to her."

"I'll ask." Gertrude agreed, but her tone, and the shrug, told him the likely answer.

The next day when Gertrude came into the band room, the guys were waiting. "Hello... Gertrude!"

Her face darkened a bit, then she remembered what she told her mother about teasing. "Hello... boys."

They 'oohed'. "Gary gonna take that?"

"You took it. She said it to all of us, so I'm not gonna cry to momma."

"Ahh."

Gertrude smiled at her TKO. Jazz practice went smoothly that day. They got LBJ meshing well, so Mr. A started calling for solos. Gertrude listened while she played, amazed. They sounded different to her. She couldn't figure out why each solo sounded unique, even by the same guy.

Mr. A sat in his office, catching up with his paperwork while waiting out any potential visitors. His thoughts were on the conversation the night before with G's mother.