* * *
In her room, Bethesda sat glumly on her bed, hugging Ted-Wo to her chest. She had three chapters of early American history to read, two chapters of
To Kill a Mockingbird,
four pages of Pre-algebra problem sets, and an earth sciences quiz on Friday. She didn’t feel like doing any of it. In fact, she didn’t feel like doing anything.
“My life is not a joke, or a game, or a school project,” Ms. Finkleman had said, her eyes flashing. “It belongs to
me.”
Bethesda groaned. What kind of terrible person was she? She hadn’t even
thought
of Ms. Finkleman’s feelings, never stopped to consider how the dumb Special Project would affect
her.
She groaned again and listlessly started unpacking her book bag.
That’s when she saw the note.
At 8:25 that night, Tenny Boyer pushed open the glass doors of the Pilverton Plaza Mall. As always, he wore an ancient rock-and-roll T-shirt (in this case, from AC/DC’s 1980 world tour, purchased at a yard sale last summer), jeans of dubious cleanliness, and his well-worn blue-hooded sweatshirt with the hood pulled up
loosely around his thick hair. As always, his iPod ear buds were firmly in place. Listening to
King of America,
Elvis Costello’s tenth (and in Tenny’s opinion, best) album, Tenny slouched past the arcade and rode the escalator up to the food court. He slouched past the Sbarro, past the Cinnabon, past the China Wok, past the Auntie Anne’s, and at last arrived at his destination: Chef Pilverton.
Chef Pilverton was a life-sized automated puppet of a French chef. He lived inside the big clock that sat in the northeast corner of the food court, across from Arthur Treacher’s Fish & Chips. Every fifteen minutes, Chef Pilverton popped out of the top of the clock like a jack-in-the-box, brandishing a rolling pin and an eggbeater, and made some sort of food-court-related announcement in a dramatic French accent. Stuff like, “Bonjour! Bienvenue à la Food Court! ” or “Mmm! J’adore China Wok! ”
When Tenny was a little kid and came to the mall with his parents and his brothers, he would stare at the clock, just waiting for Chef Pilverton, and fall over laughing every time he popped out. Now, age twelve, Tenny thought Chef Pilverton was sort of lame. In fact, he thought Pilverton Mall as a whole was kind of lame, especially since the only thing
not
lame about it—namely, Record World—had closed three years ago.
Tenny was only here tonight because of the note.
The note was written on a piece of eight and a half by eleven notebook paper and folded over and then over again. Sometime during seventh period, someone had slid it through the tiny slats on the front of his locker. And all that it said, in careful, neat handwriting in red ink, was CHEF PILVERTON 8:30.
Tenny had no idea who the note was from. He didn’t really have any friends. He wasn’t in any clubs or extracurricular activities. There were Ian and Frank, a couple of guys from Grover Cleveland who he had sort of tried to start a band with last year, but Ian had moved, and he hadn’t talked to Frank since last summer. Tenny had let himself wonder if maybe it was a girl who had slipped him the note, like a secret admirer or whatever. But he had to admit that it was pretty unlikely. For one thing, girls didn’t usually go around randomly asking guys out. And girls definitely didn’t go around asking
him
out. And who asks
anybody
out by writing them a note to meet at Chef Pilverton?
So Tenny didn’t know what or who he was waiting for. But here he was, standing by the big clock, bobbing his head to “Lovable,” and waiting. What else was he going to do—his homework?
And then, at precisely eight thirty, just as Chef Pilverton popped out and said, “Je voudrais un cheese
stick, s’il vous plait,” the mystery was revealed. An unremarkable woman with unremarkable brown hair, dressed in plain dull brown, approached Tenny Boyer and tapped him on the shoulder.
“Good evening, Tennyson,” said Ms. Finkleman. “Can I buy you a Cinnabon? ”
You can ask anybody who’s taken life sciences with Dr. Kesselmann: Human beings, like all animals, are driven by what Maslow called the hierarchy of needs. Food and water. Safety and security. And, if you’re a rock-obsessed seventh grader perilously close to flunking social studies, avoiding a future at the St. Francis Xavier Young Men’s Education and Socialization Academy.
So when Ms. Finkleman made her proposal, Tenny didn’t even think it over. He didn’t even say “Huh?” He put down his Cinnabon, wiped the frosting off his hand, and extended it for Ms. Finkleman to shake.
Just as Bethesda Fielding, clutching a folded-up piece of notebook paper and wearing her Mystery Solver face, walked into the food court.
“Bethesda,” called Ms. Finkleman, waving her over. “Won’t you come and join us?”
The next
day, Tuesday, Pamela Preston sat at her desk in sixth-period Music Fundamentals, a few minutes before the bell, her copy of
Greensleeves and Other Traditional English Folk Ballads
open on her desk beside a forty-ounce bottle of spring water. Pamela was a big believer that proper hydration was essential to maintaining a clear, glowy complexion. Pamela sincerely felt that the universe required people like her: People who always looked great and felt great, so other people had somewhere to focus their attention.
She sipped her water and looked impatiently around the room. Pamela was having an irritating week. Bethesda Fielding’s Special Project had been, like, this major sensation, which was totally marvelous for
her.
The only problem was that she, Pamela, who everyone
knew
always
had the
best
Special Projects, hadn’t even been called on to present yet! Even though she had sat in the front row both Monday and Tuesday, raising her hand higher and higher each time Mr. Melville scanned the room for his next victim. And so for two whole days, Bethesda Fielding had been the reigning queen of Special Projects, and Pamela … was not. The proper balance of the universe, therefore, was seriously messed up.
Ms. Finkleman walked in, and Pamela’s classmates instantly hushed and leaned forward in their chairs, staring, just as they had yesterday. Pamela rolled her eyes and took a long swallow of spring water.
Okay, Pamela thought. So Ms. Finkleman used to be some sort of rock-and-roll whatever. Uh, hello? Big whoop?
Stupid universe.
Two rows back and almost all the way over at the window, Bethesda Fielding was drawing a cool squares-and-stars pattern on the back of her music folder and thinking about last night.
At the food court, in the shadow of Chef Pilverton, Ms. Finkleman had made a surprising proposition to her and Tenny Boyer. Bethesda had agreed with no hesitation,
and she was sure that her end of the bargain would be no problem. But there was one thing about Ms. Finkleman’s deal that didn’t make sense … one thing that didn’t add up….
Stop it,
she warned herself sharply.
Stop right there. No more mystery solving for you!
She looked around the room for Tenny, who had sat there with her at the food court last night and had also agreed to Ms. Finkleman’s plan. She wondered if he’d been struck by the new mystery, too, and whether it plagued him as much as it did her.
There he was, sitting in the last row as always, wearing that ratty blue-hooded sweatshirt and his usual blank expression. As she watched, he absentmindedly poked his pencil eraser around in his ear.
Okay then. I guess he’s not plagued.
“Good afternoon, children,” said Ms. Finkleman. “I have an announcement to make.”
First, she explained quickly and with a note of sadness in her voice, sixth-period Music Fundamentals would not be performing traditional English folk ballads at the upcoming Choral Corral after all. “I know some of you will be disappointed at this development,” she added,
though she had to admit to herself that no one looked all that disappointed. The reaction seemed more along the lines of collective relief. Smiles blossomed on seventh-grade faces all over the room, and happy, curious whispers burbled to life like rippling streams. Chester Hu, who two days earlier had apologetically explained that his dog had peed all over his copy of
Greensleeves and Other Traditional English Folk Ballads,
looked particularly relieved.
“Instead of our previously planned program,” Ms. Finkleman continued, “We will be devoting our slot at the Choral Corral to …” She paused, and took a deep breath, and continued. “A rock-and-roll show.”
There was a long, astonished silence as the news sunk in. And then Todd Spolin, he of the stringy hair and squinty eyes, leaped up out of his seat, pumped both fists in the air as if he had just won a marathon, and hollered, “Yesssssss!”
What followed was five solid minutes of total chaos. Suddenly half the class was out of its seat, and everyone was shouting. Natasha kicked her leg out and played an air-guitar riff on her folder. Violet Kelp and Bessie Stringer held hands and jumped up and down, both repeating, “Oh my god oh my god oh my god,” like two little girls who
just got ponies for Christmas. Shelly Schwartz shared an excited hug with Lindsey Deming. Braxton Lashey, who since the beginning of the period had been trying to fix a pen that had exploded while he was chewing on it earlier, looked up and shouted, “Wicked,” ink smeared all over his face. Even Kevin McKelvey in his navy blue blazer nodded enthusiastically, adjusted his tie, and grinned.
“This is so wicked!” proclaimed Rory Daas.
“You know what it’s gonna be like?” Chester Hu said to Victor Glebe. “Like that movie? About that school? Where the kids rock? ”
“School of Rock,”
answered Victor.
“No,” said Chester. “That’s not it.”
Ms. Finkleman tapped on her music stand, trying to reclaim the room’s attention, but it was no use. Every time it seemed like the excitement was dying down, someone would yell out, “This is so cool! ” and it would all start again.
Throughout this extended period of gleeful chaos, people were constantly smiling grateful smiles and shooting enthusiastic thumbs-up at Bethesda Fielding. It wasn’t entirely clear how one thing was connected to the other, but obviously it was no coincidence: This change of plan was all thanks to Bethesda. If she hadn’t
discovered the hidden truth about Ms. Finkleman, they would be singing “Greensleeves” at that very moment.
No one, however, paid any particular attention to Tenny Boyer. No one remembered, amid the general celebration, that there was among them a kid who was obsessed with rock and roll, who knew every member of every band, who could quote any lyric and play any guitar solo you could name. No one noticed that Tenny didn’t seem surprised by Ms. Finkleman’s announcement.
And no one, except for Bethesda and Ms. Finkleman herself, knew the truth: Tenny Boyer would secretly be planning the whole thing.
A show?
A rock-and-roll show?
As the class cheered Ms. Finkleman’s dramatic announcement, Pamela Preston sat perfectly still, contemplating the ever-growing imbalance of the universe.
No, no, no!
Pamela’s hands tightened around her water bottle, causing an unpleasant crunkling noise. She was a featured soloist in two of the six folk ballads planned for the Choral Corral. How exactly would her clear, bell-like soprano be
appropriately featured in a rock-and-roll song?
As her classmates clamored joyfully, Pamela sat with her nose ever so slightly wrinkled, her head of golden curls titled ever so slightly to the left, her eyes ever so slightly narrowed. She surveyed her fellow students as if they were a doctor’s eye chart that wouldn’t quite come into focus. This questioning gaze finally came to rest on Ms. Finkleman—who, still standing at the front of the room and calling for attention, did not notice Pamela and her wrinkled nose and her displeased squint.
If she had noticed, Ms. Finkleman might have thought to herself:
Now
there
is a girl who smells something rotten.
At last Ms. Finkleman managed to quiet the class enough to present the full plans for the rock show, the plans she and Tenny had made at the food court the night before. The twenty-four students of Music Fundamentals were divided into three eight-piece rock bands, and each assigned an instrument based on what they could already play or might learn quickly. Thus cellists like Victor Glebe were assigned to the electric bass, pianists (like Kevin McKelvey, obviously) were designated keyboardists, and so on. Kids who didn’t play instruments would
either be singers or assigned “supplemental percussion,” meaning tambourines and maracas. Each of the three bands would perform one song, representing a different decade—sixties rock, eighties rock, and nineties rock. (“What about seventies rock?” Bethesda had asked at the food court last night, as Tenny sketched this all out on a Cinnabon napkin. He just shook his head and muttered, “Don’t ask.”)
The kids listened raptly as Ms. Finkleman explained all this, scribbling down their instrument assignments and trading excited looks and high-fives with their new bandmates. They managed to keep themselves relatively calm until the end, when Ms. Finkleman added one final piece of news: She herself, Ms. Ida Finkleman, aka Little Miss Mystery, would be performing right alongside them, singing along with every band, on every number, for the whole rock show.
Not only would they be putting on a rock concert, they’d be sharing the stage with a real rock star.
“Oh my god!” Chester Hu called out. “This is so awesome!”
Right,
thought Ms. Finkleman.
Awesome.
(In fact, this particular element, the idea of standing up there singing rock songs alongside her student
population, was Ms. Finkleman’s least favorite part of the whole awful affair. But Principal Van Vreeland had been unyielding. “But that is the whole point, Ida dear,” she’d cooed in her sweetly poisonous tone. “You’re Mary Todd Lincoln’s prize possession, after all. Our homegrown musical sensation. We must show you off now, mustn’t we?”)