She cleared her throat and started teaching.
“Okay. Now, ‘Greensleeves’ is probably the most well known of the folk songs we’re presenting this spring at the Choral Corral. And it’s, um, it’s really quite beautiful. As I believe I mentioned Friday, it was written in the late
1500s. The authorship is uncertain, although—” “Ms. Finkleman? ”
She looked up. It was Todd Spolin. Todd had long, stringy brown hair, and his face was perpetually squinty. He was the kind of kid who slouched way down low in his chair, snapping his gum, aggressively uninterested. Except for today. Today he was raising his hand, smiling pleasantly, and waiting to be called on.
The voice in Ms. Finkleman’s head returned, with new urgency.
Run,
it said.
Run like the wind!
“Yes, Todd?” she said.
“I just wanna make sure I’m getting what’s going on with the words, here,” Todd said, squinting at the sheet music open in his lap. “It’s all about how this guy is really into this girl, and they’re hanging out and stuff? ”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“But then at this end part it goes, ‘Thou wouldst not love me.’ Meaning, what? Like, she’s not into it. Right?”
“Why, yes, Todd. That’s correct,” said Ms. Finkleman again.
“Oh, man. It’s so … emo.”
When Todd said that little word,
emo,
there was a response from the students. It was a slight response, nearly imperceptible, but Ms. Finkleman felt it distinctly.
Twenty-four children leaning slightly forward in their seats, twenty-four pairs of eyes widening just the slightest bit. Ms. Finkleman had the sudden uncomfortable sensation of being examined like a piece of meat in a case. She regarded Todd carefully for a moment before answering.
“Emo?” she said finally. “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with the term.”
“You’re not? ” Todd looked momentarily mystified, but then he smiled.
“Ohhhhhh. Sure you’re not, Ms. Finkleman,” Todd said with a devilish hyena’s grin.
“Sure
you’re not.”
Then—it just got stranger and stranger—he
winked
at her.
The voice in Ms. Finkleman’s head came back, fervently entreating her:
Go! Flee! Seek cover!
In her mind’s eye, an agouti zipped under a bush and hid, trembling, from a pair of circling hawks.
But Ms. Finkleman just tapped her baton three times on her music stand and signaled the class to begin.
By the time the children got to the end of the first refrain of “Greensleeves,” Ms. Finkleman was astonished all over again. Because they were doing something they never did, a behavior even more unusual than paying
attention: They were
trying.
“I have been ready at your hand,” they sang. “To grant whatever you would crave.”
They sat with their hands folded on laps, peering closely at their music, singing full voiced and energetically.
“I have both wagered life and land, your love and good will for to have.”
As her class plowed forward, the wariness that had possessed Ms. Finkleman since the beginning of the period began to melt away. She half closed her eyes and waved her baton gently, immersing herself in the familiar pleasure of “Greensleeves” and its enchanting, centuries-old melody.
The children sang. “Ah, Greensleeves now farewell, adieu! To God I pray to prosper thee!”
When they got to the end of the song, Ms. Finkleman tapped her baton, gave a few small corrections, and took them back to the beginning.
And so sixth period progressed, and soon Ms. Finkleman forgot about the little voice and about the agouti hiding beneath the bush. It no longer mattered to her what dreadful surprise lay in wait. It didn’t matter if all this respectful attention was an elaborate setup and at the end of the period she would face a fusillade of
spitballs or a bucket of crickets dumped on her head. It was all worth it. This experience, this moment, this classroom full of enthusiastic children doing their best and respecting the music, was worth whatever price she might have to pay.
The kids practiced “Greensleeves” again, and then again, and it got better and better, just like a piece of music is
supposed
to when you practice it. The Schwartz sisters, in the center of the alto section, hit their harmonies. With a little help from Kevin McKelvey at the piano, plunking out the notes when needed, Victor Glebe sang his solo (almost) perfectly. Natasha Belinsky figured out how to sing in rounds, a skill that had long eluded her. Braxton Lashey did not fall out of his chair—not even once. Even those students who were usually good, like Bethesda Fielding and Pamela Preston, were downright
great
today.
“For I am still thy lover true, come once again and love me….”
As they sang, Ms. Finkleman glanced anxiously at the clock. She knew that this magical period, like the romance depicted in the song, would soon have to end.
Actually, it ended early. At 1:53, seven minutes before the period bell, the door of the Band and Chorus
room abruptly swung open, revealing Jasper Ferrars, the assistant principal. Ms. Finkleman lowered her baton, and the children grew quiet. “Excuse me, children,” said Jasper, rubbing his thin hands together rapidly. “Ms. Finkleman, Principal Van Vreeland would like a moment of your time. Immediately after class. If you don’t mind.” He shut the door, and the little voice in Ms. Finkleman’s head returned:
I told you so.
Bethesda Fielding
was having a tough time getting down the hall. She was on her way to her seventh-period class, Pre-algebra with Mr. Carlsbad, but everywhere she turned she was thronged by excited kids. They tugged on her elbow, tapped on her shoulders, stood in her way.
“So, wait—Ms. Finkleman?” they asked.
“The music lady?”
“She was in a band?”
“A punk band? ”
“Seriously?”
“Yup,” answered Bethesda with a wide smile.
“Seriously.
All documented by numerous primary sources.”
Her whole day had been like this. At lunch, between classes, during classes, she had explained about the magazine articles, about the tattoo, about the set list. And all day long, she had gotten the same response.
“Awesome!” “Cool.”
“So
cool.”
“Thank you,” she said, grinning, bouncing a little on her heels. “I know.”
Bethesda’s friends were nearly as worked up by the whole thing as she was. “Man,” said Chester Hu, shaking his head with glee. “You’re a detective! You’re like whatever-his-face! The guy with the hat!”
“Sherlock Holmes,” murmured Victor Glebe.
“You should do all the teachers! ” Chester continued, ignoring him. “You should do Mr. Vasouvian next! I bet he’s a former serial killer!”
“Bethesda, you realize you’re famous now, right?” said Suzie. “I mean, like,
world
famous. Right, Shelly?”
But Shelly was busy explaining to a tall eighth grader named Rick Triplehorn that she had been the visual assistant and was therefore an important part of the whole discovery. “Nice work,” said Rick, causing Shelly to blush bright red and drop her backpack on her foot.
Just then, Pamela Preston approached and offered her congratulations, which sounded the tiniest bit like they weren’t congratulations at all. “Bethesda!” Pamela said in a slight singsong. “Have I even
said
to you yet how
amazing
your Special Project was?” (She hadn’t.) “No, it was
really
good, Bethesda. It really was. It’s just too bad Ms. Finkleman didn’t turn out to be related to someone really interesting. Like, oh, I don’t know, Jesse James or someone. Not to be, like, negative.”
Bethesda thought it was a bit, like, negative, but she didn’t let it bother her. She said thanks, and kept on grinning. She felt like she had been grinning all day.
Ida Finkleman sat in a gray rolling chair in Principal Van Vreeland’s office. Jasper, thin and wiry, stood just behind her, his arms crossed.
“So,” said Principal Van Vreeland, smiling with pursed lips and leaning back in her own chair, which was just like the one Ms. Finkleman was in, except twice as big.
“Ida.”
“Yes, Principal Van Vreeland,” said Ms. Finkleman. “Ida, Ida, Ida.”
“Yes, Principal Van Vreeland,” said Ms. Finkleman again.
This was very odd. Just as in eight years at Mary Todd Lincoln Ms. Finkleman had never had a class full of respectful children, she had also never been called in for a sit-down meeting with the principal. Ms. Finkleman
was surprised, in fact, that Principal Van Vreeland even knew her first name. But now here she was, saying it over and over, in a fashion clearly intended to be friendly—but which Ms. Finkleman found rather intimidating. Then the principal nodded sharply to Jasper, who nodded back and left the room. Ms. Finkleman wasn’t sure, but she thought she heard the door lock from the outside.
“Ida, dear, how go the preparations for the All-County Choral Corral?”
“Oh,” Ms. Finkleman said. “Fine, thank you. Pretty good.” Why on earth was the principal asking her about the Choral Corral?
“Now, what is it that Jasper tells me you’re planning for this year’s concert? Victorian Sea Shanties? Is that right? ”
“No,” answered Ms. Finkleman. “Not exactly. Traditional English folk ballads from the—”
Principal Van Vreeland sprang forward in her chair with such velocity that Ida shrank back. For a terrifying moment, she thought her boss was going to bite her on the nose. Instead, Principal Van Vreeland narrowed her eyes, looked directly at Ms. Finkleman, and said a single word.
“No.”
“No?”
“No. You see, Ida dear, there’s been the tiniest change in plan.”
Ninety seconds later, Ida Finkleman was standing in the hallway outside the main office, her face flushed, her heart pumping, trying to process Principal Van Vreeland’s bizarre request.
Request?
Demand
was more like it.
A rock-and-roll show? For the Choral Corral?
How was she going to do it? She wouldn’t! She
couldn’t!
But the principal’s tone had been unmistakable: Say no, and Mary Todd Lincoln would find itself a new music teacher. Ms. Finkleman staggered down the hallway, trying to get her bearings. She had to get to seventh period, but somehow she couldn’t remember where her room was. She raised an unsteady hand and ran it weakly through her hair.
This was a catastrophe!
She wanted to throw herself down on the grimy, gum-sticky floor of the hallway and pound her head against the ground.
And that’s when Ms. Finkleman saw her. In Converse sneakers and a navy blue skirt, her hair in two jaunty
pigtails, Bethesda Fielding leaned on a locker outside Mr. Carlsbad’s room, laughing and gesturing enthusiastically amid a boisterous crowd of admirers. Ms. Finkleman looked hard at Bethesda. Principal Van Vreeland had explained the origin of this “tiny change in plan,” including which bright young student had unearthed the “fascinating secret” of Ms. Finkleman’s past—and had seen fit to share it with the entire student body.
She strode swiftly down the hall and said, “Bethesda,” in a low voice. The other children got quiet and looked at Ida with wide eyes. This was the same awed, respectful expression she had seen during sixth period, but its origin was no longer a puzzle. These children didn’t see Ms. Finkleman anymore. They saw Little Miss Mystery. Their gawking curiosity made her feel cold and sick and angry, as angry as she had ever felt.
“Will you excuse us?” Ms. Finkleman said sharply, and watched the other kids scamper rapidly down the hall, glancing backward over their shoulders at Mary Todd Lincoln’s first-ever confirmed rock star.
“Ms. Finkleman? Hi!” said Bethesda warmly. “I—”
Ms. Finkleman looked her square in the eye. “You had no right to do what you’ve done.”
Bethesda blinked. “What?”
“My past is none of your business.”
“But—”
“And if I choose not to discuss it with the world, it’s for a reason.”
Bethesda said, “I—” again, and again Ms. Finkleman interrupted. “My life is not a joke, or a game, or a school project. It belongs to
me.”
Bethesda’s face burned red and she blinked back tears. “I …” she said for a third time, and trailed off helplessly.
But it didn’t matter. Ms. Finkleman walked away.
Bethesda s father
put down his fork and sighed a big woe-is-me kind of sigh.
“This must be the worst dinner in the world,” he said sadly.
“What, Dad?”
“Oh! Bethesda! So sorry to bother you, dear. It’s just that I slaved away over a hot stove for five to eight minutes, carefully combining all the ingredients as directed by the box. And yet my perfect little child, more precious to me than life itself, won’t eat. You hate it. You hate me. I shall stab myself with a salad fork.”
“Knock it off, Dad,” cautioned Bethesda. “I’m not in the mood.”
Bethesda’s dad never knocked it off when people asked him to. It was kind of a problem. “Oh, and it
looked
like such a simple recipe,” he said, moaning in his fake
distress. “Just macaroni and … shoot, what’s the other thing? ”
Bethesda crossed her arms, trying not to be amused. “Cheese, Dad.”
Her father smacked himself in the head with an open palm. “Oh, man! No wonder! I put in maple syrup!”
“That’s gross.”
“Oh? Well, bad news, Grouchykins. You’re smiling.”
Like all people in a bad mood, Bethesda hated to be told when she was smiling. She stopped immediately.
“So what are the bad mood ground rules here? Am I allowed to ask you a question? ” Bethesda just shrugged. “What happened with the Special Project? Speaking as your unofficial research assistant, I feel it’s my right to know. According to the fine print of the unofficial research assistant contract I …”
Bethesda’s father stopped mid-joke and looked at his daughter seriously. “Bethesda?”
She pushed the plate away and laid down her silverware. Her father gazed at her for a long moment until she looked up and said, “You know what, Dad? I’ve got a lot of homework.”
“Okey smokey,” he replied softly. “More ice cream for me.”