On Sunday, Brent came over to play music with Larry. Larry said if I kept going around with a long face he wouldn’t let me play with them. Long face sure; he never lets me play, anyway.
He brought home a krumhorn from the Saturday morning group and when I said I’d like to try it he said “don’t you dare!”
“Who're you talking to like that?” I asked him. “Who’re you, King Kong?”
“Cool it, stupid” he said. “Just leave it alone.”
“How about my bass recorder, eh? How about that? When I bring it home you always get first dibs on it! That’s different, eh?”
“I’m a musician, Fatty Rascoon” he said, Mr. Cool.
“You’re no more a musician than I am, Fathead”, I told him. And then I was sorry of course, because he got real snarly and told me to leave. That was before Brent got there.
I heard Mom talking to him upstairs later, telling him that I was going through some emotional stress, she said, like adolescents do, and all that stuff again. Crap! Doesn’t she ever get tired of that? Sweetums Larry said “so what?” And I heard Mom talking about being kind and devotion between brothers and sisters and stuff like that.
When I heard her I kind of got on Larry’s side, and felt like telling her to get off his back. Then I remembered that Brent was coming over and I just kept listening like a sneak and I didn’t say anything. Mom’s sure got a lot of screwy ideas, but sometimes they work to my advantage.
Anyway, when Brent came over I answered the door. Actually, I was just hanging around the living room with my book because I knew he’d be coming over then and I rushed right over when the bell rang, to open it before anyone else did. I had on a new sweater and my African trade beads, and my hair looked nice and straight for a change. Wouldn’t you think an intelligent, observant person would notice how nice I looked? Oh sure. Well, Brent said “Hi” and gave me his coat like I’m some servant or something. Nice guy.
I kept walking down the hall and peeking in while they were playing, and finally Larry called me and said bring my flute. I’ve been doing lots of practising every day, and with Bianca’s help in fingering I’m doing all right. I wish I had a teacher, though.
Mom says she’s going to call the music department of the university and see if they can recommend someone because every time she gets the name of a music teacher they say they’ve got all the students they can handle, or else they want to charge a mint for lessons.
Anyway, I got my lovely shining flute that I polish every day with a special silver polishing cloth and I love it so much! (Larry told me the other day that Jean-Luc Sauve, the principal flautist with the Civic symphony never polishes his flute, he just lets it get all icky. I wish I could play like him, but I’d never let my flute get like that.)
So I went in to play with them and it was all right for a little while. Brent played his oboe and me the flute, and Larry played his viola and I thought we were pretty good, but Larry kept stopping us and telling me to watch my timing. I WAS watching my timing! He just wants to find fault with me so he can get me mad and then I’ll say something he won’t like and he’ll kick me out and then tell me it’s okay, I can stay, like he does, and I’ll go because I’m mad and hurt and then he can tell Mom I threw a tantrum and left. He’s crafty and that’s how he gets rid of me without having Mom on his back. I know him. I decided I wouldn’t let him get me mad this time.
After we went over a few pieces by Handel (and I wasn’t bad at all), they started to talk about some of the kids in their Saturday group and I felt really left out. They’re just as bad as the in-groups at school. They’re getting ready to compete in the annual music festival and the big group is entered and they’ve broken down into smaller groups too, and some of them have entered solo. I don’t know why Bianca won’t let me join the group, I’m sure I’m as good as some of the other kids in it.
Larry bent down to get one of his recorders off the floor and he well, you know, farted. And it was so funny I laughed like crazy and so did Brent. Larry didn’t think it was funny, and he excused himself.
“I like your vibrato, Larry”, Brent said and began laughing so hard he almost choked. (Vibrato is a musical term that describes a musical effect.) And even though I tried not to laugh too much, because I knew if he got mad Larry would throw me out, I couldn’t help it. It was just sooo funny!
“Which reminds me”, Larry said, ignoring Brent’s brilliant comment, “what do you think of Artie?”
“Arty-Farty? He’s a big wheeze, too. Why do you ask?”
“Just thinking about him. Doesn’t he think he’s some great virtuoso?”
“Hey, you’re not kidding! He does have talent, I must admit, but for the most part he’s full of hot air. So much of it,that it must beg to be expressed in other ways. The guy’s musically ambidextrous. Remember that Frenchman who we were talking about who was able to play a flute with his behind? Artie is even better, he can play from either end.”
“Hey, you guys aren’t very nice”, I said, (Little Miss Goodie). I know the guy they were talking about. I’ve heard him play and he’s really good. “Maybe the guy’s stuck on himself, but he is good. I wish I were half as good.”
“Shut up, Fatty Rascoon”, my dear brother said, and I could have smacked him. Right in front of Brent he has to call me names like that. And I’m not even fat any more, much. Mom even said so.
“Sure, I said he was talented”, Brent said, looking at me, and then he turned to Larry. “He takes himself so damn seriously. No one is ever good enough to compete against His Talentship.”
“Youre’ not kidding! Remember last year’s music festival?”
“Yeah, do I ever, was he ever mad when he didn’t win the solo trophy! Listen, here’s a scenario for this year’s festival. Quiet now, please. And Farty breaks wind. And the adjudicator says, “That’s rather a low octave”. Well, for sure, Bach never wrote it like that. Then, when the wind reaches the adjudicator’s proboscis he must tell himself while he’s holding his nose, “We must attempt to be objective”. And the sound, my God, the tone’s not bad, but it really does sound like it comes from a ‘lower organ’. Heh, heh, pun!”
“And can’t you just see his countless admirers simpering, “You have a simply divine vibrato Artie, do you think you can give us an encore?”
“You guys are awful!” I told them. But I didn’t want to leave, and I thought it was really kind of funny. Kind of.
“We’re only telling the truth”, Brent said. “Larry is just as good as Artie. Pamela and Bridgette are even better, and I’m no slouch myself. You don’t see us putting on the airs he does, his Lardship.”
“Yeah”, Larry said, smirking. “I wish the arse would leave Bach and Handel alone and try Murray Atrashkan instead. His ornamentation is sinful. I was sure I heard a baroque groan down there from the netherworld, or on high, depending on where my favourite composers ended up.”
After those nice guys finished tearing apart their friend, they started practising a piece they were doing as a duet for the festival, and of course I couldn’t play with them. So wouldn’t you know it, even though I suffered through my dear brother’s insults and all, he still managed to get rid of me.
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