Recovering Charles Read Free Page B

together.”
    Now the girls giggled, too. I might have slugged Spencer if he hadn’t already locked me in the custodial closet twice that year.
    Mrs. Ingham disappeared into the deep closet and came out with two tarnished silver flutes and two different-sized cases. “Here you go, you two.” She surveyed the class, each of us awkwardly handling our instruments and making sounds normally heard in emergency rooms and jungles. “And now we have a band!”
    Over the next two weeks we learned fingering and then, finally, scales. After another month of screeching out music that Mrs. Ingham called “beautiful,” we learned a John Philips Sousa song that would have been unrecognizable to Mr. Sousa himself.
    “It’s time to practice on your own, students. This is what eighth grade is all about. Responsibility. If we want to be ready for the afternoon concert next month, you’ll have to commit to practicing outside of class.”
    I hated practicing the flute at home almost as much as I hated blowing on the thing during class. But the flute kept me four inches closer to Chrissy Alves on the front row. Sometimes when she played, and she’d actually gotten pretty good, I would only pretend to play so I could look at her puckered lips through the corner of my eye. I secretly hoped she’d never been kissed and that I’d be her first, but I was afraid I was too late. The rumors were that she’d gone behind the school’s landscaping shed last year and left the Virgin Lips Club with a boy nicknamed “Funk,” kissing him square on the mouth. For obvious reasons, she denied it. But the silly look on Funk’s tomato-face whenever she looked at him gave it away.
    “Are you all listening to me?” We packed up our instruments and shoved sheet music we didn’t really understand into our backpacks. “Practice this weekend, please. I expect to be emotionally moved by your progress on Monday.”
    I took a deep breath and punched Chrissy in the arm.
    “Hi, Chrissy.”
    “Hi, Luke.”
    “You gonna be practicing this weekend?”
    “I guess I better after that speech.” She grinned and pulled grape lip gloss from the pencil pocket of her purple backpack.
    Is she going to put that on right in front of me?
    Gulp. She did.
    “That’s awesome. I like practicing, too. A lot, too.”
    “That’s good.” She put the lip gloss away and rubbed her lips together.
    “Would you like to, ah, to practice playing the flutes with me?” Flutes?
    She studied my face for what felt like hours. By the time she spoke, I was so shaky I needed the boys’ bathroom. I tried not to squirm and almost teared up at the thought of wetting my pants in front of the prettiest girl in the eighth grade.
    “Sure, I’ll practice playing the flutes with you.” Her bright eyes could light a fire.
    I nodded. Words couldn’t have escaped my cotton mouth even if I’d tried.
    “You know where I live?”
    I shook my head no. A big fat lie.
    “I live across from the Kimbles. On Reservoir Road.”
    “Oh, yeah,” I croaked. “Knew that.”
    “Come over Sunday after church. We get home at 12:15 or so.”
    “Awesome.” I picked up my backpack and casually threw it over one shoulder.
    “Don’t forget your flute,” she said.
    “Yeah, duh.” I reached back down, grabbed the case, and unzipped my backpack just enough to cram it inside.
    “See you Sunday,” she said, walking away.
    “Awesome.”
    I practiced so much on Saturday that my lips were worn out from holding them in a position that should be reserved for first kisses. My hands ached and my pinkies were so sore I wanted to lop off them off with wire cutters. Dad came in every now and again to encourage me and to offer help. He took my flute and played a few bars.
    “Geez, Dad, you play the flute, too? ”
    “Not really, but I know a little about a lot of instruments.”
    “I wish I’d picked something else.” So did my pinkies.
    “Don’t say that, son. The flute is beautiful when played well.