what’s-his-name (oh, that’s right—Raf!) goes.
“Hey, Leigh Ann,” the god says, the glare from his perfect white teeth nearly blinding me.
And that clunking noise you just heard? That was three jaws hitting the floor as Becca, Margaret, and I all spin to stare at Leigh Ann for an explanation.
“Alex! You’re back!” She jumps up and hugs him. “How did you find me? Oh my God, you guys—this is my brother, Alejandro, but everyone calls him Alex. He’s a senior at Aquinas. He’s been up in Cambridge for a week—some kind of math competition. He’s a genius.”
“Your b-brother?” I stammer. “I guess you did say you had a brother, but you never said he was—”
“Hi, Alex,” Margaret says. “I’m Margaret, and these two are Sophie and Rebecca. Math, huh? At Harvard?”
“MIT,” Alex says. “There were kids from all over the country. I mean, I guess I thought I was pretty smart, but the competition—”
“Now you’re just being modest,” Leigh Ann says. “I can’t believe how much I missed you! You just can’t go away to college next year—unless I can come, too.”
Alex takes a look around Perkatory and at the four of us. “Oh, I think you’ll survive. So, you about ready tohead home? I’m starving, and Mom’s making red beans and rice. Nice meeting you guys—Leigh Ann’s told me about you all.” He takes his duffel and heads for the door.
“Before you go, Leigh Ann,” I say, “can everyone make it to my apartment tomorrow for rehearsal? Becca, you don’t need to bring your amplifier; you can just plug into mine. This is going to have to be kind of an ‘unplugged’ rehearsal anyway. I don’t think the neighbors would appreciate us blasting the plaster off their walls.”
“Just think,” Leigh Ann ponders. “One day, when they’re interviewing us on MTV after winning our first Grammy, we’re going to look back on this as the moment it all started. The Beatles. The Rolling Stones. Nirvana. Coldplay. The Blazers.”
As C. Daddy Dickens would say, there’s nothing like having great expectations.
Next door to and at the same slightly-below-ground level as Perkatory is Chernofsky’s Violins. Anton Chernofsky, the proprietor, grew up in the same town in Poland as Margaret, and the two of them Polish-dish away whenever she stops by. Even though her family left Poland when she was seven, her parents still speak Polish at home, and Margaret tells me that she still dreams in Polish most of the time.
On the way out the door of Perkatory after the historic creation of the Blazers, Margaret pulls me down the steps to the violin shop.
“Yippee,” I say with mock enthusiasm.
“Two minutes. I want to tell Mr. Chernofsky about the quartet. He’ll be excited. And besides, you love Mr. C. as much as I do.”
All too true. Completely guilty as charged. The guy is like everybody’s perfect grandpa.
“And there’s always the possibility that he’ll have another amazing violin he’ll let you play, right?”
“You never know,” Margaret says, grinning. Two weeks earlier, Margaret had one of those life-changing moments in the violin shop. Mr. Chernofsky came out from the workshop cradling a violin in both hands. “One day,” he said, “I hope to make a violin as fine as this.”
Margaret’s eyes got all buggy when she read the tag hanging from the neck. “Is this really …”
Mr. Chernofsky nodded. “He purchased it recently at an auction. He brought it in for a little work.”
“Whose is it?” I asked.
“David Childress’s,” Margaret answered, her voice all whispery.
“Huh.” I was painfully aware that I should know who that was.
“He’s first violin in the Longfellow String Quartet. He’s … incredible!”
“Margaret, are you blushing?”
“N-no. That’s ridiculous.”
“What do you think, Mr. Chernofsky?”
He held his thumb and index finger far enough apartto slide a single sheet of paper through. “He is very handsome.”
“And
“Hey, Leigh Ann,” the god says, the glare from his perfect white teeth nearly blinding me.
And that clunking noise you just heard? That was three jaws hitting the floor as Becca, Margaret, and I all spin to stare at Leigh Ann for an explanation.
“Alex! You’re back!” She jumps up and hugs him. “How did you find me? Oh my God, you guys—this is my brother, Alejandro, but everyone calls him Alex. He’s a senior at Aquinas. He’s been up in Cambridge for a week—some kind of math competition. He’s a genius.”
“Your b-brother?” I stammer. “I guess you did say you had a brother, but you never said he was—”
“Hi, Alex,” Margaret says. “I’m Margaret, and these two are Sophie and Rebecca. Math, huh? At Harvard?”
“MIT,” Alex says. “There were kids from all over the country. I mean, I guess I thought I was pretty smart, but the competition—”
“Now you’re just being modest,” Leigh Ann says. “I can’t believe how much I missed you! You just can’t go away to college next year—unless I can come, too.”
Alex takes a look around Perkatory and at the four of us. “Oh, I think you’ll survive. So, you about ready tohead home? I’m starving, and Mom’s making red beans and rice. Nice meeting you guys—Leigh Ann’s told me about you all.” He takes his duffel and heads for the door.
“Before you go, Leigh Ann,” I say, “can everyone make it to my apartment tomorrow for rehearsal? Becca, you don’t need to bring your amplifier; you can just plug into mine. This is going to have to be kind of an ‘unplugged’ rehearsal anyway. I don’t think the neighbors would appreciate us blasting the plaster off their walls.”
“Just think,” Leigh Ann ponders. “One day, when they’re interviewing us on MTV after winning our first Grammy, we’re going to look back on this as the moment it all started. The Beatles. The Rolling Stones. Nirvana. Coldplay. The Blazers.”
As C. Daddy Dickens would say, there’s nothing like having great expectations.
Next door to and at the same slightly-below-ground level as Perkatory is Chernofsky’s Violins. Anton Chernofsky, the proprietor, grew up in the same town in Poland as Margaret, and the two of them Polish-dish away whenever she stops by. Even though her family left Poland when she was seven, her parents still speak Polish at home, and Margaret tells me that she still dreams in Polish most of the time.
On the way out the door of Perkatory after the historic creation of the Blazers, Margaret pulls me down the steps to the violin shop.
“Yippee,” I say with mock enthusiasm.
“Two minutes. I want to tell Mr. Chernofsky about the quartet. He’ll be excited. And besides, you love Mr. C. as much as I do.”
All too true. Completely guilty as charged. The guy is like everybody’s perfect grandpa.
“And there’s always the possibility that he’ll have another amazing violin he’ll let you play, right?”
“You never know,” Margaret says, grinning. Two weeks earlier, Margaret had one of those life-changing moments in the violin shop. Mr. Chernofsky came out from the workshop cradling a violin in both hands. “One day,” he said, “I hope to make a violin as fine as this.”
Margaret’s eyes got all buggy when she read the tag hanging from the neck. “Is this really …”
Mr. Chernofsky nodded. “He purchased it recently at an auction. He brought it in for a little work.”
“Whose is it?” I asked.
“David Childress’s,” Margaret answered, her voice all whispery.
“Huh.” I was painfully aware that I should know who that was.
“He’s first violin in the Longfellow String Quartet. He’s … incredible!”
“Margaret, are you blushing?”
“N-no. That’s ridiculous.”
“What do you think, Mr. Chernofsky?”
He held his thumb and index finger far enough apartto slide a single sheet of paper through. “He is very handsome.”
“And
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