Things Hoped For by Andrew Clements

Author:Andrew Clements [Clements, Andrew]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Ages 10 & Up
ISBN: 9781101042748
Publisher: Penguin USA, Inc.
Published: 2002-01-02T08:00:00+00:00

chapter 10

IMPROVISATION

We’re out of the subway, walking south on Broadway, not talking. I glance into the faces of all these people out for a Sunday stroll, but I’m not seeing eyes and noses and mouths. I’m seeing stories. Every person has a story. All the hopes and dreams. And fears. And secrets.

In every face.

So many stories. And I feel like I can’t ignore them anymore.

And then I remind myself that I have to keep telling myself my own story. My story. Because if I don’t, then my story’s going to get swallowed up by Grampa’s story and Uncle Hank’s story. And now Robert’s story.

And I remind myself that my story is very simple: I am a musician. I play the violin. That’s all I want to do. I am trying to get into music school. I am trying to keep on my practice schedule. I am not concerned with jointly owned buildings, and feuds between brothers, and trumpet players with blind girlfriends. Or some invisible bearded guy at a sporting goods store. Those are all bits and pieces from other people’s stories. Not my story. I have a job to do here. I’ve got to get a scholarship to a great music school, and everything else is just a distraction. An obstacle. Because on Tuesday morning I have to walk into a room and face the experts with my borrowed violin and prove that I can play the thing. I have to keep working on my story.

This is what I’m saying to myself on Sunday afternoon. And as Robert and I walk along, getting closer to home, I resolve that nothing is going to pull my own narrative off track. Nothing. I am a musician. End of story.

Then Robert and I are less than half a block from Grampa’s brownstone, and I stop and I grab the sleeve of his jacket.

“Quick, in here!” And I pull him into the doorway of a dry-cleaning shop.

“What?”

“My uncle—he just went up the front steps.” I peek around the edge of the shop window, and Uncle Hank is putting his key into the lock. Then he’s in the front hall, and I say, “Let’s go—run!”

In ten seconds I’m fumbling with my keys, then we’re under the stoop, and then we’re inside the ground floor door.

I can hear Uncle Hank upstairs, pounding on the parlor door. And yelling. “Lawrence! Open up! I know you’re in there. Open the door!”

I checked the perimeter before we left. I know he can’t get in—unless he’s got a sledgehammer. But he’s making a huge racket, and the tenants and the neighbors are getting an earful.

I put a finger to my lips, and Robert nods and then follows me as I creep up the stairs and into the parlor.

“Lawrence! Open the door. We have to talk.” He bangs on the door again, and the heavy panels shake on their hinges. I wish the wood were six inches thicker.

Then Robert walks right over to about three feet from the door, and he says, “I told you yesterday.

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