Brass Monkeys by Terry Caszatt Read Free Book Online Page B

toad. His eyes had a yellow caste to them, and they were sharp and unfriendly. Strobe had moved in a kind of goofy frenzy, while Fundabore seemed to take forever just to walk to the podium.
    “Goood mooorning … stuuudents,” Fundabore said, dragging out the words in a mournful, hollow voice. Slowly, he put a briefcase on the podium, then opened it and began searching inside for something. Finally, after what seemed like years, he brought out a small brass monkey. I recognized it immediately as identical to Strobe’s incense burner.
    Fundabore carefully placed the monkey on the podium and lit the incense. It seemed to take endless more hours to do this, and his movements made me irritable and restless. I began jiggling my foot up and down.
    “All right everyone,” Fundabore droned, sounding as if he were sitting in the bottom of a barrel. “Let’s tuurrn to our muusic, ‘Maaarch of the Midnight Scholars.’“
    When he said the word “Scholars,” I could have sworn I saw a spurt of dust fly out of his mouth.
    “Innnstruments … ready?” said Fundabore.
    Normally this would be an exciting moment for me. The director’s baton was up and we were about to begin some new music. But I had no idea what I was supposed to play, so I kept my horn down on my knee.
    Harriet and Alvin flashed me a warning gesture to get my trumpet up, so I quickly raised it to my lips. Perhaps too quickly. Right away
    Fundabore turned, like a slow radar screen, and gave me a look of irritation.
    Then he raised his eyes slightly and said, “Monnnkeymiiind.”
    When he said that, I flashed a triumphant look at Harriet, but she didn’t react at all. She kept her eyes focused completely on Fundabore. I was stunned. There was that same stupid word! I would have chanced a peek at Weeser and Alvin, but I didn’t dare because Fundabore was looking at me again.
    Finally, after pausing for what seemed like a century, he brought his baton down and the band began a piece of music that will haunt me the rest of my life.
    The march began with a kid in the percussion section shaking some bells that gave off an eerie jangling sound. This was joined by a slow thumping beat from Weeser on the bass drum. With a nerve-jangling trill, the woodwinds came in. This was followed by a thunderous rush from the brass, then the whole band moved into the main theme.
    It was grim sounding and made me think we were marching in a slow funeral procession toward some dark and final resting place. And we kept marching until it seemed we’d been moving forever at that horrible pace. For a long while I didn’t feel secure enough to play a note, but gradually I became so used to the theme that I started playing a bit.
    I thought participating would perk me up, but instead it affected me in the opposite way: I felt bored and sleepy. The music droned on and on. I thought several times the piece was over, but Fundabore simply went back to the opening and began again. I stopped a couple of times and yawned widely.
    The kids around me looked as if they were in some of kind of trance. Alvin and Weeser appeared pale and ill. Harriet glanced my way once and I thought she looked frightened. But of what? Really, I felt nothing but a big emptiness.
    Someplace along here I dozed off and nearly toppled from my chair. I bit my lip savagely, trying desperately to stay awake, and it must have been the taste of blood in my mouth that got me started. I didn’t know what I was doing at first. Then, with a horrible jolt, I realized
I was putting a Spanish twist on the music
.
    Fundabore snapped around, a look of amazement passing over his face. That was followed quickly by a squinched-up grimace, which almost looked like—fear.
    I tried desperately to stop the sharp Latin sound, but it continued to grow. I ripped up an octave above the other trumpets and the march started to sound like a bullfight in Spain—
bee de deeeee, diddly dee!
Then it was a crazed mariachi band at fiesta time—
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