Things Hoped For by Andrew Clements Read Free Book Online

they worry.”
    “And you don’t?”
    Another shrug. “I still want to go for it. It’s what I like best, that’s all. And my girlfriend thinks I’m really good, and she listens to everything. And my teacher plays in the Chicago Symphony, and he keeps telling me I should go ahead too. So if I can’t earn a living in music, then I’ll do something else.”
    My girlfriend. Part of me didn’t want to hear that. The part that doesn’t want anyone treading on my dreams.
    We’re done eating, and he says, “I’ll ride home with you.”
    Not a question. A statement.
    I shake my head, feeling like I should pull back a little. “You don’t have to. Really. There’re always lots of people out on a Friday night. I ride the subway alone all the time after the Philharmonic.”
    He smiles. “Exactly. You get to cruise around New York City all the time, and I don’t. So don’t spoil my field trip.”
    Then his face changes. “Aren’t we close to where John Lennon got killed?”
    I didn’t see that coming. “It’s about a ten-minute walk.”
    “Can we go there—would that be okay?”
    I nod. “Sure.” And we pay our tab, walk out of the restaurant, and start walking uptown.
    As many times as I’ve passed Gray’s Papaya at Seventy-second and Broadway, I can never get over the fact that people are always lined up three deep at the counter, day and night. And having stood in line myself a few times, I know why. Even though we’re already stuffed with ice cream, I almost insist we each get a papaya and a hot dog. It’s one of those must-do things on the Upper West Side.
    But I can tell Robert wants to get to the scene of the crime. Seems a little morbid, but also sort of capital- R Romantic. Something Paganini might want to do. Or Yeats.
    My trumpet player, who has a girlfriend, is full of surprises.
    And the next surprise comes when we get to the Dakota, the building where Lennon lived. After we walk past the iron gates where the shooting happened, Robert stops near the corner, opens his case, takes out a silver trumpet, slips a mouthpiece into place, puts a mute in the bell, and begins to play.
    The sound has to fight the noise of the traffic on Central Park West, but the melody is warm and strong, and I can hear the words in my mind:
    Hey, Jude, don’t make it bad.
Take a sad song, and make it better;
    I’ve been to a military funeral, one of my dad’s army buddies, and I’ve been to our town’s Memorial Day ceremony every May since I was three. Some buglers can play taps and make you cry, and some can’t. Robert can bring the tears.
    He goes on with the song, knees bent, eyes closed, and before he’s done, ten or twelve other people, all ages, have stopped to listen. When it’s over, there are smiles and murmurs, but no applause. It would have been like clapping for the choir in a church.
    We walk back toward Broadway, and I say, “That was nice.”
    He shrugs. “Sort of corny.”
    “No. Just right.” I almost tell him that I’d never be able to do something like that, just take out my instrument and begin playing on a street corner. But it feels too personal. Yes, I’m shy, but why bring it to his attention? I’m too shy to talk about how shy I am.
    We talk a little on the subway, mostly about our audition pieces. He’s worried most about Haydn, and I’m worried about Paganini.
    As we pull out of the 103rd Street station, I remember that I’m going home to another night in an empty house, no Grampa. And I also remember Uncle Hank’s little visit before my violin lesson today. And that’s when being escorted home begins to feel like an excellent idea.

chapter 6
    GWENDOLYN CRUSOE
    When we get off the subway at 110th Street, Robert offers to walk me to my door, and I don’t argue. Besides, I can tell he’s still enjoying his tour of New York at night.
    As we wait for a break in the stream of cars and taxis on Broadway, he says, “Unless you’re in Old Town, by eleven-thirty Chicago looks