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behind the podium. She lifted her mug toward the woodwind section in between sips of coffee.
    We were warming up with “You’re a Grand Old Flag.” Mrs. Athena liked this tune a lot, I could tell. It’s a peppy piece with cymbals crashing and trumpets blasting, but this morning it sounded sluggish, like funeral music.
    â€œWhere’s that Uncle Sam spirit?” she asked. “Imagine it’s the Fourth of July and you’re marching down MainStreet, with thousands of patriotic folks cheering and waving little flags.”
    This time the clarinets came in a half note too late. And then all three bassoonists gave a not-me face when Mrs. Athena asked whose instrument was blowing like a moose with indigestion.
    â€œI wish they’d get their woodwind act together,” I whispered to Steve, who was slumped over the xylophone.
    â€œNo. No. No. The tempo is way off. Back to the first measure!” Mrs. Athena called, directing her words to the clarinets.
    A collective groan came from the brass section and the percussion gang.
    Steve tapped my head with the xylophone mallet. “I say we kidnap the woodwinds, tie them up with violin string, and hold them hostage in the custodian closet until school gets out.”
    â€œAnd make them listen to recordings of their own music,” I added, grinning. People misjudge clarinet players as the true band kids because they’re always walking around swinging their cases, but my ears have suffered the truth: most of them don’t know a full note from a Post-it note.
    We started over again. It still sounded bad. And again. Now it was badder than bad.
    â€œTime out for an instrument check,” Mrs. Athena announced, and she began walking from chair to chair, examining each clarinet like a laboratory specimen. I glanced over at the trumpets. Nash stared back and directed a thumbs-down at the clarinets.
    â€œHere, Joseph,” Jeff Henry whispered from the snare drum. “I saved some candy for you.” He had a Three Musketeers bar tucked discreetly by his side, but Steve saw it too.
    Steve tuned in when he heard “candy.” “Got some for me?” he asked, almost drooling. Steve begs like a dog until he gets a piece of whatever you’re eating. He actually looks like a Saint Bernard, with his square head and droopy eyes. A Saint Bernard with braces, that is.
    I pulled my piece apart and handed half to him on the sly. Mrs. Athena was still looking at clarinets, and I didn’t want to get caught breaking the No Food rule. I glanced over at the flutes.
    â€œPssst. Joseph.”
    Robyn was whispering loudly from the flute section. She put her flute between her knees, grabbed her eyelids with her fingertips, and popped them inside out so she looked like Tweetie Bird. Her lashes were sticking straight up, and I could see the whites of her eyeballs.
    Nothing unusual. Robyn and I always do juvenilestuff to shock each other.
    She was waiting for my comeback, so I stuck my drumsticks in my ears and started rocking back and forth while I crossed my eyes and stuck out my tongue. Robyn giggled, then covered her mouth to prevent a full-blown laugh attack.
    â€œAha, as I suspected, a cracked reed,” Mrs. Athena said to a sixth grader. She helped replace it, and we picked up where we left off. Surprise, surprise, we sounded cheery. And patriotic. And in sync. I could see the flags waving now.
    â€œFinally!” Mrs. Athena called, jumping pogo stick–style. “Let’s celebrate with a trip to the Caribbean.”
    â€œJamaican Farewell,” my favorite. Just tapping to that calypso beat works like a natural antidepressant for me. This sounds crazy, but it’s true: I was born in Korea and my family is Italian, but I’ve got the soul of a reggae drummer.
    Nash once told me I get this faraway look in my eyes when we play “Jamaican Farewell.” He said my shoulders move up and down to the beat, like