The guy looked like he was a couple of years older to me, and I thought there was a good chance he might be Stewart’s brother. He had the same body type, and there was a faint resemblance. One thing was different. As Stewart had come at me, his face had been kind of blank, maybe even a little tentative when I’d raised my fists. This guy looked eager.
I raised my fists again, very tired of the whole thing. I expected to get pounded. I hoped it wouldn’t hurt too badly.
He was almost on me when things got interesting.
“Hey, what’s happening here? Matt, you okay?”
I didn’t want to take my eyes off my new attacker, but looked over his shoulder. Standing on the sidewalk was Brent Colliers.
“Not really,” I called back.
The big guy had stopped and turned to see what was happening behind him. He saw Brent. He saw all 6’ 4”, all 230 or 240 pounds of him. Brent had a backpack in his hand, and he dropped it on the sidewalk and started coming our way. Justin took off. Stewart sort of started backing up, not paying any attention to anything but getting farther away from me. The big guy didn’t say anything, just stood there watching Brent approach.
Brent came up to me and asked, “What’s going on?”
“This guy’s getting ready to pound me.”
Brent turned to the guy, the guy who suddenly looked a lot smaller. Most everyone looked small compared to Brent.
I could see in the guy’s eyes that he didn’t like backing down. I could also see he knew he was no match for Brent. He could have left at that point. But he didn’t want to. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a knife. There was a click, and suddenly the blade was open.
I looked at the knife, and then up at Brent. I couldn’t believe it—when he saw the knife, he stepped over so he was standing mostly in front of me. Protecting me.
“You planning on using that thing?” Brent asked the guy, very calmly, like he was asking about the weather or something, just idly curious. If he had any fear in him, you sure couldn’t tell by the sound of his voice or his body language.
The guy with the knife didn’t know what to do or say. He just stood there, holding the knife. I imagined he was used to people being scared shitless by the knife. Now that he was facing Brent and Brent seemed so indifferent to both him and the knife, he wasn’t sure what to do. Things weren’t going like he’d planned.
Brent sort of half turned his head to me, then back so he was watching the guy. “Who is this guy?” he asked me.
“We weren’t introduced,” I said, then chastised myself. Why was I always trying to be funny, anyway? I tried again, “I don’t know. He might be Stewart Gostens’ brother. He was with Stewart and Justin when Stewart jumped me.”
“Let me ask you one more time,” Brent said, now talking to the guy with the knife. “You see, I’m going to either fuck you up, or fuck you up real bad. The second happens if you don’t put the knife away right now. The first happens if you do. Either way, you’re going down, and then we’re calling the cops. They don’t like guys pulling knives on kids. They call it assault with a deadly weapon. Or, maybe even attempted murder, too, if an eager prosecutor gets involved. You’ll probably do the time in juvie. Or not; maybe some older guys will get a chance with you. Hey bud, what you going to do?”
The guy didn’t know what to do. But I guess people like him are sort of used to not knowing things and acting on their instincts. His brain told him he had a knife, Brent didn’t, so he could get away with whatever he wanted to. He dropped into a crouch, then shuffled forward.
I was frozen. It was all happening so fast, and Brent seemed so calm and focused. I just stood and watched. To do anything else didn’t even occur to me.
Brent didn’t seem fazed at all. All I saw him do was move one foot back slightly, maybe to improve his balance. The knife guy suddenly jerked forward and swept at Brent’s middle with the blade.
Brent was an athlete, and playing linebacker on the football team had taught him how to avoid blockers. He seemed to watch dispassionately as the knife was coming at him, and he pulled back slightly at the last moment to let it pass by his stomach. It missed by a couple inches, and as it went by, Brent shot his fist forward so quickly it was a blur. He sort of turned his body as he threw the punch, and I realized he was getting his weight behind it. His fist landed on the side of the knife guy’s face with a noticeable crack, and the guy crumpled to the ground. Brent stepped forward and kicked the knife out of his hand. I looked for Stewart. He was gone.
“You got a cell phone, Matt?”
“No.” My voice was shaky and a little higher pitched than usual. I began trembling.
“There’s one in my backpack. Can you get it and call 911? I don’t want to walk away from here. He’s not faking, but still…”
“Sure,” I said, and walked on rubbery knees over to where he’d dropped his backpack. I rummaged around and found the phone, turned it on and called 911.
They didn’t answer. After waiting through twelve rings, I called over to Brent. “They’re not picking up.”
He frowned and looked disgusted. “Yeah, I forgot. Cell phone. They usually don’t take those calls. Is anyone at your house?”
“Yeah, my mom’ll be there. Probably my dad, too.”
“Call them, ask them to call 911 and send a cop car and an ambulance here. That call will probably go through fine.”
He didn’t sound upset a bit. He wasn’t even breathing hard. He’d been attacked with a knife, he’d saved my life, and he was just talking normally. I was a puddle of jelly, myself.
I did what he told me to. I got Dad. I told him as quickly as I could what had happened and asked him to call 911 and told him what Brent had said we needed. Dad said he would call, and then drive down here himself. That was a tremendous relief, hearing him say that.
It was only five minutes before the cops showed up. Dad came right behind them. I’d rejoined Brent, who was standing over the knife guy. They and Dad came over to us. I hugged Dad and didn’t even feel embarrassed doing so. Brent told the cops what had happened and pointed out the knife where it lay. One of the cops leaned over it, and Brent said, “Fingerprints.” The cop looked back at him, grinned, and said, “Thanks, Daddy. I’d have forgotten about that for sure.”
Brent grinned back at him. “Sorry,” he said. “Too much TV.” Then they both laughed.
◊ ◊
I told the guys at lunch about it the next day. Timothy said he’d heard rumors about a big gang fight happening but no one seemed to have any details. Becky asked how I’d felt, and for once I didn’t feel like just blowing it off. I told her I’d been scared. I told her I’d actually defended myself against Stewart and had surprised myself I’d been able to do it, and wondered if maybe because I knew he was younger than I was, that that had made a difference.
While I was answering both their questions, I kept looking over at Kevin. He wasn’t talking at all. He was just staring at me, and his face was unreadable.
We were just finishing when one of the aides came over and asked if I was Matt Tucker. I admitted that I was. She told me I was wanted in the office right away.
That silenced the table. For about two seconds. Then Becky and Timothy both started jabbering at once, speculating on what it was about. Kevin remained silent, but when I stood up and picked up my tray, he did too.
“I’ve got to go to the office, Kevin,” I said, though he certainly already knew that.
“I’m coming with you.”
I tried to chuckle. “I don’t think they’ll let you in.”
“We’ll see,” he said, and walked with me to where we got rid of our trays, and then back into the building.
We had to walk through the empty halls to get to the office. We were silent at first. Then I said to him, “Kev, you were awfully quiet at lunch. Anything wrong?”
He looked up at me and frowned. Then he said, “Oh, of course not, Matt. The boy I love almost gets killed, then doesn’t even bother to call me afterwards. He mentions it casually over lunch with the whole world listening in. Why in the world would anything be wrong?”
I stopped walking. He did too, and looked at me. He looked both angry and disappointed. I wanted to put my arm around him, but even though the halls were empty, I couldn’t do that. Someone might come.
“Kevin,” I said. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t that big a deal.”
“A guy pulls a knife on you, and that’s no big deal? What if Brent hadn’t come along? What then? This was a big deal, Matt. You should have called me.”
“Okay, I’m sorry. It just happened so fast, all of it, and then it was over, and to tell the truth, by then I was scared to death and just wanted to lie down. That’s what I did when I got home, and then my mother came in and we talked through the whole thing, and believe me, when my mother wants to talk through a whole thing, that’s exactly what we do, and I was sort of empty afterwards, and I just ate dinner and crashed. Didn’t practice, didn’t do homework, nothing. I’m sorry. I probably should have realized you’d be upset when I told it to you like that at lunch. I really didn’t take your feelings into account. I should have. I’m sorry.”
He didn’t look like that was enough for him. He was silent, staring into my eyes for several moments, then said, “You do know I love you, don’t you, that those aren’t just words I’m saying?”
I almost said something trying to be funny, but realized at the last second not to. The fact was, I think I realized deep down that he felt very strongly about me, but I spent so much time trying to deny it to myself, and trying to dissuade him from his feelings, that that knowledge tended to get lost sometimes.
“Yes, I know, Kevin. And I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking right last night, okay? I’m sorry.”
I guess he thought I sounded like I was sincere this time, because he turned and started walking toward the office.
I hurried and caught up with him. “How are you planning to go in with me?” I asked.
“Watch,” he answered, and kept walking.
We got to the office and walked in. The secretary was at her desk, and I told her who I was. She said the principal wanted to talk to me and was waiting, and I could knock on his door and just go in. She told Kevin he could wait outside.
“No, I’m going with him. Thanks anyway.”
She looked surprised, then stood up. “I’m sorry, he just asked for Matt. You can sit in here to wait if you want.” She was being friendly, but firm.
“I’m going with him. The principal will say it’s okay. It’s up to him. Come on, Matt.” And he pushed me toward the principal’s closed door.
I knocked, and then opened the door. I walked in, and Kevin was right behind me. Principal Cochran was sitting behind his desk, and he stood up when we entered. He was short and slightly pudgy, about my dad’s age, and he usually had a harried expression on his reddish face. His hair was usually mussed a bit, too. The impression you got, seeing him, was that he was always a bit flustered, and that things were about to get away from him. My dad didn’t talk much about the other teachers at school, or about the principal, at least not to me. But I’d sometimes overheard him talking to Mom when he didn’t know I could hear, and I knew he thought Mr. Cochran was a bit pompous, a little too self-important and not very effective. Dad didn’t have a high opinion of him.
He said, “Uh, hello, boys. I wanted to talk to Matt.” He was looking at Kevin. He knew who I was, but obviously had no idea who Kevin was.
“Hello, sir.” Kevin was using his best manners. He could be very smooth with adults. “I’m Kevin Ingram. I came in with Matt because he had a very bad day leaving school yesterday, and he needs some moral support. He wants me here. I won’t get in the way, and whatever you want to talk to him about, he says it’s all right if I hear it. We’re best friends, and he’s been nervous all day anyway, and coming here was disturbing for him, so I came along.”
He smiled at Mr. Cochran. No one can refuse Kevin’s smile.
Mr. Cochran smiled back at him, and said, “Well, Kevin, thanks for wanting to help out, but I need to speak to Matt privately. It’s very nice that you came to support him, but he won’t need that here. Thanks, but could you wait outside, please?”
“Uh, Mr. Cochran, I think I’d better stay. You might not realize just what Matt’s been through, and how upset he is. He needs me here, just for moral support. You want me to stay, don’t you, Matt?” He looked to me. I was having to bite my tongue to keep from smiling. This kid could lie better than I could eat.
I got a serious look on my face. “Yes, I would prefer it.”
Mr. Cochran frowned. “I’m afraid we’re going to be discussing something private. Kevin, you’re going to have to leave.”
“Mr. Cochran, I’m not sure what’s going to go on in here, but Matt isn’t up to anything at all. He needs either me or his father in here with him. He was pretty upset yesterday. He was inches from being killed. On school property. If you want me to go, fine, but I’ll just stay until his father gets here. I’m simply not going to let him meet with anyone right now without someone to support him being here with him. I’m sorry, but if you won’t call his father, and you won’t let me stay, we’ll both have to go. It’s up to you, sir. What’s your choice?”
Mr. Cochran was getting redder in the face. “My choice is for you to get out of my office. Right now!”
“In all good conscience, I can’t do that, sir. I don’t know what you plan on doing with Matt, but, just hypothetically, let’s say you were thinking of getting him to agree not to sue the school. He quite obviously has grounds for such an action because he was attacked on school grounds and there was no security in place to watch over after-hours students. For all I know, pressure could be brought to bear to have him sign away his rights. That wouldn’t be in his best interests, agreeing to that, but he’s not strong enough right now to be able to stand up for himself. He needs someone who can look out for his interests. His father could do it. I could do it. But he’s not going to meet you alone. Not unless I know what it’s about. And if you’re going to tell me that, then there’s no reason I can’t stay.”
I read a book once that used the word “apoplexy,” and I thought it looked so strange, that combination of letters, I looked it up. I’m glad I did, now, because having looked it up, I had the perfect word to describe Mr. Cochran’s condition. Apoplexy.
I hoped his face wouldn’t get any redder. I could almost hear the veins popping. When he was able to talk, which took a few minutes, he did so very quietly, very softly. “Mr. Ingram, you will leave my office at once. If you don’t, I’ll call the police and have you escorted off the grounds. Permanently. As it is, you’ve earned yourself a week’s detention, and if I hear another word, just one, I’ll double it. You start serving it tomorrow. After school every day. And at the end of that time, I expect to see you in my office the next day with an apology. Now, do you wish to say anything else, and earn a little more time? Anything at all?”
Kevin opened his mouth to speak, and I grabbed his arm and yanked him towards the door, saying over my shoulder, “I’ll be right back, Mr. Cochran. Just a moment, please.” I opened the door and pushed Kevin through it, then hustled him out into the hall. Thankfully it was still empty.
“What in the world was that all about?” I asked him. I didn’t know whether to be mad at him or laugh.
He looked at me, then gave me a crooked smile, and without another word, turned and walked away down the empty hall. I watched him go for a few seconds, thinking he might turn and look back, but he didn’t.
When I was back in Mr. Cochran’s office, he was still red, but seemed in somewhat better control of himself.
Mr. Cochran didn’t say anything at first, just stared at me, but I didn’t get the idea he was upset with me at all, just that he was thinking, and perhaps still calming down. Then he shook his head. “Okay. Matt. Sorry about all that. I called you in because I wanted to hear from you exactly what happened yesterday afternoon. Who was involved, what occurred, what caused it, everything. I have some decisions to make, and I’d like to know all the facts before I do. I’ve read the police report, but it doesn’t contain any of the things that might have led up to this. All it showed was accounts of yesterday’s altercation. I need to know the history behind it, and your recital of what happened yesterday from your point of view. Can you fill me in, please? And try to be as truthful as you can, as there are several students whose careers at this school can be affected by what you say.”
I thought about it, thought about if I should hold anything back, and decided not to. So I told him what had happened in the restroom with Timothy, and then exactly what happened yesterday, how I’d felt, how scared I’d been, and exactly what had been said, all of it.
It took me some time, and I felt sort of drained when I was done. Mr. Cochran asked me a few questions, but not many. Then he thanked me for talking so openly to him.
I stood up to leave, then turned back to him. “Mr. Cochran, Kevin isn’t like what you saw today. I’m not asking you to reduce his detention or anything, I just want you to know, he’s a good kid, very smart, and not a trouble-maker at all. I just want you to know that.”
Mr. Cochran didn’t look like he entirely believed that, but said, “Thanks for telling me that, Matt. I like to understand my students, but I have no idea why he was talking to me like that. He was impugning my integrity, challenging my authority, and he had no reason to do that. Can you tell me why he said what he did?”
I thought for a moment before replying. I really didn’t know why Kevin had done what he’d done. I considered it, and how he’d acted at lunch. A thought occurred to me.
“Mr. Cochran, I’m not sure why he did that, but I do have an idea. It might be wrong, but it would explain it. Kevin and I are very close. Even though he’s a couple of years younger than I am, he doesn’t seem aware of that most of the time. He’s a lot more self-confident than I am, and ends up very often sort of taking the lead when we’re together, and treating me like I’m younger than he is. Today, at lunch, just before we came in here, he heard what happened yesterday. It upset him. He hardly said a word at lunch when I was telling some other friends about it. Then, when I was asked to come here, he jumped up and came with me. Then you saw what happened.
“I think he was trying to tell me something, doing what he did. What he did was in fact directed at me, not you. He was giving me a message, and trying to impress it on me. It was that he was piss—uh, angry with me for not telling him about what happened last night. And he was angry that he wasn’t with me yesterday, to have my back. But mostly he was angry at me, because he thinks I don’t value our friendship as much as I should. He was telling me today, in your office, that he’ll be behind me no matter what the risk is, and he’ll take the consequences of helping me, no matter what they are. He was angry and scared and, well, I think that’s what you were seeing.”
Mr. Cochran took all this in, then gave me a small smile. He thanked me without making any further comments, and I left.
◊ ◊
For the next week, Kevin served detention every day after school. Every day, I waited for him till he got out, and we walked home together. The first day, he looked surprised to see me, and started to say something, then closed his mouth. We never discussed why I was waiting for him. He knew. I knew. That was enough.
◊ ◊
At lunch, we were talking about Stewart. He hadn’t been back to school since he’d jumped me. Becky had asked if I knew what had happened to him.
“No one’s said anything to me. I don’t know if he’s been expelled or just suspended.”
“I hope he’s expelled,” said Timothy.
“You know, I got the impression he wasn’t really that bad. The older guy, I think he was Stewart’s brother. If he was, and he was always encouraging Stewart, maybe that’s why he acted like he did. When I was in the fight with him, he didn’t act like his heart was in it. It was as if he was doing it because his brother was egging him on, not because he wanted to.”
“Matt, you didn’t get picked on by him like I did.” Timothy didn’t usually talk as much as the rest of us did. He did more watching than speaking. He loved sitting with us and felt very comfortable eating with us, I could easily see that, but he seemed happy just being there, and I wasn’t sure he really considered himself an equal at the table, even though we tried to treat him as one. He just didn’t talk much. However, he was speaking up about this. This subject was obviously one he felt strongly about. “He was on me whenever he could get away with it. What you saw when you saved me in the restroom was just one incident. He’d gang up with Justin and they’d do all sorts of stuff. He’d be the leader and Justin would help. Don’t go thinking Stewart was better than he was. He was awful. I’m really happy he’s not here any more.”
I’d seen Stewart’s eyes during that fight. He wasn’t as hard as Timothy thought, I was sure of that. But it also made me realize that perspective was important. I looked at Stewart as a younger kid, one who probably had had some pretty bad influences in his life. Timothy could only see him as a big kid, an aggressor, a bully. He had no room for nuances. It made me aware that it made a big difference where you were sitting, how you related to people, how you saw them.
“Will the police want to talk to you some more? There’ll be a trial for the older guy, won’t there?” Becky was always the most curious of us. She always wanted in on everything.
“I don’t know. Maybe. I suppose if the guy cops a plea, they may not need me. No one’s contacted me.”
“I hope they put him away for a long time,” said Kevin, throwing the remains of his sandwich onto his plate. “The son of a bitch deserves to do big time. If he’s got priors, and that kind usually does, he’ll probably get a stiff sentence, even with a plea.”
“I kind of hope so too,” I said. “I don’t want to meet him again someday, at least not any time soon.”
“You probably don’t have to worry about that,” said Kevin.
“I’m trying not to.”
Kevin looked up at me when I said that, and held my gaze for a few moments.
It was later that day, in the hall, when I’d just grabbed my jacket and backpack and was getting ready to go wait for Kevin to get out of detention, that I happened to see Brent, just closing his locker. I ran down the hall and stopped him.
“I never really had a chance to thank you.”
He looked down at me, then smiled. “I’m sure glad I happened by. You don’t really have to thank me, though. I still feel bad about what I did to you a couple of years ago. I’ll always remember that. I doubt I’ll ever completely forget it. This helps me feel better about myself, that I was able to be there for you when you needed it. This doesn’t mean we’re even or anything like that, but it does help me a little.”
“Well, I wanted to say thanks. I want you to know I consider you a friend, and if there’s anything I can ever do for you, please ask, okay? Anything? And Brent, we’re more than even. Much more. Thanks.”
He grinned at me, and stuck out his hand, and I shook it, gripping it as tightly as I could. I grinned, too. It’s good, having a friend in high school who weighs about as much as the entire swimming team.
◊ ◊
It was concert night. The band was ready, and we were ready. We’d rehearsed the piece so much that we could play it in our sleep. We all had it memorized, we had every nuance figured out and rehearsed and we were ready.
That didn’t stop us from being nervous. We were. I was. But we were eager, too. We knew we were good. We wanted everyone else to see it. At last it was time to stop all the practicing and perform.
Our piece was the last one on the program. The piece just before ours was American Salute, a piece written by Morton Gould that combined several familiar, distinctly American songs and was a crowd pleaser. The four of us left the stage before it began and the rest of the clarinets rearranged themselves, and our four chairs were removed. While the band was playing, we had to quickly change clothes. Since this was the Spring Concert, we’d thought black tuxes and gowns inappropriate. Jason and I changed into black tux trousers; the rest of our ensembles had been arranged to represent our school’s colors, light blue and gold. We had rented light blue dinner jackets to go with gold ties and cummerbunds. The girls both had white dresses with blue and gold trim. I probably shouldn’t say it, I probably should be more modest, but truth be told, we all looked really good. Our light colored coats and the girls’ dresses contrasted with the formal dark suits and dresses of the rest of the band. We would be quite a spectacle, really draw all eyes to us, as we stood in the front of everyone when we were playing.
When it was time, Mr. Tollini announced the piece to the audience, and then left the stage. After a short pause, the four of us walked out in a line, with me leading the way, followed at a distance by Mr. T. We stopped, faced the crowd, and all bowed together. We’d rehearsed this over and over. Bowing is hard. It feels unnatural, it’s a little embarrassing, and bowing low enough and holding it long enough takes practice or it looks phony. We’d worked on it in front of my parents, and then Mr. T., and I think we got it right.
Mr. T. got on the podium, checked that we were ready, and began.
We played it flawlessly, sounding like one instrument. We all had it memorized, so could glance at each other while playing, and we had worked together so long we had it down cold. We played, lined up next to each other near the front of the stage, and I enjoyed it totally. I felt part of this group, really part of it, and it was like it was us against the world, standing up there on that stage. We were a unit. We were one.
The applause at the end was startling. There were hoots and hollers and everyone was on their feet, and even the band members were clapping and whistling and shuffling their feet. I was embarrassed, but loving it. We bowed, then bowed again, and then again. We left the stage, and the clapping continued. We came back and bowed again. The audience started a chant, and I finally could hear what it was when more and more people had picked it up and were yelling it. Encore! Encore!
Finally Mr. T. raised his hands to the audience. “Thank you so much,” he said, when quiet had been restored and people were back in their seats. “We didn’t prepare an encore. As you can imagine, these young musicians worked very hard to bring their level of performance to what you just heard.” He was going on, but applause broke out again when he said that, and he finally had to raise his arms again before continuing. “We don’t have an encore prepared, but we could play from the Finale again if you’d like.”
Applause and whistles greeted that, and Mr. T. turned to me. “Let’s start in the middle of the Finale. Here.” He pointed at the score to show me that place.
“Uh, Mr. T., we do have something we could play, just the four of us. We sort of worked on it for fun while we were rehearsing the Concertino. We didn’t really think about an encore, that isn’t why we worked on this, but it would work. We could do it. The audience would like it. It’s only about three minutes long.”
Mr. T. looked at me, looked back at the audience where people were finishing their clapping and settling down, then back at me. “You sure, Matt?”
I grinned at him. “Trust me,” I said.
He grinned back. “Okay. You want to announce it?”
“Sure,” I replied, and only then remembered how I loved speaking in front of any group. NOT! But it was too late. Mr. T. stepped to the front of the stage, then motioned me forward. “Matt Tucker has told me these four remarkable young people do have an encore to perform. Matt, would you please announce what you’ll be playing?”
Luckily, I was still on a high from the performance we’d just pulled off. Much less nervous than I’d have been had I had time to think about what I was doing, I stepped forward and spoke to the crowd. “Lowell Shaw was a professional horn player who wrote a number of pieces specifically for French horn quartets. He called them the Fripperies. We liked the pieces and have practiced one, Frippery number 8. All the Fripperies sound great for horn quartet, but we think they sound good for the clarinet, too. And they’re certainly fun to play. This one begins as a barbershop quartet, and goes on from there.
“Let me say, we didn’t plan to play this. We didn’t plan on an encore. My friends here are just now finding out that we’ll be playing this. I hope they don’t gang up and pound on me afterwards for volunteering them to do this. And, I hope you like it.”
I stepped back and joined the others while the crowd was chuckling about me being pounded. Jason was looking a little wide-eyed and all of them were fidgeting. We’d played this piece many times because it was a lot of fun. We all had it memorized, but hadn’t planned on a public performance of it. I grinned at them. “Sorry guys, but we sound great on this, and we need a big finish. Let’s go for it.”
They all nodded, and Jason gave me a little grin. I gave the beat, and we began.
The piece starts as a traditional barbershop quartet melody, then becomes a jazzy, up-tempo rendition of the same melody, and then finally slows and returns to its barbershop roots at the end. The harmonies throughout are delicious, and the jazz, so different from the Weber we’d just performed, had about half the people in the audience clapping their hands and tapping their feet. I played the top part, and really wailed on the jazz licks, and the others played the close harmony accompaniment perfectly. As we played, we all sort of almost danced together, weaving and bowing as the music seemed to call for, getting sucked into the music. We had fun, and I think the audience could see that and responded accordingly.
The applause at the end was, if anything, louder than for the Concertino. The kids in the band hadn’t ever heard this before, and they too were, well, jazzed.
I think the applause finally ended because people in the audience were getting sore hands. I know the four of us were embarrassed to get such a large ovation. As the applause was dying down, four girls came out on stage and handed each of us a bouquet of flowers, wrapped in decorative cellophane. I hadn’t been expecting that. It was a nice touch.
When we were done, friends came up front, and we mingled a bit. I saw Jason hand his bouquet to his girlfriend. I thought that was a touching gesture. Just after he did it, Kevin walked up. I so wanted to hand him my bouquet, and in the heat of the moment, I almost had the nerve to do so, but of course, I simply couldn’t. He was with my parents, and I ended up giving the flowers to my mom. I think she could read something in my eyes, because when I handed them to her, she looked at Kevin, then back at me, a question in her look. I nodded, I think. I was feeling some emotion. But then, the whole night had been emotional. I was drained, and very happy.