James was feeling exuberant. He was watching the clock on the classroom wall, and in two minutes, school would be through for the day and he’d be out the door, headed for his music lesson.
Exuberance was not a normal feeling for James, and in fact this day had started out being rough as most of his days were. Thoughts of his father had come in the morning before he’d even been entirely awake, and in his dreams he’d been unable to defend himself. The man had been yelling at him as usual; he’d been scathing in his remarks over the breakfast table about the clothes James had picked out to wear. Jeans and T-shirt? His father had gone on and on about the need to dress to show the world you weren’t common or ordinary—plebian was the word he’d used, but James knew what it meant—like everyone else. His father was big on not being ordinary. He didn’t understand that to a teenager, especially a young one, being ordinary was a very important, often vital, social requirement, especially to a boy who welcomed anonymity.
His father also should have been aware that James’ mother was responsible for the clothes he wore. He put on what was available each morning, and that was a pair of jeans and a T-shirt.
James had finally awakened enough to push such sleepy thoughts aside forcibly.
But that set the tone for the day. When he was in school and had just put his French horn in the band room—the first thing he did every morning at school—he’d bumped into Giff McKindry, though in fact Giff had made it a point to bump into James. Then Giff had grabbed him by the front of his shirt and lifted him up so only his toes were still on the floor. Only Mr. Graham walking around the corner had prevented James from being hit. Mr. Graham had sent Giff to see Mr. Concord, the vice principal, before checking that James was all right, actually comforting him for a second or two before turning in to his classroom.
Then at lunch James’ table had been full. A new kid had taken his place. None of the other kids there had seemed to have noticed or saved his seat for him. He’d sighed and gone to a table where no one else was sitting. He really hadn’t minded much. This way he could read his book and not bother to keep up with the conversation at the table. The fact that kids who ate by themselves gained a scornful reputation didn’t really bother him. Few kids knew him, and most who did found him nerdy and unprepossessing, so he wasn’t worried what people who saw him eating alone might think. He doubted he’d get any notice at all. He rather hoped that would be the case.
It was a little surprising that he was basically friendless because good-looking kids tended to be popular, and James was very attractive. But popularity demanded an outgoing personality as well as an attractive appearance, and James wasn’t a bit outgoing. When talking to anyone, he never initiated the conversation and never met anyone’s eyes. He’d look anywhere else, and his body language broadcast just how uncomfortable he was.
If he was uncomfortable, it made the person talking to him uncomfortable as well. No one enjoys being uncomfortable. So it was that James was friendless and alone.
But here it was 2:58 PM, and James’ eyes were steadily watching the second hand move around the clock’s face. And he was in fact exuberant because the high point of his day—of his week, actually—was rapidly approaching.
“James, are you paying any attention to me at all?”
It was then that James realized the room had been strangely silent for at least the time it took the second hand to move from the seven up to the twelve. He looked up and saw Mrs. Hendricks staring at him, along with the other front-row students he could see peripherally.
“Are we in a hurry to get somewhere? Is that why we’re being so disrespectful? Well, I hope that isn’t what you have in mind when the bell rings, because when it does, you’ll just sit where you are. We’ll discuss this when the rest of the class is gone!” She was using her no-nonsense, this-is-the-law voice she saved for reaming out kids who’d displeased her.
Just then, the bell rang, and James was out of his seat like a shot. He was the first one up and the first one out the door.
Sitting in the front row in the class made that pretty easy. James always sat in the front row. Things happened if you sat farther back, bad things, humiliating and often painful things. Your vulnerability was increased the farther back you sat. In the front, you were much safer. And it was easier to escape when the bell rang.
He knew he’d be in trouble for not staying behind when the bell rang—for deliberately disobeying a teacher—but he was focused on what was coming up next for him, and he wasn’t going to cut that short by listening to a teacher run on and on about how disappointed she was in him. Many adults were disappointed in him. He’d had to learn how to live with that, and he had. He had needed to learn how to focus on what he wanted and to stay fixated on it regardless of the noise around him. Focusing was still a work in progress—not surprising for a young teen—but he was well along in reaching that goal.
It was that enhanced focus that had helped make his life bearable. He was the target of bullies because he was small and didn’t possess the intestinal makeup to even try to defend himself. But by focusing on other things, he just accepted the bullying and moved on. He only did well in the classes he liked because those were the only ones where he paid attention. This had brought him nothing but grief from his father, who’d been unsatisfied with the report cards James brought home because they didn’t contain all A’s. James received very few A’s. He only cared about what he cared about, and that was a very tiny number of things. But he’d learned to let his father’s cutting remarks, remarks that were personal about any and everything he found wrong with James, roll off his back as much as possible. James did this by focusing on what he cared about and trying not to hear his father’s scathing criticisms.
What James cared about, just about the only thing, was music. He’d started playing the French horn when he was 10, and now, at fifteen, playing the horn was his life. It was his joy, his motivation to get out of bed each day. He cared about playing the horn more than anything else. He had found he had some natural talent for it, and after five-plus years of lessons and practice, hours and hours of practice, he played the French horn extremely well. His practice session lasted two to three hours a day during the week and more on the weekends. He only stopped because lips can only buzz so long before losing their tone, their resilience.
He was devoted to his French horn teacher. She was the one adult in his life who was always supportive of him. Most of his teachers resented his indifference to their classes. His father had never understood his son, and his inability to do so had turned him against James. His mother cared more about him, but she was a woman who seemed to live in a dream world most of the time, ineffectually dabbling in this and that, unable to hold a job, flitting about with a worried frown on her face most of the time. She had little understanding of the needs of a teenage boy, wrapped up as she was in wondering what the world around her was all about and how she was supposed to fit into it.
Where James was headed right then was Mrs. Ford’s house. Mrs. Ford was his horn teacher. His weekly music lesson was scheduled to begin thirty minutes after school let out on Thursdays. Mrs. Ford lived a short distance from the school, a fifteen-minute bike ride. James had never yet been late for his lesson. Mrs. Ford was his teacher. From the beginning of their time with her, she let her students know how dissatisfied she was with tardiness. She communicated this to them with passion, and James took it to heart. He was never late. He wanted to stay in her good graces and didn’t want to miss a minute, even a second of the time he had to spend with her each week. Those minutes and seconds were what he looked forward to. They kept him sane.
With the final bell of the day still echoing through the school, he scurried to the band room to collect his horn. Then he left the building through the side door closest to the bike rack. It took but a couple of seconds to strap his horn case to the rack behind his seat with bungee cords; he’d done it often enough by now that he felt he could do it blindfolded. Then he unlocked the bike and took off for Mrs. Ford’s house.
Today, for the first time, James would be late.
He left the school grounds and reached the first intersection he had to cross and stopped to wait for the light. While waiting, he heard a voice.
“Well, looky who’s here! My lucky day.”
James knew the voice well. It was the kid who’d bullied him earlier that day, the one who most often and most viciously bullied him: Giff.
The light changed, and James put as much weight on his bike pedal as he could, trying to move off as quickly as possible, but Giff grabbed the back of his bike and held on. James wasn’t strong or heavy enough to be able to pull away.
There were other kids around, and James could have called for help, but in the past when he’d been knocked around by any of the bullies who enjoyed showing everyone how formidable they were by harassing James, no one had come to his rescue. He doubted they would this time, either.
Giff started pulling the bike backwards. All James could do was hold on and steer the front wheel so the bike wouldn’t turn over. Giff pulled him a half block down a side street where there was no crowd to witness his behavior. Then he gave the bike a sharp push to the side and it fell over, taking James with it. Giff then came up, yanked James up by his shirt, and said, “This is what you get for me having to see Concord this morning.” With that, he swung his fist and hit James in the face.
James was knocked back and tripped over the bike. He landed on the sidewalk, banging his knee and scraping some skin off his hand.
His face, knee and hand all hurt, and James was unable to keep tears from his eyes.
Giff saw him fall and jeered. Then the horn case, still attached to the bike, caught Giff’s attention. “What’s this?” he demanded.
James didn’t want to speak; he knew what his voice would sound like. And he knew that whatever he said wouldn’t affect what would happen. Giff took a step to the bike and unhooked the bungees.
James felt he had to try. “That’s my French horn. It’s expensive! Leave it alone.” It took great courage for James to say that, to speak at all. He never spoke to his tormentors. But this was a matter of protecting what he valued most in the world.
Giff didn’t say anything but picked up the case, felt how heavy it was, then set it on the ground, undid the latches and opened it. He picked up the horn out of the case, gave it a funny look, then glanced over at James. There was a look of terror on his face. Giff smiled at that.
“Expensive you say? Worth a lot? Uh, maybe not so much anymore.” With that, he dropped the horn onto the sidewalk and stomped on it. He did this several times till he was satisfied. Then he said, “Probably ain’t worth the sweat on my balls now.” Then he gave the bike a desultory kick and sauntered away.
> > >
James was late to his lesson.
Mrs. Ford was at the front door, standing impatiently and looking at the street when she saw him coming. He was limping and pushing his bike, his horn case strapped to it. His jeans had a rip in one knee, and as he drew closer, she could see that he’d been crying and that his face looked like he’d been in a fight.
She came down the front steps to meet him. “James, what in the world? Are you okay?” Her concern was apparent.
The compassion in her voice was more than James could bear. He broke out in sobs, and he was in mid-collapse when Mrs. Ford grabbed him and held him upright.
Mrs. Ford took him into her house and into the kitchen where she had him sit on a chair at the kitchen table. “I see blood on that rip in your jeans,” she said. “Slip them down and I’ll see what your knee looks like.”
James was quite self-conscious, as shy and timid boys tend to be, and the idea of lowering his jeans in front of the one adult woman he idolized was shocking. He just stared at her and couldn’t even speak.
“Oh, come on,” she said, a small smile on her face, her voice soft and nonthreatening. “You’re wearing underwear, aren’t you?”
He nodded.
“Okay, then. No problem. You do know I had four kids, don’t you? I know what men and even boys your age look like, even when they’re entirely undressed. Seeing you in your underwear won’t be embarrassing at all for either of us. Now come on. I need to clean your knee and probably bandage it.”
When he still didn’t move, she said, “Now, James,” in a voice that would have been very hard to deny. James stood up, unbuttoned his jeans and pushed them down to his ankles, quickly sitting afterward so his T-shirt would cover as much of his brief-style underpants as possible.
Mrs. Ford didn’t even look in that direction. She was looking at the scraped knee that was oozing just a little blood. She walked to the sink and wet a paper towel, then put some liquid soap on it. Coming back to James, she said, “Sorry, but this’ll sting. Only a little, though. Not more than you can easily tolerate. I’ll be as gentle and quick as I can be.”
James said, so softly she could barely hear him, “My hand, too.”
She washed, rinsed and dried both scrapes, then had him hold a dry paper towel over the one on his knee and press it. The hand wasn’t as bad. “That should have the bleeding stopped by the time I get back. Just hold it steady. Back in a sec.”
She came back with a plastic squeeze bottle of Bactine, a gauze pad and some white adhesive tape. She disinfected his hand and wiped it dry. Then: “While I’m fixing your knee, tell me about this. You’ve been hit in the face, you’ll have a black eye, and your lip is already getting a little fat. I’ll get you some frozen peas for that. Hold the towel on the knee while I get them for you. Then you need to start talking.”
She got a package of peas from her freezer, wrapped them in another paper towel and had him hold the package against his face, covering his eye and lip. “Here, hold this. Just hold it in place, not pressing too much. It should keep the swelling down and maybe help any pain you’re feeling.” Then she tended to his knee, ending by taping a gauze pad over it.
She then got him a Coke and a glass with ice in it, set them on the table next to him and sat down on another chair. “Now, let’s hear it. From the beginning. Don’t leave anything out. I’m going to fix this, but to do that effectively, I have to know everything. Don’t be embarrassed. My son had problems when he was your age, too. Things happen.”
With anyone else, James wouldn’t have obliged. Not telling on someone is etched into every boy’s soul and spirit at a young age, and especially into bullied boys. But this was Mrs. Ford, and she’d just mothered him more than his own mother ever had, and, well, his spirits were at rock bottom, yet she was there for him. She was his rock.
So he told her about being bullied a lot, and how he just accepted it and moved on, but how Giff McKindry, the worst of the worst, had been about to hit him that morning, and about Mr. Graham and Vice Principal Concord, and then what Giff had done that afternoon.
He told her about his horn, now lying smashed in the case, and that he was sure he was now never going to play again as his parents didn’t have the money to buy a horn, and the school horn he’d been playing was now beyond repair.
This was too much, this thought that his playing days were over, and he broke down again. Mrs. Ford put her arms around him, somehow managed to get him to the couch in her studio and sat with him till he was calmer.
She asked him why he couldn’t get another horn. Somehow, that ended up with a talk about his mother and his father; he ended up giving her a picture of his home life, and how it was with each of his parents. He mentioned how his mother mostly ignored him and his father only spoke negatively to him. He said that even if his father had had lots of money, there was no way he’d pay for a horn. “My father hates that I play a horn rather than football. ‘Real men play sports. Sissies play instruments. People look up to high school athletes. No one looks up to high school band members.’ That’s what he says. He says it all the time.”
Mrs. Ford listened in silence and realized James was close to breaking down again. This was confirmed when, finishing his recitation, he began sobbing.
Mrs. Ford had the problem then that all caring teachers have. School teachers are instructed not to touch their students. There are several reasons, good reasons, for this edict. But teachers, school and garden variety, are also human and know there are times that their students will benefit from, need and should have human contact.
Mrs. Ford wasn’t a school teacher and she was a compassionate woman. She pulled James close to her for another hug. She held him till his sobbing and jerking subsided, then led him from her studio into the living room and had him sit on an upholstered chair. She brought his glass of Coke to him after refilling it in the kitchen, set it in arm’s reach from him on the end table next to him and sat close by in another chair.
Then she waited for him to be completely calm. Eventually, he was.
She asked him to take the peas away so she could study his face. The look on her face showed compassion and understanding but also separateness; it was as though a part of her was watching and evaluating and assessing—that, while she was there for him, with him, had great empathy for him, she was also within her own self. There was a sense of her knowing who she was that was always there. James saw it now. It actually helped him settle himself. While doing that, he waited, knowing she’d speak. He knew her very well. He trusted her absolutely.
“James, I know what you’re feeling. Not because I’ve been there myself but because I can read your eyes. You’re feeling that all is lost. You’re at that point where you feel you’ve hit rock bottom, there’ll be no more joy for you ever, that hope has vanished.
“Well, it hasn’t. Listen to me: it hasn’t! You’re still you, and you have such great potential that you’ll find that this is but a small, insignificant setback. There’s so much ahead of you, so much more to come. Great stuff. Great adventures and accomplishments and successes that will make your heart sing and your body stand tall. There’s no way that you can know this, that you can feel it right now, but if you trust me at all, you can start to believe that it’s true.
“Right now, you’ve lost hope. You’re going to be amazed when you see what will come, and it’ll begin in the next few minutes, hours and days. Right now, you feel hopeless. When you feel it again during your life, if you remember how you’re feeling now, you’ll know it won’t be permanent. You’ll remember and know that it’s important to keep going, because if you keep going, things will get better. It’s the standing-up and keeping-on-going that assures that.
“Please, James—remember that. Now. Let’s take your problems one by one. These unsolvable, hopeless problems that you’re facing. What’s the worst one?”
James was feeling better. Just sitting with her, letting her unconquerable spirit help support him, was doing its magic. Mrs. Ford was amazing. Nothing fazed her. Nothing at all. He was safe when he was with her.
He managed to speak. “Well, my horn. It’s ruined. And without my horn . . . my horn is everything to me. But there’s no way I can get another one. It’s the school’s horn, and I was told when I got it to take care of it because it was the only one they had, and there was no money in the budget for any new instruments this year. The band director said he was going to have to donate some of his own money to get the budget out of the red. He can’t afford to buy a new horn, the school can’t, either, and for sure my father won’t.”
James hung his head.
“All right. A new horn. That’s a problem we can solve. See, James, your horn was ruined by this McKindry boy. Therefore, he’s responsible for its replacement.”
James shook his head. “No, that won’t work. His father is a bigwig in this town. He’s a lawyer. I think he’s on the school board and maybe the town board, too. That’s what Giff says and why he gets away with everything he does. The principal turns a deaf ear to anything that’s said against him because his dad, being on the school board, is sorta his boss. I went to the principal before, the first time Giff bullied me. We’re always told to report bullying, so I did. Nothing happened. Except I got beat up again.”
“Okay, that’s another problem to address. That’s number two: number one is replacing your horn, and number two is straightening out your principal to get the bullying at your school under control. What else?”
James blushed. “I told you. It’s embarrassing to talk about it again.”
“Ah, yes, your parents. That is a more difficult challenge, but if you’ll stiffen your spine a little, which you can do, it can be resolved. Standing up for yourself may be difficult, but I know you, James. If you put as much effort into fixing that as you do into your horn, you’ll be shocked at what you can accomplish. I mean that. You’ll be shocked!
“I’ll be right there with you. You’re not alone with this. You’re not quite ready to attack any of these things by yourself. But you won’t have to. Now, that’s three problems. I have a feeling there’s a number four. In fact, I’m pretty sure of it. I know you, James. I’ve known you for a few years now, watched you grow. You’re one of my absolute favorites. Are you aware of that?”
When James simply looked down at his lap, Mrs. Ford nodded and said, “I didn’t think so. But it’s true. Now, do you want to address this other worry you have, or are three problems enough for now?”
She smiled at him. With that smile, aimed directly at him, a feeling of warmth developed within him. He looked into her eyes. “You know?” he asked. “How could you know?”
“I know and have been friends with many, many gay musicians. Good friends. I’ve spent lots of time with them. Not all of them have anything that points to them as being gay, but many of them do. I doubt anyone else could see anything in you that suggests you’re gay, but I see things that tell me you’re probably part of that club.”
She smiled again and reached out and laid her hand on his arm. “It’s nothing you have to be ashamed of or try to hide when you’re with me. If you ever want to talk to someone about anything concerning that, I’m here and I’ll listen. And you have no reason to be embarrassed about anything. I even understand gay sex, probably to a degree you don’t at your age. I’d be amazed if you don’t have questions. I can answer them or find someone who can. But that’s for another time. This isn’t a problem and doesn’t need fixing. Maybe discussing, but not fixing.
“Right now, we should deal with problem number one. You and I, dealing with it together. You’ll be part of the solution. Let’s do this.”