Storms 01 - Family Storms

their corners. “Weren’t you playing an instrument in the school you attended before you came here?”
    “No. We didn’t have a school band.”
    “We have an orchestra. Not a band,” she corrected, and I followed her out. “We have three full minutes between classes, so being late is considered serious. Two times late for classes will result in one day’s detention. And you don’t want to be in detention here. Mr. McWaine runs it, and he doesn’t let students do anything for the whole hour. No reading, no homework, nothing but sitting up straight with your hands clasped. Not that I’ve ever been in detention,” she added. “Have you?”
    “No.”
    “You might get away with it because of your limp.”
    “I don’t want to get away with anything because of my limp,” I said sharply, but she didn’t notice my annoyance, or if she did, she ignored it.
    “That’s the way to the cafeteria,” she said, nodding to our left. “On Tuesdays and Wednesdays, they have pizza. It’s thick and full of cheese, and you can ask for pepperoni to be put on it if you like. I love pepperoni. The juniors andseniors have their classes mostly down on this end,” she continued. Then she leaned in to say, “Everyone’s going to be asking me all sorts of questions about you. For starters, who was Chinese, your father or your mother?”
    “My mother.”
    “Did you eat with chopsticks? I hate it. It takes too long to eat. My fingers are too fat and clumsy, anyway.”
    “We didn’t eat with chopsticks at home,” I said. “But always in an Asian restaurant. You shouldn’t eat fast, anyway. It’s not good for you.”
    “Oh, are you one of those health nuts?”
    “No,” I said. “I’m just nuts.”
    She looked at me and laughed. “You lived in Santa Barbara?”
    I nodded.
    “I’ve been there, of course. It’s very nice. Do you miss it?”
    “I miss a lot,” I said sharply. I did, of course, only it had mostly to do with Mama.
    She saw the tears in my eyes. “Oh, let’s hurry. We’ve only got another thirty seconds.” she began to walk faster. Keeping up with her made me limp more dramatically, and for some reason, I felt pain in my hip.
    Just before we turned into the music room, she paused and said, “The music teacher’s name is Denacio. Everyone loves him, but they still call him Mussolini. You know who that was?”
    “Yes.”
    “Then you know not to fool around in here,” she said, and we entered.
    Nothing could have made me more curious. Why was I assigned to instrumental music? Didn’t I have a choice?
    Room fourteen was a bigger classroom, but the class was half the size of my homeroom. Mr. Denacio was tall and lean, with coal-black hair and a coal-black thick mustache. He had piercing ebony eyes as well. He had his jacket off and the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to his elbows.
    “Let’s not waste time,” he said when the bell rang. “I want to see how many of you really practiced over the summer, and don’t think any of you can fool me about that.”
    The students around me went to their instruments. I stood there, feeling foolish.
    “Okay,” he said, nodding at me. “Sasha March?”
    “Yes.”
    “I’m Mr. Denacio. I understand you’re here to learn how to play the clarinet.”
    I stared dumbly. Before I could say anything, he reached back and picked up an instrument case.
    “It’s a pretty good piece,” he said. “Just take your seat over there.” He nodded at an empty desk on my right. “I’ll get to you in a little while.”
    “I never played the clarinet,” I said.
    “No kidding. That’s why you’re here to learn, Miss March. Look around you. None of these geniuses knew anything much about the instruments they play now when they began here. This is why we call it an educational institution.”
    No one laughed, but everyone smiled. He handed me the instrument case, and I went over to my desk. Lisa was at the rear of the classroom, taking out a flute. I opened the case and saw the inscription on the inside cover.
    Alena March.
    Under that was her address, and at the very bottom was a tiny goldplated plaque that read,
We love you. Dad and Mom.
    I closed the case. Why hadn’t Mrs. March told me she already had this for me? I had never said I wanted to play the clarinet. Would it be ungrateful of me to refuse?
    I watched Mr. Denacio test every student. He complimented only two and told the others they had to make up for ignoring their instruments. Everyone