The Boy in my Locker

SERIAL STORY

You sound like a dying pig.

CHAPTER 8: TRUMPET

Ten minutes left in fifth period. Ten minutes before the hallways filled with ruthless, self-centred, nosey elementary kids. I had one chance to retrieve my trumpet, along with a second one for Truent to use on the other side.

I slipped into the music room, not caring what Mr. Meebly might say.

“Aubrey?” Mr. Meebly stood at the back of the classroom by the sink. “Where were you?” He held a clarinet reed under the tap—a couple of students waited beside him. Loud cacophonic noises filled the cluttered room as my classmates packed up their instruments. Charlie faced the front, still proudly blasting his instrument at the whiteboard. Megan sat in the corner by the drums playing on her phone. “I need two trumpets, please,” I said.

“Excuse me?” Mr. Meebly turned off the running water.

Who was I kidding? I couldn’t believe I just asked him that question. “Um, I need two trumpets, please.” “What for?”

If I lied, I would be no better than Megan Knight and her batch of Empire wannabees.

“Mr. Meebly. It’s really important. I can’t explain right now. I’m sorry I missed class. Can I please just promise you that I will return them very soon?”

Mr. Meebly handed the clean reed to Amy Larken and then turned the tap back on. “Okay. Take yours and number six.”

“Okay. Thanks, Mr. Meebly.”

“Sure. I trust you, Aubrey.”

I darted through the maze of chairs and music stands and grabbed the two trumpet cases. Not one student noticed me. Big surprise.

Racing back into the hall and up the stairwell, my heart pounded through my dorky ‘Pink-Nation’ Tshirt. I looked at the clock on the wall in the hallway. Six minutes until the bell.

“Truent!” I whisper-shouted. “Truent, we’re clear.”

Truent poked his head out of the copy room and scurried to the locker. His dirty goggles covered his eyes and a goofy smile spilled over his face. “Brilliant. Just brilliant.”

“Take this.” I handed him the number six and pushed him beside my locker. Twice around to the right, once to the left, and then straight to number eight. I swung the door open and stepped back.

“Are you ready?” I said, checking the time again.

Truent muttered to himself, watching me pull out my trumpet. His lips mirrored mine as I placed my mouth on the cold brass piece. He backed up into the cramped space and placed his left hand on the mirror. His other hand gripped tightly onto the case.

My nostrils flared. Truent closed his eyes.

I inhaled all the air I could. And then some more. Phlat!

The painful distorted noise bounced off the walls.

“Try again,” Truent urged.

Phlat! Ph—phlat!

“What’s happening?” Truent opened his eyes. “That’s not nearly enough decibels. Is that the sound it makes? Is that as loud as you can blow?”

I pulled off the mouthpiece and analyzed the airflow. The valves seemed to work and the pipes were ‘spit-free’. “I can blow, louder,” said a voice from down the hall.

I turned to see Charlie around the corner near the stairwell. He must have seen me in the music room after all.

I turned to Truent again and put the mouthpiece back in.

Phlat!

Nothing.

“Let me try,” Charlie said. “Are you trying to teach this boy how to play?”

“No,” I replied. “Go away.”

Phlat! I tried again.

Giggles echoed from the other end of the hall, followed by loud footsteps. “Hey, it’s Dropzone!” Megan strutted down the corridor with her band of half-wits. They always liked to cut through the Intermediate wing just to feel like they were older and cooler than they actually were.

“What’s happening, Ms. Aubrey?” Truent said. “Why are they here?”

“We got out early,” Charlie replied, looking curiously at the strange boy in my locker. “Now, give me that trumpet. I can show him how it works.”

“Dropzone. You sound like a dying pig. Do it again!” Megan chuckled as she tossed her binder in her locker a few rows up. “I need a good laugh after that boring music class.”

“Please go away,” I muttered. I put my mouth to the trumpet again. “I can do this. I’ll get you home.” More students filtered into the locker bay. I closed my eyes, trying to forget anyone was watching. “But, these people,” Truent began. “They won’t understand.”

“No, you need to save your tribe. Now, be quiet. Let me do this.”

“But what if I can’t work the instrument?” Truent lifted the other trumpet case to his chest. “What if I have trouble like you?”

A hand reached from behind. “Give that to me. I’ll show him. I can do it!”

Charlie yanked on the trumpet and pulled it from my grasp. He quickly sucked in and blasted all of his energy through the brass piece, pushing out a triumphant, warm, metallic, pitch.

A perfect pitch.

A perfect sound.

In a flash, the walls and floor disappeared. The air shifted between hot and cold as the lights faded to a dull brown. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t move.

A light appeared inside a dark hole, growing brighter, whiter, hotter. My throat tightened.

The floor returned, only now covered in dirt. Black dust and ashes once again filled the air. I knew what was happening.

I had returned.

“Help me!” shouted a voice. “I’m going to die! I’m going to die!”

A grey cloud of debris thinned, rising up over a wall of rubble and twisted metal. On the sandy ground, near my feet, two bodies lay—coated in black.

“Truent?” I said. “Is that you?”

“Yes,” he replied. He slowly rose to his feet, still holding the trumpet case. “You’re here?”

“I’m here,” I repeated.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he replied.

To be continued May 6