The Secret Life of Ms. Finkleman by Ben H. Winters

agreement.
    There was one thing about Ms. Finkleman’s deal that didn’t make sense … one thing that didn’t add up …
    If Ms. Finkleman was secretly the punk-rock singer/guitarist Little Miss Mystery, then why did she need Tenny Boyer to plan the rock show for the Choral Corral? Yes, Tenny was the kid at school who knew the most about rock—but Ms. Finkleman was actually a former rock star! Surely she knew more! Surely she was perfectly capable of creating the show by herself!
    And yet that was exactly the deal Ms. Finkleman had made with Tenny: He would choose the songs, plan the running order, decide who would be in which bands andwho would play which instruments. He would watch all the rehearsals and give her notes to give to the kids. He would secretly make all the decisions for Ms. Finkleman, who would then relay them to sixth-period Music Fundamentals as if they were her own.
    And in return for his help, Tenny would get some sorely needed help of his own. Bethesda Fielding—glad to have a chance to make up to Ms. Finkleman for revealing her hidden past—would tutor him in Social Studies so he wouldn’t flunk Mr. Melville’s infamous Floating Midterm and end up at St. Francis Xavier next year.
    It was a straightforward agreement, a three-way pact, to which all parties had readily agreed. All very simple.
    Except why on earth did Little Miss Mystery need Tenny Boyer?
    As for why Tenny needed Bethesda—well, that part was no mystery.
    “Tell me about the Bill of Rights,” she said firmly, pushing Tenny’s book back across the table.
    Long pause.
    “Huh?”

15

“LIVIN’ ON A PRAYER”
    Kevin McKelvey
sat at the giant antique Steinway that took up most of his bedroom, wearing his dark blue blazer and tie, his hair immaculately combed as always. He sighed. He looked out the window. He looked down in his lap. He cracked his knuckles. Finally, slowly, he lifted his hands up onto the keys and played a glittering glissando down the length of the keyboard. He sighed again.
    Kevin’s life, like his room, was dominated by the piano. Every day after school he went directly to the Band and Chorus room and practiced until Janitor Steve chased him out so he could lock the front doors. At home, after dinner, Kevin sat at the Steinway and practiced for a few hours more. His mother would stand just outside the door, listening; often he would find her there when he finally emerged to brush his teeth before bed.
    She would always smile and pat him on the back. “Piano is in your blood,” his mom liked to say. “It’s in your bones, dear.”
    Which was true. Walter “Walt” McKelvey was a world-class concert pianist who jetted around the world playing with various quartets, quintets, and philharmonics. When he was in town, home for a night or two from Berlin before taking off for Tokyo, he would lean against Kevin’s doorframe, arms crossed, and say, “All right, son. Show me where we are.”
    Kevin would sit and play the Goldberg Variations, or Chopin’s preludes, or something by Satie, while his mother beamed at her two geniuses and Kevin’s father listened solemnly, with his eyes closed. And then he gave notes. A half hour, maybe an hour, of corrections: “The adagio section is too fast, Kevin.” “You’re
assaulting
the keys, Kevin. Approach with diplomacy, not force.”
    And Kevin would nod. “Of course, Father,” and then Walter McKelvey would leave to catch a flight to Toronto or Charlotte or Kuala Lumpur, to accompany a symphony—and Kevin went back to practicing.
    Kevin sighed a third time and flipped opened the sheet music in front of him. For this rock-and-roll project, he’d been assigned to the keyboards (of course) and wasplaying for the eighties rock band, Half-Eaten Almond Joy. Their song, by a band Kevin had never heard of called Bon Jovi, was “Livin’ on a Prayer.”
    Well,
Kevin thought, quickly skimming the sheet music,
at least it’s not going to be hard.
    The original was done