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

on synthesizer, not real piano, so it was basically just chording. He played E minor for two measures, four quarter notes per measure, and then for another two measures. Was the whole song just E minor? No—here at last came a chord change. He moved to C for a measure, to D for a measure, and then back to E minor. Easy.
    Kevin glanced at the vocal line, just to keep himself interested. “Tommy used to work on the docks,” he sang softly, continuing to bang out the chords (E minor, E minor), “Union’s been on strike, he’s down on his luck, it’s tough….” (C, then D.) “So tough …” (Back to E minor.)
    Right around there, right when the song moved back to E minor, Kevin felt a shiver beneath his skin. There was something about the way that E minor chord landed when it came back that
agreed
with the lyrics. Life really
was
tough for this Tommy guy. With his left foot, Kevin worked the sustain pedal, and the chords bounced offthe walls of his bedroom. He kept singing. The second verse was about Tommy’s friend Gina, who worked at a diner. It sounded like she didn’t like working at this diner, but she didn’t have any choice, because of her and Tommy’s financial situation. The chords remained the same, but now the repetition, instead of feeling simple, was somehow deeply satisfying. Again the song moved through its simple changes, from E minor to C and then to D, like it was building, line by line, measure by measure.
    At the chorus the melody changed: more held notes, longer lines. Kevin sang out: “Whooah! We’re halfway there!” And then—
bam!
—out of nowhere, the E minor inverted, transforming into its bright-eyed cousin, G major! A big, gorgeous G major!
    “Whooooooooooooa! Livin’ on a prayer! ”
    After the chorus, the song went into a third verse, then returned to the chorus before launching,
whoosh,
into a long solo section—then one more huge, triumphant chorus. When he finished, Kevin played “Livin’ on a Prayer” again.
    That same night, in the basement of his dad’s house, where he stayed on the weekends, Chester Hu wasgetting really frustrated. “I can’t do it,” he shouted to no one, tossing his drumsticks to the ground. “I can’t! I
suck.”
    What Chester couldn’t do, he had decided after trying twice, was sustain a steady four kicks a measure on the bass drum, while hitting the snare on the two and the four, as was required to play the James Brown song “I Got You (I Feel Good).” Ms. Finkleman had named him the drummer for the sixties rock band (Band Number One) because Chester had briefly drummed for the Mary Todd Lincoln marching band. Of course, Chester had stunk in the marching band. Tromping along with his big shoulder-slung bass drum, he could never make it around the track without losing the tempo, losing his breath, or (on one extremely embarrassing occasion) losing the whole rest of the band and marching directly into a cluster of pom-pom girls.
    So, sure, he had been as psyched as everyone else about this rock-show thing—at first. But now, seated at the ancient drum kit that once had belonged to his uncle Phillip, holding the sticks in his hand, confronting the reality of how hard it was to play drums in a real band, his instinct was to quit immediately, take an F in Music Fundamentals, and go play video games. But Chester keptremembering all the crazy details of Bethesda Fielding’s Special Project—those pictures! The set list! The tattoo! Ms. Finkleman’s secret identity!
    How could he bail on this? It was like Batman had come to their school and was teaching a crime-fighting class!
    Face it, young man,
he thought,
it would be a shame to waste this splendid opportunity.
Chester shuddered, realizing he had gotten that phrase from dorky Mr. Bigelow, the guidance counselor with the mole who always smelled like after-dinner mints.
    Whatever. Chester picked up his drumsticks and tried again.
    Pamela Preston was
not
practicing her maracas. When she got