The Waffler by Gail Donovan

“You’re a Grand Old Flag.” Monty wondered if he would still be in the band in high school. He didn’t see any guys playing flute, though. How could he talk his parents into letting him switch instruments again?
    The band went past, and then came a convertible car with Miss Maine perched above the backseat, smiling and waving. Then came some soldiers in uniforms, marching. First were some men and women, and then some older men, and then a couple of super- old guys. Monty’s dad said they were veterans from all the different wars. After the veterans came some clowns, spinning around in little cars, and finally the Scout troops in tan shirts with red kerchiefs around their necks. Monty scanned the group for Leo.
    â€œThat’s him!” shouted Monty, pointing. “See the little kid with the buzz cut? Leo, hey, Leo!” He was waving like crazy and shouting, but he didn’t think Leo could hear. Then a big, booming shout rang out.
    â€œLeo!” roared Monty’s dad. “Leo!”
    Leo turned, saw Monty, and waved. Monty waved back. He felt his dad put an arm around his shoulders and squeeze him close. Monty didn’t dare look up. He was pretty sure his dad was crying again.
    They watched the rest of the parade—a group of marchers waving flags with doves, a fire engine, and finally a police car—and then listened to some speeches. Monty didn’t feel mad at his dad anymore. He just felt afraid he might make his dad sad again. Monty had known forever that his grandfather was dead, but he’d never realized what that
meant
. Granddad was his dad’s
dad
. The way Monty felt, thinking about this stuff, made him understand why his dad never talked about his father.
    At the very end, after all the speeches, the trumpet player from the high school band played a song all by himself. The crowd was totally silent while the trumpet notes hung in the sky, and Monty knew what he would pick, if he could ever talk his parents into letting him switch instruments again. The trumpet.
    Did he dare ask his dad right now? Making an important request called for good timing. Was this a good time or not? Maybe not, because he’d practically made his dad cry. But maybe yes, because here they were. Together. Monty was hardly ever alone with his dad.
    â€œDad,” began Monty.
    â€œLet’s get home,” said his dad, setting off through the crowd.
    â€œDad,” tried Monty again, trotting to keep up with his dad’s long strides. The gray sky was starting to drizzle and the crowd was quickly thinning, people running to their cars. “Dad, you know the trumpet?”
    â€œWhat about it?”
    That sounded like grumpy-dad. Grumpy-dad walking home in the drizzle that was turning to rain. Maybe this wasn’t a good time.
    â€œWhat?” demanded his dad.
    Definitely not a good time. “Nothing,” he said.
    â€œWhat?”
repeated his dad. “Spit it out, Monty.”
    â€œCould I play trumpet?” he asked. “Instead of flute?”
    â€œYou want to switch instruments?” asked his dad. “Again?”
    â€œKind of,” admitted Monty.
    The sky was spitting rain for real now.
    â€œI don’t know, Monty. I’d like you to stick with something for once.”
    â€œI want to stick with Band,” protested Monty. “But I never really wanted to play flute.”
    The rain was coming down faster and his dad was walking faster, too. “Switching instruments isn’t going to solve anything. Sometimes you just have to stick with something until you get better.”
    â€œI’m not trying to solve anything,” said Monty. “I just want to play trumpet!”
    â€œI don’t know,” repeated his dad. “Let me talk to your mom.”
    Monty didn’t bother saying anything else. Monty’s dad talking to Monty’s mom was code for no. They walked the rest of the way up the hill in