Hereditary Sadness

Chapter Three-Jamie

NOTE TO READERS:  This chapter contains some racial insults from the novel's antagonist.  They are, without a doubt, heinous and unconscionable and in no way reflect the opinions of the writer.  Just to be clear, being bias against someone because of his/her/their ethnicity, religion, or sexual preference is never okay.  My hope is that you, the reader, will empathize with Jamie as she deals with the injustices in her life.

(Mid-September)

            "Jamie, you're up."  My band teacher, Mrs. Church, stands at the front of the class impatiently waiting for me to gather my things and join her.  I'm so nervous that my trumpet almost slips from my grasp, but I catch it at the last second.   Today we have our chair auditions to determine where we rank in our playing abilities.  I spent a lot of time practicing over the summer, and I am confident that I will get first chair this year.  I glance quickly at Miles, last year's first chair, and I head over to Mrs. Church. 

I know Miles is watching me, which makes me even more nervous.  He always has a smirk on his face because I'm pretty sure he thinks he's better than everyone else.  Dad used to warn me about trumpet players like Miles.  Dad used to say, "Jamie-J, I know you love the trumpet, baby girl, but there are a lot of trumpet players who act bigger than they really are.  Don't be that kind of trumpeter.  Be better than them."  And then Dad would put on these old records of Miles Davis, and we would listen to them for hours. 

I started playing when I was only six.  At that age, I could barely hold a trumpet.  I took private lessons until Dad died, but then we couldn't afford them anymore.  When I got to fourth grade, I still knew more than most of the other kids.  For starters, I knew who Miles Davis was!  Now I play next to a Miles, but he doesn't even come close to the real Miles.  Seems like a waste of a good name to me.

"Whenever you're ready, you may begin," Mrs. Church says as she sits on her stool with clipboard in hand.  I put my trumpet to my mouth and take a deep breath.  The first note out of my trumpet sounds like my instrument is farting, and everyone laughs.  I realize I forgot to warm up my lips.  That has never happened to me before.  I play a few quick, simple notes, and Mrs. Church frowns and writes something on her clipboard.  I play the scale she gives me.  Then I play the music she gave us to practice.

When I finish, I know I've performed below my ability.  I'm sweating a little, and I have a really strong urge to go throw up.  I swallow it down and go back to my seat.  Miles smiles at me and says, "Nice job, Jaime."

I stick out my tongue, but what I really want to stick out is my middle finger.  So I just sit there and give him the evilest glare I can give him.  He just sits there and keeps smiling.  I finally turn my back to him because I can't stand to look at him another gross second.

"Miles, you're up."  Miles gathers his things all cool-like and struts up to the front of the room.  All the girls in the class are staring at him because, unfortunately, he's kinda hot.  I pretend I'm not interested in his playing, but he sounds amazing.  Every pitch, every note is perfect.  I hate him even more.  When he finishes, the whole class erupts in applause.  I raise my hand and ask if I can go to the bathroom.  I grab the hall pass and practically run for the door.  Kimmy, the first chair saxophone last year, snickers as I rush by her.

"There goes Mrs. Jamerson's skunky daughter," she whispers to her friend but loud enough that I can hear her.  I stop and look at her.

"I don't stink, Kimmy.  Your mom stinks!"  I slam the band room door and walk victoriously to the bathroom.  What a stupid B, I think to myself.  At least I threw one back at her. And then it hits me—Kimmy wasn't calling me a skunk because I stink; she was calling me a skunk because I have a white mother and a black father.  I start crying right there in the handicap stall of the girls' bathroom.  I try to get myself together, but I can't stop.  I'm not usually a big crier, even at sad movies.  Mom bawls at commercials and then looks at me like I'm heartless.  I don't understand what's wrong with me. I try to think about something that makes me happy.  I think about Miles Davis' Kind of Blue album, and I can hear the music in my head.  Then I remember chair auditions, and the tears start fresh.  Suddenly, I hear footsteps in the bathroom, and I know I'm no longer alone.