“Let’s move down to the bass clef,” she said. “The lines here are G, B, D, F, and A. You can remember that by saying Good Burritos Don’t Fall Apart, or Great Big Dogs Fight Animals. The spaces here are A, C, E, and G. You can remember that by saying All Cows Eat Grass.”

  Huh? What’s a clef? Playing video games is a lot easier than learning how to read music.

  “This is called a rest,” Mrs. Bacon said, drawing a squiggly thing on the board. “It means you take a little rest between notes.”

  “I’m not tired,” I said. “What if I don’t want to take a rest?”

  Andrea rolled her eyes.

  “Let’s talk about notes,” said Mrs. Bacon, drawing on the board. “This is a half note. There are whole notes, half notes, quarter notes, and blah blah blah blah . . .”

  By this time, I was totally confused. I started pretending my pencil was a rocket ship flying across my desk. Any time you’re bored at school, just pretend your pencil is a rocket ship. That’s the first rule of being a kid.

  “I don’t get it,” I said. “Why would I want to play half a note? I say if you’re going to play a note, you should play the whole note. My parents always tell me if you’re going to do something, you should do it right.”

  “This is going to be harder than I thought,” mumbled Mrs. Bacon.

  I looked over at Michael. He was staring out the window.

  “Two half notes equal one whole note blah blah,” said Mrs. Bacon. “And four quarter notes equal one blah blah. A whole note is four beats. A beat is blah blah a half note is two blah blah a quarter note is one blah blah an eighth note is a half a blah blah blah . . .”

  What a snoozefest. I had no idea what she was talking about.

  Then it hit me. To play music, you’ve got to do reading and math! It wasn’t fair! The only reason I agreed to learn the tuba was to get out of reading and math!

  I looked around. Ryan had stuck two pencils in his nostrils and was pretending to be a walrus. Neil crumpled up a piece of paper and was trying to balance it on his head.

  Mrs. Bacon took a tissue and wiped her forehead with it. Grown-ups are always sweating even when it’s not hot.

  “Our time is up for today,” she said. “I’ll see you next Thursday.”

  The next Thursday I got to school early, so I went around to the playground to look at the geese. And you’ll never believe what I saw out there.

  More geese! There were eight of them. It was creepy. Where were all these geese coming from? Canada, I guess.

  The bell rang, and I went inside the school. That’s when the weirdest thing in the history of the world happened. All the grown-ups were wearing earmuffs!

  Mrs. Roopy, our librarian, was wearing earmuffs. Mr. Docker, our science teacher, was wearing earmuffs. Mrs. Cooney, our nurse, was wearing earmuffs.

  “Why are you wearing earmuffs?” I asked Mrs. Cooney.

  “Uh, I’m chilly,” she replied.

  When I got to class, an announcement came over the loudspeaker: “THIRD GRADERS CAN PICK UP THEIR INSTRUMENTS TODAY IN THE BAND ROOM. AND TEACHERS WHO WOULD LIKE TO PURCHASE NOISE-CANCELING HEADPHONES CAN GET THEM IN THE FRONT OFFICE.”

  After we pledged the allegiance, we went to room 303. Our instruments were lined up waiting for us. Ryan got his French horn. Michael got his trumpet. Andrea got her clarinet. Emily got her flute. Alexia got her trombone. Neil got his drum. I got my tuba. It was cool.*

  “Are we going to learn more about reading music today?” asked Andrea.

  “No,” said Mrs. Bacon. “I think reading music is a little bit advanced for some students. Our first recital is in three weeks. So I’ve decided to teach you how to play by ear.”

  WHAT?! How was I supposed to play a tuba with my ears?

  “Can’t I use my mouth instead?” I asked.

  Everybody laughed even though I didn’t say anything funny.

  Mrs. Bacon told us to take the mouthpiece off our instrument so we could learn how to blow into it the right way. She showed each of us how to do it.

  “Now blow,” she said.

  We blew into our mouthpieces. It was an awful sound.

  “Cheeks and leaks make squeaks,” said Mrs. Bacon. “Try again.”

  It was still pretty horrible, but a little better. We did it a few more times. After we started getting the hang of it, Mrs. Bacon said it was time to try our first song. We put the mouthpieces back on our instruments.

  “This is one of my favorites,” Mrs. Bacon said, getting some paper out of her desk. “It’s called ‘Hot Cross Buns.’ I’m going to pass out—”

  “She’s gonna pass out!” shouted Ryan.

  “Call an ambulance!” I shouted.

  “I’m going to pass out a piece of paper to each of you,” said Mrs. Bacon.

  Oh. The paper had the words to “Hot Cross Buns” on it. It goes like this . . .

  Hot cross buns!

  Hot cross buns!

  One a penny, two a penny,

  Hot cross buns!

  What a ridorkulous song. Why would anybody make a song about buns? And you’re not going to make much money if you sell buns for a penny. The buns must be pretty yucky if you can get them so cheap.

  We all picked up our instruments. Mrs. Bacon showed each of us how to play “Hot Cross Buns.”

  “It’s easy,” she said. “There are only three notes in the whole song.”

  What?! How can a song only have three notes?

  “Let’s try it,” said Mrs. Bacon. “Ready? One . . . two . . . three . . .”

  She waved her chopstick around and we all tried to play the three notes.

  It was awful.

  “No! No!” shouted Mrs. Bacon, holding her ears. “Try again.”

  She waved her chopstick again and we all played. It was horrible.

  “No! No!” shouted Mrs. Bacon. “You’re not getting it! I want you to feel the hot cross buns! Try again.”

  She waved her chopstick and we played. It was terrible.

  “No!” Mrs. Bacon yelled. “You sound like those geese out in the playground!”

  She was right. We did sound a little like honking geese.

  “I think I’m getting a headache,” said Mrs. Bacon. “Take five, everybody.”

  “Five what?” I asked.

  “That means take a five-minute break, dumbhead,” Andrea told me.

  Mrs. Bacon went to get aspirin. I was going to say something mean to Andrea, but instead I did what I always do when the teacher leaves the room. I climbed up on my desk and shook my butt at the class.

  “Stop fooling around, Arlo!” said Andrea. “You’ll get in troub—”

  Andrea didn’t have the chance to finish her sentence because Michael snuck up behind her and blasted his trumpet right in her ear! Andrea freaked out and fell off her chair. It was hilarious.

  And you’ll never believe who walked into the room at that moment.

  It was Mr. Klutz!

  I climbed down from my desk. That’s when Mrs. Bacon came back into the room.

  “Mr. Klutz!” she said. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?”

  That’s grown-up talk for “What are you doing here?”

  “Oh, I just wanted to see how the students were making out with their instruments,” Mr. Klutz replied.

  “Gross!” we all shouted. “We’re not making out with our instruments!”

  Mr. Klutz walked over to me.

  “Ah, yes,” he said. “This brings back memories. I played the tuba once, you know.”

  “Just once?” I asked. “I guess you weren’t very good.”

  Mr. Klutz told us he played the tuba in his college marching band. For fun, he said, he would stick his head in the tuba and have his friends blow into it. It made a funny sound because his bald head made a tight seal against the horn.

  “Can you show us?” asked Ryan.

  “Sure!” said Mr. Klutz. “Watch this.”

  He stuck his head inside my tuba.

  “Okay,” Mr. Klutz said. “Blow!”

  I blew into my tuba. It made a hilarious sound. Everybody laughed, even Mrs. Bacon.

  “Wait a minute,” said Mr. Klutz. “I think my head may be stuck.”

  It was true. I guess his head was bigger than it was during his college days.

  “Mr. Klutz’s head is stuck in the tuba!” shouted Neil.

  “Help!” shouted Mr. Klutz. “Get me out of here!”

  Everybody rushed over to help.

  And you’ll never believe who walked into the room at that moment.

  It was Dr. Carbles, the president of the Board of Education!

  “Klutz!” he shouted. “Get your head out of that tuba! What’s the meaning of this?”

  I was going to give Dr. Carbles a dictionary so he could look up the meaning of “this.” But that’s when Mr. Klutz yanked his head out of the tuba.

  “Ouch!” he shouted. “I was just showing the students—”

  But he didn’t have the chance to finish his sentence.

  “I’m not paying you to stick your head into a tuba, Klutz!” thundered Dr. Carbles.

  “But . . . but . . . but . . .” said Mr. Klutz.

  We all giggled because Mr. Klutz said “but,” which sounds just like “butt” but only has one T.

  “And you!” shouted Dr. Carbles as he pointed at Mrs. Bacon. “I’m not paying you to wave a stick around while these kids make horrible honking noises! I’ll be at your recital in three weeks. If it’s as bad as this, you’ll be fired!”

  “Let’s talk about spit,” Mrs. Bacon said as we took our seats the next Thursday.

  Well, that’s a weird way to start class.

  Mrs. Bacon told us that when you blow into a mouthpiece, some of your saliva gets inside it. She said that brass instruments like trumpets, trombones, and tubas have this thing called a “spit valve.” Every so often you need to open it to blow the spit out of your instrument.

  Mrs. Bacon took Alexia’s trombone and showed her the spit valve. Then she told us to find the spit valve on our instruments. I looked all over my tuba until I found the spit valve. I pushed it, and some spit dripped out.

  “Hey, look!” I announced. “My tuba is peeing!”

  Everybody thought that was hilarious. Well, everybody except Andrea, of course.

  “That’s disgusting, Arlo,” she said. “Why don’t you take your tuba to the boys’ room and empty your spit there?”

  Hmmm, not a bad idea. Going to the bathroom is a great way to get out of class. That’s the first rule of being a kid.*

  “Can I go to the bathroom?” I asked Mrs. Bacon.

  “I hope so,” she replied. “If you can’t, you should go to a doctor.”

  Oh, yeah, I always forget. Grown-ups don’t like it when you say can I go to the bathroom. Nobody knows why. We’re supposed to say may I go to the bathroom.

  “May I go to the bathroom?” I asked.

  “Certainly,” replied Mrs. Bacon.

  I walked down the hall to the boys’ room. It wasn’t easy getting into the stall with my tuba. But I did it.

  I found the spit valve and opened it. Then I blew into the mouthpiece.

  That’s when the weirdest thing in the history of the world happened.

  MY MOUTHPIECE FELL INTO THE TOILET BOWL!

  Noooooooooo!

  I thought I was gonna die! This was the worst thing to happen since National Poetry Month! I wanted to run away to Antarctica and live with the penguins.

  I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to do. I had to think fast. So I ran back to room 303.

  “I need your help,” I whispered to Ryan. “I dropped my tuba mouthpiece into the toilet bowl.”

  “Dude, I’m not sticking my hand into a toilet bowl,” Ryan replied.

  “Me neither!” I said. “What should I do?”

  “You’ve got to tell Mrs. Bacon,” Ryan said.

  I raised my hand.

  “Is something wrong, A.J.?” Mrs. Bacon asked.

  “I . . . uh . . . just had a bathroom emergency,” I told her.

  “Oh, dear,” said Mrs. Bacon. “Should I call the nurse?”

  “You’d better call the custodian,” said Ryan.

  That’s when the weirdest thing in the history of the world happened. You’ll never believe who came into room 303 at that moment.

  It was our custodian, Miss Lazar! She was riding an electric scooter and carrying a toilet bowl plunger.

  Miss Lazar is like a real superhero. Anytime something goes wrong, she saves the day. She can clean up any mess and fix anything that breaks. She’s the only one in the school who can turn on the lights in the all-porpoise room because she has a special key.

  “It is I, Super Custodian!” Miss Lazar announced. “Any time somebody loses a retainer in the garbage can, or a student throws up in the cafeteria, I’m at your service. What happened?”

  “There seems to be a situation in the boys’ bathroom,” Mrs. Bacon told her.

  “A situation?” said Miss Lazar. “I love situations! You can count on me!”

  She scooted down the hall to the boys’ room.

  I followed her, telling her exactly what happened. When we got to the bathroom, she took a yellow rubber glove out of her pocket and put it on.

  “I’m really sorry,” I told Miss Lazar as she stuck her hand into the toilet bowl.

  “No worries,” she said cheerfully as she fished around in there. “I love it when kids drop things into toilet bowls. If kids didn’t drop things into toilet bowls, I wouldn’t have a job. In fact, I wish kids would drop more things into toilet bowls.”

  Miss Lazar is bizarre.

  “Got it!” she said, pulling out my mouthpiece. We washed it off in the sink.

  “It’s clean as a whistle,” she said, which makes no sense at all because whistles are full of spit too.

  When we got back to room 303, I told everybody what happened.

  “Hooray for Miss Lazar!” everybody shouted. She hopped back on her scooter.

  “It’s all in a day’s work,” she said. “Well, I have to go mop up the cafeteria. Duty calls!” Then she scooted out of the room.

  We all giggled because Miss Lazar said “duty,” which sounds just like “doody.” It’s okay to say “duty,” but we’re not supposed to say “doody.” Nobody knows why. If you ask me, those things should have different-sounding words.

  When class was over, Mrs. Bacon pulled me aside.

  “A.J.,” she said, “you didn’t have to go to the bathroom to empty your spit valve.”

  “I didn’t?”

  “Of course not,” she told me. “Professional musicians don’t go to the bathroom every time they have to empty their spit valve.”

  “What do they do?” I asked.

  “They just empty it on the floor,” said Mrs. Bacon.

  Ugh, disgusting! Professional musicians are gross!

  Practice makes perfect. That’s what Mrs. Bacon tells us.

  When I got home from school, I could have practiced playing my tuba, but I decided to play video games instead. Then I was going to practice my tuba after dinner, but there was a game on TV, so I watched it. Then I was going to practice my tuba after the game was over, but I had to clean my room because my mom told me to do that about a year ago. Then I was going to practice my tuba after I cleaned my room, but it was almost bedtime, so it was too late to practice my tuba.

  All week long, I had a lot of important stuff to do that made it impossible to practice my tuba. I had to make my bed. I had to floss my teeth. I had to line up my collection of Pez dispensers in size order. You know, important stuff.

  When I got to school the next Thursday, there were sixteen geese out in the playground. Sixteen! I counted them. They were multiplying. I didn’t even know geese could do math!

  That’s a joke. But seriously, not only were the geese multiplying, they were also dropping their goose poop all over the playground. It was gross.

  After we pledged the allegiance, we went to room 303.

  “Have you kids been practicing?” Mrs. Bacon asked as we walked in.

  “I forgot,” said Michael.

  “I forgot,” said Alexia.

  “I forgot,” said Ryan.

  “I forgot,” said Neil.

  “I forgot,” said Emily.

  Mrs. Bacon didn’t look happy.

  “I’ve been practicing!” shouted Andrea. Ugh.

  “Okay,” Mrs. Bacon said, “let’s try ‘Hot Cross Buns.’”

  I sat between Ryan and Little Miss Perfect. Mrs. Bacon waved her chopstick around and we played “Hot Cross Buns.” It sounded horrible.

  “No!” shouted Mrs. Bacon. “You’re not feeling the buns!”

  After we finished the song, Andrea leaned over to me.

  “Hey, Arlo,” she whispered. “Can you play solo?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Then why don’t you play so low we can’t hear you?”

  “Oh, snap!” said Ryan.

  Playing tuba is hard. You’ve got to push those buttons and blow into the mouthpiece and hold the big tuba up all at the same time. But Mrs. Bacon said I was making progress, and she gave me my yellow belt. Of course, Little Miss Know-It-All had already earned her yellow, orange, green, and blue belts. Why can’t a truck full of hot cross buns fall on her head?

  After we played the song a few more times, Mrs. Bacon taught us a song with four notes—“Mary Had a Little Lamb.” That’s a weird song. It’s about a lamb that follows a girl to school. Why would a lamb go to school? If I was a lamb, I would just stand around eating grass all day. School is the last place I’d go.

  Besides, how would a barnyard animal get through school security? At my school, visitors can’t come in unless they show their ID to Officer Spence, our security guard. If a lamb ever snuck into our school, there would be a lockdown, and Officer Spence would probably shoot it with a tranquilizer dart.