Hirsh Sawhney - South Haven

“It’s just a tree,” said Siddharth, patting her head.

The dog’s ears pointed outward, and her tail shot up in the air. She started pacing back and forth, growling.

“Naomi, you’re gonna make me late.”

But her barks got louder and sharper.

Suddenly, a large falcon leaped from the oak and shot upward. As Siddharth watched the bird fly circles above their heads, another image from Atlantic City surfaced. During the trip, his mother had visited a boardwalk psychic who claimed that his dead grandmother was always watching over them — manifesting itself in birds. The psychic said that the presence of any unusual avian life might actually be a sign from Siddharth’s grandmother, and at the time, this notion gave him chills.

He resumed his journey, but with his eyes glued to the winged missile hovering in the clear blue sky. Yes, his mother might have sent the falcon. She might actually be inside of it, he thought. If the bird were actually her, he would apologize to it for so many things — for not drawing regularly or thinking of her more often. He would say sorry for that time she had wanted him to spend a night with his grandfather and he told her that his grandfather was old and boring and smelly. Naomi started barking again. The falcon nosedived toward the earth and grazed the grass, then shot back to the sky. It was now clutching something in its talons.

As it flew toward the main road, the bird released whatever it had hunted. The object crashed on the hood of a parked burgundy Taurus, then bounced to the ground. Siddharth anxiously jogged over to the car and was dismayed to discover that what had fallen was nothing but a crunched-up can of beer. “You’re fucking kidding me,” he mumbled. He stuffed the can down a sewer drain, and it made a plopping sound upon hitting the sooty water. Naomi approached him, once again wagging her tail and panting.

“Go home,” said Siddharth. She wouldn’t budge, so he threw a stick at her. He recalled what his father had said on the ride home from Atlantic City: birds were just birds, and the psychic was a goddamned liar.

* * *

During homeroom, the principal got on the PA system and told everyone to make their way to the gymnasium in an orderly fashion. Today was the band’s annual winter concert, which meant that Sharon would be performing. Siddharth had a vague recollection of her complaining about her mother not being able to attend the event.

He walked down the hall with his only homeroom friend, David Marcus, who was telling him about an upcoming ice-fishing trip. Siddharth was only half-paying attention. He still couldn’t get over the fact that David was shorter than him and not as funny, and yet he had somehow managed to bag a decent girlfriend.

By the time they reached the gym, it was already abuzz with the animated chatter of several hundred students. The basketball hoops had been cranked up, and the bleachers were out, behind a dozen rows of metal folding chairs. Mrs. Oliver, his blond math teacher, directed him and David to these chairs. He turned around and spotted Luca on the bleachers, sitting beside his skinny new girlfriend, Jeanette Horiuchi, who was part Japanese and part Italian. He had lost many hours counseling Luca about this volatile relationship, doling out advice he’d gleaned from the television.

Principal Moser, a short woman with huge glasses, got up onstage and stood in front of the closed curtain. She issued warnings about the consequences of disruptive behavior, smiling in spite of her stern tone. She said she wouldn’t be averse to issuing Christmas Day detentions, which made a few people laugh. “That’s no idle threat,” she added. “Right, Corey?”

Corey Thompson sat in the front row of chairs, flanked by a teacher on each side. He was smiling like a child who had been caught stealing candy. It struck Siddharth that the world was more fond of troublemakers than the kids who actually did what they were told.

When the curtain rose, the parents in attendance approached the stage to snap pictures. Siddharth spotted Sharon to the right, with all the other horn players. The entire band was wearing black pants and white shirts, except for Sharon, who was wearing a black turtleneck. She sat beside Kenny Hong, a Korean kid with golden glasses and spiked hair. Kenny seemed to be having a problem with his trombone, so he handed it to Sharon, who made some quick adjustments and then handed it back. He gave her a thumbs-up, and she nodded her head and cracked her knuckles.

As the band went through a series of screechy classical pieces, Siddharth’s mind wandered. He thought about how Arjun would have laughed at the idea of their mother communicating with them through a bird. He thought about how most of the other kids would soon be away with their families. Marc was flying to Florida, and Luca would be driving to Maryland. Even Sharon was spending Christmas with her father. All he had to look forward to were ten nonstop days of the Mohan Lal and Ms. Farber show.

Suddenly, the entire audience began clapping. Onstage, there was a huge commotion. Most of the band members cleared out, with just a few kids remaining. They brought out a full drum set, then wheeled out a wooden piano. Mr. Donahue, the ninth grade biology teacher, leaped onto the stage. He grabbed a microphone and told everyone to settle down. “People, you’re in for a real treat,” he said. He had a crew cut, and his thick eyebrows seemed as if they’d been drawn with permanent marker. “I and some talented musicians — all of whom are significantly more talented than myself — have formed a little jazz quartet. We call ourselves the Cotton Gins.” He put the microphone back, then brought an enormous guitar-like instrument over to the piano, where the eighth grade social studies teacher was sifting through some sheet music. A ninth grader named Keith Liaci seated himself at the drums.

“That’s my cousin,” said David Marcus. “Go, Keith!” He whistled. “Rock out!”

Siddharth stared at the drummer, who had a butterfly collar and large silver glasses, the kind that were tinted. Keith looked more like someone who had gone to junior high in Arjun’s day. From the bleachers, someone shouted, “I love nerds!”

He wondered if it had been Luca, but he could no longer see him. Turning back to the stage, he was surprised to see Sharon walking on with her trumpet. He hoped Luca wouldn’t say anything — not today. Not when she was about to do her thing.

Mr. Donahue introduced the members of the band, then said, “We’re going to play a song of Ms. Nagorski’s choosing. It’s a song of great beauty, of great importance. Unfortunately, it’s a song that most of you have never heard.” He slipped the mic back into its holster, and a few people clapped, mainly parents and teachers.

David kept whistling, which made Siddharth uncomfortable. He wondered why David wasn’t embarrassed about Keith. He wondered if he should be cheering for Sharon too.

Mr. Donahue snapped his fingers and counted to four in a firm whisper. He then started plucking the strings of his large instrument, which stood vertically, like a dance partner or a high-rise building. It emitted one of the deepest sounds Siddharth had ever heard.

After a few beats, the piano chimed in with two solid chords, and the pair went back and forth like this for a couple of minutes, as if they were having a conversation. When the drums kicked in, Siddharth started tapping his suede shoes against the shiny wooden floor. Keith held brush-like batons in his hands, not actual sticks. His shoulders bounced while he played, as if he were dancing in his seat. His head was turned to the side, and he looked peaceful and contented.

As for Sharon, she was just standing there, bobbing her head and tapping her hip. He couldn’t imagine her keeping up with these skilled musicians, but as soon as she started playing, he knew he was wrong. Her fingers pumped the trumpet’s keys like the pistons of a perfect machine. The sound her instrument emitted was sweet but serious, and it lodged itself deep into his bones. At first his insides were icy, but then he felt as if he were floating in bathwater. He could tell that Sharon was making up the notes as she went along, and he wondered how someone so young could play so well and why he had never known that his weird friend could do something so beautiful. In that moment, he was proud of her. In that moment, he wanted to be like Sharon.