Chapter 1 CHAPTER 1
Quiet is not my natural state, and today it’s impossible to be quiet. I turn to my best friend, Amelia, who is leaning against the wall reading, of course—her favorite way to pass time.

“How can you be so calm at a time like this?” I ask.

Everyone in the music hallway is talking and vibrating with nervous energy, me included. We’re waiting for Ms. Schader to post the list of who has been accepted into Jazz Notes. And it’s agony!

Amelia pokes me with the spine of her book. “I hope we’re in the same band, either way.”

“In jazz, you mean.” I look around. José and Noah are talking with the other trumpet players. Lina and Cassie hover near the seventh and eighth graders. We’ve all been together in concert band for the first week of school, but starting next week we will split up—some in concert band and others in Jazz Notes, the best band at Fyfe Middle School.

No one else knows yet, but I, Madge Hesse, am destined for greatness.

I have the trophy to prove it, a gold plaque with my name under the words “BEST TROMBONIST.” When I walked up to accept the award and shake our music teacher’s hand at fifth-grade graduation last spring, Oma cried.

I belong in Jazz Notes. Oma knows it too. When I set up my music stand at home, my grandmother opens a book as if to read. When I play, though, Oma listens and her slippers keep time like a soft-brush drumbeat. And when I finish, she is smiling.

The anticipation is getting to me. I press my lips to my trombone mouthpiece, buzzing out three rapid high tones.

Amelia scrunches her eyes shut. “Madge, please stop.”

“Sorry.” I tuck my mouthpiece into my pocket. Sometimes it’s hard having a best friend who doesn’t like loud noises. “It’s just, I have to get in! I want to improve my ear, smooth my tone, get really good, get—”

“Boston Pops good,” Amelia finishes for me. “Your dream since last year.”

“Since forever,” I say.

Amelia, earbuds in, continues reading, as if she doesn’t care if she’s in concert band with Mr. G or Jazz Notes with Ms. Schader.

I lean over my upright trombone case. “What are you reading?”

Amelia shows me the cover, an empty milkshake glass on a blue-checked tablecloth. “It’s amazing,” she says. “It’s about an ice cream parlor and a quiet girl and her baby brother.”

“What’s her name, the quiet girl? Is it ‘Amelia’?” I tease.

“Haha, it’s ‘Fern.’ ”

I take out my mouthpiece again and roll it around in my hand. At the end of fifth grade, Ms. Parker told us to keep practicing. And I did. All summer I didn’t play catch with Jax or meet Amelia in the park until the notes ran smooth. I tried to get Amelia to practice with me, but half the time she said she was going to the library or over to Jax’s place.

I purse my lips into a perfect embouchure position and buzz into my mouthpiece again.

The buzzing makes Amelia sigh and close her book. “We probably won’t get in, you know.”

“Don’t jinx it,” I say.

Amelia leans into the lockers, away from the crowd. “I can’t believe Ms. Schader makes everyone re-audition every year.”

“That makes it fair,” I say. “Only the best are in Jazz Notes.”

“I’m not sure about my audition,” she says. “I don’t know if it was good enough.”

“We’ll know soon,” I say.

A week ago Amelia and I practiced scales and the audition piece over and over. “Shufflin’ in F” is ingrained in my head now. The day of the audition, I was nervous but pumped. When Ms. Schader nodded for me to begin, I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and played like I was already famous. All the practicing and rehearsing made a difference: At the end of my audition, Ms. Shader said, “Nice tone.”

Cassie walks over to me and Amelia. Her curls brush her shoulders. She’s wearing a Swift tee and black jeans, clearly the right clothes for middle school. Next to that combo Amelia’s blue-striped top and sweatpants make her look young, even though we’re all the same age, eleven.

“Hey,” I say. I smooth my faded black shirt, with my favorite cheerful sunflower on it. I’m glad that I’m wearing black jeans too.

“This is so exciting!” Cassie says.

“And scary,” I say. “I have to get into jazz band.”

“Did you sing for your audition?” Amelia asks Cassie.

“Yeah, and played keys,” she says.

“Double chances!” I say, envious. Cassie, one of the best singers in choir last year, plays the piano really well too.

“You two have a better chance than me,” Cassie says. “Bands always need trombonists. And saxophonists. Did you know Lina switched from flute to alto sax just to try out for jazz?”

“Wow,” says Amelia.

I look over at Lina. She’s waiting by the door quietly, her back straight with a single braid between her shoulder blades. Switching to saxophone—she must want to be in Jazz Notes as much as I do. She probably practiced hard all summer too.

“Only one keyboardist gets in.” Cassie crosses her fingers. “I heard Ms. Schader expects everyone to be dedicated.”

“Then Madge is in,” Amelia says.

“Don’t say that. I’m sure we’ll both get in!”

“The mouse and the lion,” Cassie teases.

I throw an arm around Amelia because I know it bugs her when people call her a mouse. “We’re a team,” I say, remembering how Amelia saved me last winter when I fell from a tree and was too hurt to get up. My friend might be small—and quiet—compared to me and the rest of the class, but she’s the best.

The music room door opens. Cassie and I shriek.

“This is IT, Amelia!” I grab her shoulders. “This is the moment that will decide our future!”

I turn to join the wave surging toward our music teacher.

“Back up!” Ms. Schader says with a smile. “Now, everyone, please remember that concert band is as important as jazz band. Mr. G and I are looking forward to making music with all of you.”

She tapes the list to the door and disappears back into her classroom. There’s a mad shuffling and pressing, and I’m right in it. Whoops and cries and claps flood the hallway.

I turn. Amelia is not following me. She has moved away from the noise.

“I’ll check for us!” I call to her.

The oldest students see first, and some of them high-five. I notice a few downcast and closed-up faces. Those students shift their backpacks, grab their instruments, and leave.

Please don’t let that be me. My shirt sticks under my arms. I need to know, but I’m too far away to read the names.

José is the first sixth grader to find out. He jumps above the crowd, his white tee like a light. He turns so we can all see the spark in his brown eyes and the happy disbelief on his face.

“I’m in!” he yells. “I’m IN!”

Noah pounds him on the back. “Who else, who else?”

Lina squeezes between them and gasps. Her hand flies to her mouth. “Me too!”

Cassie presses forward and cries, “I can’t believe it! I’m in too!”

I trip over a trumpet case to get closer. “Sorry!” I recover and stretch to look over a wall of shoulders. I call across the crowd, “Who are the trombonists?”

Cassie, José, and Lina turn to me, their faces bright. “MADGE!”

“What?!” I push through. I have to see for myself.

I scan the list, and there I am: Madge Hesse, one of four names under “Trombone.”

I am IN.

“YAHOO!” I yell in my biggest voice, and people laugh and slap my shoulders and shout congratulations.

I close my eyes briefly, almost light-headed with relief and joy. I believed in me, but making jazz band is huge. It’s confirmation. Music is in my blood.

“What about Amelia?” I ask. I read the trombone names again: Boris. Willia. Zan. Me.

Amelia isn’t on the list.

My heart stings like a Band-Aid coming off. Our musical paths are divided now. I search the thinning crowd, but she’s gone. Maybe she left because the hall was too loud—or maybe she did care about getting into Jazz Notes, after all.

I read the whole list. I’m one of only four sixth graders who made it into Jazz Notes. Besides me there’s Cassie, under keyboard, José with the trumpets, and Lina with the saxophones.

“We’re in! Amazing!” Cassie hugs me.

“Group hug!” José throws his arms around us and Lina, too. We hoot, jumping up and down.

“Ah, look, it’s the newbies,” says a tall guy with drumsticks poking out of his back pocket.

“Welcome to jazz band,” a girl with a strand of green hair says to Lina. “I’m Natalie, first sax chair.”

There’s a tap on my shoulder. “Welcome to the T-bones. I’m Zan.”

When I turn, I’m eye level with Zan, and he’s not short. In fifth grade I was always the tallest kid. Now my height fits right in. But more important than Zan’s height is that he is beyond cute. Dark curls hug his neck and hang loosely down on his forehead. His smile makes his gorgeous brown eyes look even warmer. He’s wearing a black shirt with an image of haywire musical notes cascading from a horn, and his bare arms are toned.

I swallow, trying to act like my heart isn’t soaring like a fly ball.

“Thanks.” That’s all I can think of to say. I reach for his outstretched hand, and I swear, as we shake, music swells in my head like I’m the star in a movie.

“I’m brass too.” José reaches up, and Zan high-fives him.

“Better keep up!” Zan’s buddy with the drumsticks says.

Natalie pushes the drummer away. “Lay off, Dawes.”

“We will,” I answer boldly. “See you in jazz band.”

“Yeah, wait until you hear us!” Cassie links arms with me and thrusts a hip out.

“That’s right!” José slides close to Lina, who grins.

Everyone laughs. The four of us head toward the door, our instruments swinging. The handle of my trombone case feels exactly right in my hand as I walk with the best sixth-grade band kids at Fyfe Middle School.