After a few deep and nervous breaths, Glen walked through the door, about to begin his very first day of school in Canada. The cinder block walls and laminate floors created an appearance that was similar to his previous school. His knapsack was firmly mounted on his back with both shoulder straps. The halls were filled with the crowded noise of friends chatting, bullies hunting for victims and teachers preparing to begin.
Glen reached into his pocket to find a piece of paper that he had crumpled up earlier on in the morning. It was his schedule. It would become the agenda of his school days ahead. After taking a look, he noticed that under Period One was written simply “MUS3M-03 — MONTGOMERY, K. — 215B.” He then made his way up the tiled stairs and down the seemingly endless corridor to room 215B, the music room. He hated the idea of doing music.
In New York State, music had never been mandatory and because of his disinterest he had never even gone to the extent of picking up a musical instrument. However here, in his new school music was mandatory for at least one year. The bell rang. Glen entered the room. He found a seat in the middle of the third row from the front and put down his things on the black, scratched up music stand. After three long minutes, Mr. Montgomery entered the room quickly, with his shoulders back and chin up. In his cranky yet powerful voice, he began.
—Welcome students. In this course, we will build upon our skills from previous years. You will continue with the same instruments. Right now, I am passing around a sheet where you will fill in your names and instruments.
When the sheet got around to Glen, the chart was about half full. He wrote down his name: “Glen Garry Prescott” and ...
... middle of paper ...
...ow. You’ve got a lot of, well, raw potential. Never have I ever seen something like this, someone like you, even at Juilliard, I mean, you have a gift, never have I seen such a truly gifted musician, yes, a musician. Congratulations, Mr. Prescott.
Glen sank in his seat quite motionless, pressed down by the heavy-headed confusion of what he had just heard. He asked:
—Sir, may I take my clarinet home with me again tonight?
Mr. Montgomery, with an ear-to-ear smile, replied:
—Why do you even ask, Mr. Prescott? Keep nourishing your gift, keep getting better, come back and amaze me again tomorrow.
The bell rang. Mr. Montgomery blurted out with his distinctive loud, slow and crusty voice:
After signing out his instrument, Glen mounted his knapsack on his shoulders and walked slowly out the door, still shaken by the Mr. Montgomery’s shocking praise.
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