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Chapter I

 Practice, Practice, Practice!

 The wind hummed through the trees and whoo-ed down a lane with houses graced by pillars, porches, and elegant entrances in the old part of Haneckhadee.  It danced around a statue of a Native American holding his bow like a staff and peering into the distance.

 "Hownow ohhhwow wooohphhew," the wind whispered the Indian's ancient chant.

 Behind the Indian rested an aging white colonial house with black shutters.  On the second floor, ten-year-old Charles Patrick Paganono practiced his piano.  His bangs tumbled into his eyes as his fingers stumbled.  He pounded the keys and gritted his teeth.  Then he grabbed the miniature bust of Mozart atop the piano and threw it against the wall.

 "Good for you, old Mustfart!" he shouted.

 Once, Charles had liked the piano.  He was five years old, and sometimes played for relatives and family friends.  They told him he was just like his father, that one day he too would play concerts.  But it got harder and his father made him practice, all the time.  And he'd yell when Charles made a mistake.  It gave him nightmares.  In one he dreamed his father had a toilet plunger and beat his hands.  He remembered falling off the bed, knocking his head against the corner of the woodwork.  It punctured his temple and they rushed him to the hospital.  He told the doctor about his dream, about how his father made him practice all the time and yelled.  Charles's lessons stopped.

 Nearly five years had passed.  It had been four months since he had resumed lessons.  Forced into the background were

his ant farm, his baseball cards, and home run hitter Nicky Noodle and the Windy City Dandies.  The only way he could escape was to go into the bathroom, and while he sat on the toilet, imagine himself hitting home runs.  And occasionally, in his bedroom at night, he'd sneak on his headphone radio and listen to the Dandies in the dark, waiting for Noodle to bat.

 It was agony now, trudging up and down these awful, endless keys.  He thought about the worm he had put in his ant farm.  For the ants, it was like a fight with a dinosaur.  Yet they won.  Charles wished he could watch them now or find an ant hill outside.  He'd put bits of carob by it and wait.  Slowly, the ants would come out.  Then he'd poke into the hole with a twig and they'd pour out, like kids during a fire drill.  And he'd pound, pound, pound away!

 "Charles!" his father roared from outside the room.

 Charles jumped and his hands fell off the keys.  James Paganono, whose figure resembled that of a giant teapot, stood in the doorway.

 "Do you like making those awful noises?" his father huffed and entered. "Oh my God!  Charles!  What's wrong with you!"

 His father's face reddened; his eyes narrowed.

 "You pick that up," he said.

 Charles picked up the pieces and put them on an adjacent bookshelf.  His father stood with his arms folded.

 "Sit down!" his father said.

 Charles returned to the piano stool and his father pulled up a chair.

 "Now you apologize for what you did," his father said.

 "I'm sorry," Charles mumbled.

 "I know you don't like the piano," he father said and took a breath. "But believe me when you grow up, you'll thank me for making you play.  Let me show you what I mean."

 His father nudged him over on the stool.  He set his manicured hands over the keyboard as if attaching them.  His hands seemed huge to Charles yet clean and smooth like a lady's.

 "Listen to this, Charles."

 Delicately his father pressed the keys.  How tinkly soft. The melody tiptoed, pleading its sorrow.  It made Charles feel as if he were saying goodbye to someone he liked but wouldn't see for a long time.  He noticed his father had closed his eyes and looked as if in pain.  And his father remained like this until he stroked the final note, holding it, slowly letting it fade.

 "That's Chopin," his father said.

 His father took a deep breath and removed his hands from the keyboard.

 "Don't you want to be able to play music like that?"

 Charles didn't answer.

 "Music's a very precious gift, Charles," his father said, his voice softening. "No matter how old you get, or how bad you feel, it'll be there for you, all the time.  You just sit down and play, and everything becomes all right.  You'll see what I mean, someday.  But you have to practice."

 His father got up.

 "Okay, let's hear your recital piece."

 Charles sat down.  His hands shook as he opened the sheet music.  He set his hands into position.  His fingers pushed down on the keys, then moved across.  It was Fur Elise by Beethoven, or as Charles secretly called it, "Furry Lisa."

 "A little more life, yes, yes," his father instructed. "Watch your legato.  That's better.  Repeat.  Good.  Good.  Okay now, mezzoforte.  Not bad.  Keep up the tempo."

 Everything was going well but the next part wasn't so easy.

 "Now watch your slurs.  Your slurs, your slurs!  Stop, stop!"

 His father pounded the stool.

 "How many times do I have to tell you!  The slurring is very important.  Do you realize your recital's only three weeks away!"

 His father shook his head, then leaned over Charles.

 "You've got to start getting this right, Charles," he said and hunched closer, speaking almost directly into Charles's ear. "I don't care how long you have to practice.  Do you hear me!"

 Charles didn't answer.

 "Do you hear me!" his father repeated.

 Charles mumbled a yes, and his father walked out and slammed the door.

 For supper Charles sat alone in the kitchen wary of his tofuburger.  His parents were getting ready to go out with their neighbors, the McGregors.  Their daughter Mindy was coming over to stay with him.  Charles removed the slice of bread atop his burger and took out the awful sprouts which his mother insisted he eat.  Quietly, he opened the door to the back porch and tossed the sprouts in the garbage.

 He hurried back to the table.  His mother was coming, her perfume preceding.  She was wearing all this makeup too, which he thought made her look like a different person.  She gazed at his burger.

 "Charles, aren't you going to eat your supper?"

 He scowled.

 "C'mon, it's not that bad," she said. "To me, it tastes just like pizza.  In fact, I make it with the same seasonings that go in a pizza."

 He gazed at the burger and mumbled.

 "Eat your tofuburger," his mother said, "and then you can have some strawberries."

 Without whipped cream or cake, he thought.

 At the sink, Helen Paganono tidied up.  Once she had been a violinist, but a problem developed with her joints.  Now she worked in a health food store and did volunteer work.

 "You finish your burger, and then I'll fix the strawberries," she said and left the kitchen.

 Charles labored over his burger.  It tasted like mush.  Nothing like pizza.  His mother must be crazy.  He pushed away the burger.  He'd rather eat the strawberries when Mindy came over because she would get the whipped cream and cake from her house.

 After supper, Charles put on his Dandy cap, sat in his rocking chair, and turned on the TV.  A program was on about an adopted boy.  The boy was talking to his father about what he might be when he grew up.

 "Some people just aren't good at some things," the boy's father said. "You should try lots of things, to see what you like and what you're good at, before you decide."

 That gave Charles an idea.  Maybe he could get his father to see that he wasn't good at the piano and that it was a waste of time for him.  A rap came at the back door.  Like a gust of wind, Mindy came in.  She dashed to Charles and stared in his face, crossing her clear blue eyes and scrunching up her face.  When not making faces, she looked like a pretty Olive Oyl with neverending dimples.  She grabbed Charles around the waist and tickled his ribs.

 Later, after his parents had left, instead of having strawberry shortcake, Mindy ordered a large pizza with the works  extra cheese, mushrooms, onions, black olives, green peppers, sausage, and pepperoni.

 "Mmmm, is this good," Mindy said, as she sat on the couch in facing the TV with Charles eating the pizza.

 Charles nodded and gobbled.

 "How's your recital piece coming?" she asked.

 Charles didn't answer and slurped some cheese.

 "Not so good, huh?"

 "The pizza?" he asked.

 "No, silly, the recital piece."

 "Ohh, Mindy, you know how I hate the piano," he said, while chewing. "I'd like ta, to smash it, in little, bitty pieces!"

 "Charles," Mindy said, and patted him on the back. "Believe me, someday you'll be glad you learned to play.  Look at your father.  In a couple weeks he's playing with the Windy City Symphony."

 "So what!"

 Mindy took her arm away from him.

 "Well, everyone's excited about it," she said. "You should be too."

 "My mother isn't."

 "I wouldn't say that."

 "But Mindy," Charles put his pizza down, "how can you get excited about something you hate?"

 "Charles," Mindy said, shaking her head. "You know, Charles, I used to hate my lessons too.  But one day I started to like it.  Maybe you should try a different instrument.  Maybe you'd like the flute."

 "I don't know."

 "Remember last year when I took you to the Nutcracker?"

 Charles shrugged.

 "You remember.  You liked that part when the fairies danced, when the piccolo played.  Maybe you should try the piccolo?"

 Charles rolled his eyes.

 "Well, what songs do you like?"

 "I don't like any songs," Charles said, shaking his head.  Then he stopped. "Well . . . maybe one.  You know Beautiful Dreamer?"

 "Beautiful Dreamer!  Of course!  That's a great song," she said. "In fact I have a recording of it.  Let's go to my house and get it.  We'll get my flute and James Galway CDs too."

 Mindy could've played her flute and recordings all night, but Charles became bored.  What sounds lovely to one person might sound awful to another.  Also, music is like a friend.  It takes time to appreciate.  Besides, Mindy had promised to read from one of her Oz books.  They were so funny and took Charles to a place far away from home.