Free Rules to Rock By by Josh Farrar Page A

heebie-jeebies.
    “Did you see that?” I asked Jonny.
    “What?” he said.
    “Nothing.” It was too complicated to explain.
    Jonny led me up two flights of stairs to a short hallway on the top floor of the school.
    “This is where the practice room is,” Jonny said. “Every once in a while a band will work up here, but it’s usually where the classical kids come to geek out and practice for an hour.”
    “I hear somebody going at it right now,” I said. I could hear fast, furious classical piano music.
    “Yup.”
    We peeked into the room and saw a girl absolutely punishing a piano. She stared at her sheet music like a psychic looking into a crystal ball, and she pounded the keys as if fighting some private war. The girl didn’t notice us. Then the music changed, and suddenly she was playing quiet, spacey melodies. She looked like she was in a trance.
    “Ah, yes. Crackers ’n’ Cheese has some crazy technique,” said Jonny.
    “Crackers ’n’ Cheese?” I repeated, loudly and stupidly. The music stopped.
    “I don’t like to be called that anymore,” the girl said. She stood up so suddenly that the piano bench fell over. Furrowing her brow, she picked up the bench and then turned around to see who had so rudely interrupted her practice session. She was African American, very tall, beanpole thin, and had a goofy expression, like Martians had dropped her off on Earth, hightailed it back to space, then left her here to fend for herself.
    “Wow, you’re really tall!” I said. Duh. Another brilliant comment.
    “Yep, I know.” The girl popped a Triscuit in her mouth and followed it with a cube of orange cheese. Her lavender top was covered with crumbs.
    “You’ve, uh, got something on your shirt,” Jonny said, then, to me, explained, “That’s why they call her Crackers ’n’—”
    “It’s just a snack,” Crackers ’n’ Cheese said, brushing off some crumbs.
    “Hey, aren’t you in Mr. V’s class?” I asked.
    “Yep.”
    “I thought you looked familiar.”
    “You look familiar, too, Annabelle Cabrera.”
    “How’d you know my name?”
    “You talk a lot. You’re kind of loud.”
    Loud? I had barely opened my mouth in that class.
    “Well, what was that excellent music you were playing?”
    “It’s by the composer Ravel.”
    “Ra-who?” I said.
    “Maurice Ravel. He’s French.”
    “It’s great. Play some more, Cracker— Sorry, what’s your real name?” Jonny said.
    “Christine. Christine Briar.”
    She put her hands on the keyboard again. At first, she didn’t play a note. Resting her fingers on the keys, she closed her eyes and took one deep breath, then another. Jonny looked at me and raised an eyebrow. Then Crackers/Christine’s hands started to move, and waves of big, round sound came out of the piano. With slim, powerful hands, she played up and down the instrument, her fingers racing across the keys like spiders. When she frowned, a big wrinkle appeared in the middle of her forehead, like there was an old woman trapped in her sixth grader’s body.
    “Whoa, that’s amazing playing, Crackers,” I said. “I mean, Christine. Want to join our band?”
    “ Our band?” Jonny said.
    “Sorry, my bad,” I said. “ My band.”
    I explained the idea of the rock band while Crackers pigged out. How’d she get all those Triscuits into that skinny frame?
    “You want to have a piano in your rock band?” Crackers asked.
    “It might be kind of hard lugging a piano around to clubs, but I have a keyboard you can borrow. I want great musicians in my band, and you’re pretty great.”
    “Well, I don’t know if I’ll ever be a great musician, but I definitely work at it.”
    Crackers started up the Ra-who piece again, playing even harder and faster while Jonny and I listened in awe. Crackers finished the piece with a flourish, closed the lid of the piano, and turned to us.
    “I’ve thought it over and decided I’d like to participate.”
    Jonny gave me a quick