Musical Underdog

I learned to play viola because I felt sorry for the instrument. 

In 1969, Chicago-area public schools offered free music instruction. At the beginning of fall term, we shuffled into the auditorium and threaded our bodies into rows of stained, plush seats. It was time for fourth graders to absorb some much-needed culture. Onstage stood an array of musical instruments, ranging from somber-looking cellos to slim, chic woodwinds. They gleamed on the platform like jewels.

Our host was an overly excited city employee, burdened with the task of explaining musical dynamics to a group of squirming children. The harried woman dashed about onstage, pointing at instruments. Occasionally, she plucked a violin string or blew into a clarinet.

It finally dawned on our group that she was encouraging us to become prodigies. We were instructed to choose our own instrument from the stage. Free lessons for all, but our parents would need to shoulder the rental costs.

Like everything else, musical selection became a popularity contest. Everyone wanted to play the violin, to the point where its category needed to be shut down. Several girls gravitated towards the flute. There was a short run on the trumpet. A couple of kids whined about the lack of a piano option but were told that pianos didn’t fit inside on-site rehearsal rooms.

As each category filled, its display instrument was removed from the stage. Finally, only a viola remained, perched on its stand like a puppy awaiting adoption.

“Doesn’t ANYBODY want to learn to play the viola?’ the host pleaded.

I glanced around the auditorium. My classmates all stared straight ahead. The room was utterly silent.

“I will,” I said.

The entire auditorium erupted in derisive laughter. I had selected an instrument that nobody else wanted to touch. My classmates already intuited that I was a freak. My choice had confirmed their suspicions.

At first, my parents seemed thrilled about my musical future. When they discovered they were on the hook for viola rental, however, their demeanor became more guarded.

“How badly do you want to play the viola?” my mother demanded. “I don’t want to shell out a bunch of cash and then have you quit after a month or two.”

“Oh, I really want to do it.” I tried to make my voice sound emphatic. “I promise not to quit. Just give me a chance.”

A few days later, I gazed into the interior of my new viola case and regarded the beautiful, terrifying instrument. Slightly larger than a violin, it rested within a snug, velvet nest. Taut metal strings stretched along the neck. I lifted the viola from its enclosure and peered inside one of its S-shaped apertures. The polished wood smelled exotic. My instrument came from Europe but somehow found its way into an Oak Park bedroom.

Mr. Schmidt, an elderly man who reeked of cigarettes, served as my viola instructor. His teeth were dark yellow, stained by years of heavy tobacco use. Affable and encouraging, he grinned as I plucked at the strings. Mr. Schmidt felt that I should learn how the viola sounded before attempting to use the bow. 

After a week of diligent plucking, I finally held the bow in my trembling fingers. The key was to be gentle but firm. My instrument squawked at first. Two weeks later, I could draw the bow across its strings without producing a godawful noise. I was on my way to becoming a prodigy.

“You’re catching on fast.” Mr. Schmidt paused, covered his mouth, and had a brief coughing fit. “I think you might be a natural.”

I didn’t understand what a natural was, but I felt certain that I wasn’t one. In the school hallway, peers strutted around with instrument cases, looking like rock stars. Some of them ridiculed my dorkiness, calling me names like “wild cow.” A few weeks beforehand, a pupil had discovered via Webster’s Dictionary that my first name arose from a bovine origin. Now, classmates mooed loudly every time they saw me.

It was a melancholy existence for both of us—me and my solitary viola. Lacking an extracurricular social life, I spent hours in my bedroom, learning the notes to “Hot Cross Buns.” I propped a songbook on my desk and labored my way through the varied offerings. “Danny Boy.” “Frere Jacques.” And finally, “Ode to Joy.”

Once I realized that Beethoven fell within my musical wheelhouse, I felt my own surge of joy. I could play everything; even lessons I hadn’t been assigned yet. I’d mastered the book’s contents in less than three months. Perhaps I had a knack for the viola, after all.

Mr. Schmidt seemed impressed with my rapid progress. “I think you’re ready for the school orchestra. Our Christmas performance is coming up in a few weeks. Would you like to be part of it?”

Dizzy with excitement, I nodded. Then a thought struck me. “Aren’t there rehearsals, though? Do I need to stay after school? I have a lot of homework and chores.”

“You can do your own rehearsing. I’ll give you copies of all the scores. On the day of the performance, play those songs like you would at home. Just follow along. You’ll be fine.”

For the next five weeks, I practiced as though my life depended on it. I’d show my venomous classmates how gifted I was. They wouldn’t dare pick on me again. 

When the performance day arrived, I was suddenly seized by terror. I’d spent weeks practicing chords to “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” but did I really possess any talent? What if I forgot everything I had struggled so hard to learn?

The auditorium overflowed with bodies—parents, siblings, curious townspeople. Every seat looked full. Meanwhile, the orchestra pit swelled with students, all dressed in high-necked, white polyester shirts. The boys sported creased pants, and the girls wore long, flowing skirts with maroon sashes.

We were the embodiment of elegance. Sweating profusely, I settled my bulk into a folding chair. In front of me sat the violinists—an alpha, confident group, clutching their violins like they’d been born to play concertos. Behind me, a group of cellists squatted in their seats, hugging bulky instruments between their legs.

To my right sat a girl about my age. She was tall, with messy blonde hair and round glasses. In one, outstretched hand, she held a viola.

I felt an overwhelming spasm of jealousy, but then the girl turned in my direction. “Oh, hi.” Her voice sounded friendly. “I heard there was another viola player. My name’s Megan. I’m in fifth grade. Glad to meet you.”

Why had nobody bothered to tell me? I tried my hardest to glare at Megan, but she was so cordial that I couldn’t hate her. Finally, I smiled. “How long have you been playing?” My voice seemed to emanate from the other side of the auditorium.

“Oh, just a couple of months. There aren’t many viola players in school, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. If you’re any good, they kind of fast-track you.”

Megan was an entire year older. I hadn’t even known of her existence. Fifth graders were a rarefied group, kept separate from younger kids. Obviously, she didn’t realize what a nerd I was, or she would’ve been less amiable.

Once the performance began, I realized that I was in big trouble. As the music swelled to its first crescendo, I started to fall behind. The other musicians surged forward with confidence, producing notes that meshed perfectly. I stared at my songbook and struggled to make sense of the squiggly characters. Just a day beforehand, they’d given me no trouble. Why couldn’t I decipher them now?

I could play music with ease, alone in my bedroom. When faced with a group, however, I fell apart. Just like every other aspect of my life. I resorted to pulling my bow willy-nilly across the strings, hoping other musicians would drown out my noise. People didn’t pay much attention to violas, anyway. If anyone expected me to break into a solo, I’d never be able to return to school again.

Meanwhile, Megan thrust her chin against her viola, giving the instrument everything she had. Her flimsy folding chair rocked with the momentum of her bow thrusts. Both eyes closed, face contorted into a half-smile, the girl appeared to be in another world.

When the performance finally ended, I staggered to my feet. Thunderous applause filled the auditorium, but none of it was for me. Even my viola seemed to regard me with contempt. I placed the instrument carefully into its case and prepared to leave the stage. Was it too early for me to go home? I wanted to crawl underneath my bed and stay there until June.

“Hey, nice to meet you,” Megan said. “You sounded really good. I look forward to playing with you again.”

After Christmas break ended, I resumed my music lessons. My enthusiasm had vanished, but Mr. Schmidt didn’t seem to notice. I went to a couple of orchestra rehearsals and sat next to Megan. She was even weirder than I was, but at least she knew how to play her instrument. Megan seemed excited about the upcoming spring performance, a charade I felt determined to avoid. But how could I get out of it?

In mid-March, I fell hopelessly behind on my homework. The hallway mooing had intensified, despite my mother’s insistence that it would go away if I ignored it. One afternoon, in the classroom, I burst into tears and couldn’t stop. My life had become a calamitous joke. 

My mother realized that I required drastic intervention. She’d heard of a private school on the other end of town—a Montessori-inspired outfit, run by a group of earnest hippies. Students were free to choose individual curriculums. They even called teachers by their first names.

“If you want to switch schools, we can do it next week,” my mother said. “There’s just one thing, though. That place costs a lot of money. We can’t afford both viola rental and the cost of tuition. You’ll need to pick one or the other.”

I gave the conundrum a moment of thought. The viola had been my companion during a difficult year. I’d worked hard to master its tonal intricacies, and had promised my mother that I wouldn’t quit. On the other hand, my instrument served as a substitute for a social life. Now I could start my existence anew, in a fresh environment where nobody hated me. Yet.

“I want to go to that school. Sorry about the viola. I tried my best.”

My new school was even better than I’d imagined. Teachers hovered around the edges of the classroom, smiling. They never tried to intervene in our activities. I spent entire mornings inside the onsite library, lounging on overstuffed, paisley pillows.

Even more amazingly, I now had a best friend—Teresa, daughter of the school director. This status afforded me special privileges. Teresa was an aspiring artist. The two of us painted flowers and peace symbols on a flight of cement steps. “How lovely,” our teachers said. “So much prettier than that dull gray color.”

My bedroom seemed larger without a viola. Occasionally, I snuck a guilty peek at the corner where the instrument case had once rested. I didn’t have much trouble beating my remorse into submission. Perhaps the viola had found someone who could give it the dedication it deserved. My own trade-off had been more than worthwhile.

One May afternoon, I encountered Megan on the street, a few blocks from my house. She spotted me and ran in my direction, flailing her arms. When she finally caught up, she was out of breath. A pair of green knee socks had bunched around her ankles, and one of her barrettes hung at a disjointed angle.

“I haven’t seen you around school,” she said. “Where have you been? Are you still playing viola?”

“Oh, I changed schools. I couldn’t deal with that other place anymore.” I did my best to make my voice sound breezy, as if I could switch venues whenever I felt like it. “My new school is great, but we don’t have music lessons. So, I gave up playing. How are you?”

Megan grinned. “I joined the Oak Park Symphony Orchestra a few weeks ago. Youngest member they’ve ever had. A challenge, but I like it.”

Despite myself, I felt a surge of envy. The local orchestra was renowned for its excellence. Acceptance into such an exclusive club pretty much guaranteed a lifelong musical career. At age twelve, Megan knew exactly where she fit. Polite society had embraced her, but I just winged each day as it came along. 

Try as I might, I couldn’t resent her. The girl was one with her instrument, in a way I had never been. Besides, she was so darned nice. 

“You got accepted fast,” I said. “Congratulations. That’s great.”

“You know how it is with the viola. They don’t have many. It’s not hard to be accepted into the orchestra. If you were still playing, I’m sure they’d ask you to join, as well.”

I peered into Megan’s face, searching for a hint of derision. Her expression looked genial, like it had when I first met her. She was the only person in public school who showed me any kindness, even though she could’ve easily viewed me as a competitor. Or, worse yet, she might have figured out that I possessed even less panache than she did.

Megan brushed a clump of hair from her eyes. “Well, I’d better go. Time for practice.”  She wheeled around and dashed across the street, finally disappearing into an alleyway.

I was in no hurry to return home. The school year had almost ended, and for the first time in my life, I felt sorry to see it go. A long, Midwestern summer stretched ahead. I hoped that Teresa and I could spend time together, fending off the taunts of my old classmates. They liked to roam the streets on humid afternoons, tyrannizing people they didn’t like. But now I had a sidekick who could help me laugh right back at them.

Leah Mueller's work is published in Rattle, NonBinary Review, Brilliant Flash Fiction, Citron Review, New Flash Fiction Review, Does It Have Pockets, Outlook Springs, Your Impossible Voice, etc. She has received several nominations for Pushcart and Best of the Net. One of her short stories appears in the 2022 edition of Best Small Fictions. Her fourteenth book, "Stealing Buddha" was published by Anxiety Press in 2024. Website: http://www.leahmueller.org.

Image credit: Kelly Wright via Midjourney and Canva.