The Reinvention of Moxie Roosevelt (19 page)

I placed my hands back on the keyboard. Then paused, taking another deep breath. Everything was coming together. Sitting at the keyboard while I talked to the entire school made me feel safe. A little happy. I was almost enjoying myself. Almost.

“This is a new side of me I’m discovering. There’s little components of the DUCKI me, and MEG me, but they’ve become this new creature—this entirely new piece. Kind of like Bach’s Variation 21.”

I start right in, relishing the dramatic, slow opening. It’s practically half the speed of some of the pieces, but there is so much to fit in between the notes.

“If you hear what I hear, then you picked up on the compassion in that variation,” I said. “It’s slower and not so showy, but there’s so much power there—it’s like, unrelenting. Impossible to ignore. And incredibly important—just like she is.”

I didn’t even know if Reagan was in the audience, but I needed to say these things.

“So all this time, while I’m trying to escape my disaster aria, I’m trying out these DUCKIs and MEGs and ARAs, and there were a few others too.”

“YankEES!” I hear called from somewhere near the back.

“Thank you, Lupe,” I said, laughing. “So I wish I could wrap this up as neatly and as brilliantly as Bach wraps up the Goldberg Variations. But I can’t. Because the fact is, my disaster aria morphed into a full-blown disaster when someone found the notes I’d been keeping about my different personalities, keeping track of what I’d said to who. And some of the people in that book found out I hadn’t been honest with them. Actually, let’s just call it what it is. I lied.”

The room fell mostly silent.

“It was not a great moment in my personal history. There were a couple of people who didn’t seem to mind so much that I’d said things that weren’t true. But there were others, one very important person in particular, who were really hurt by what I had done. And I found out there wasn’t much I could do, at least at the time, to make it better. So, realizing I’ve strayed a bit from the music and humor portion of the evening—apologies to Mr. Tate and Ms. Hay—I want to take the opportunity right now to tell all of you that I did something stupid and unnecessary, and it was my fault and no one else’s, and I’m sorry.”

“Go Mox!” Spinky called. I smiled at her.

“For those of you I haven’t yet personally spoken to, I have some announcements. And for the record, I don’t mind if you all laugh. Because some of them are kind of funny, I realize. Doreen Doggit—are you here?”

I saw a hand shoot up.

“I never attended the Olympic trial spelunking finals. Black-haired girl who eats lunch with Mavis every day? Yes, you. Hi. I have not in fact been pursued by a barracuda while snorkeling. Charnay from South Africa? Yup—I have never seen a poltergeist levitate furniture.”

I sighed through some moderately loud laughter. I was almost done.

“Haven?”

Haven waved at me.

“I don’t know what Wiccans do, I’m not sure what a guru is, and I’ve never chanted. But I’ll be up at dawn to meditate with you if you’ll have me.”

“Right on,” Haven called.

“Spinky,” I said, and I couldn’t help reflecting her grin. “As we have discussed, I do not have a parole officer. I have never broken the law. And I currently have no plans to tattoo a cockroach onto my forearm.”

Spinky flashed me the peace sign and called, “Disco!” I grinned as the audience giggled. I was in the home stretch.

“And lastly, Reagan. I don’t know if she’s even here, and I know she already knows this. But I think all of you should know it. I was not the apprentice swabber on a sloop sailing to publicize the plight of the North Atlantic sea cow.”

This got a loud laugh.

“No, but actually, listen. Reagan is starting a school club called Students for Animal Rights . . . It’s a very important thing. She was going to call it Eaton for Animal Rights but she was afraid people would think they had to consume lots of calories to contribute.”

More laughter.

“She is an outstanding person, and she’s going to make a big difference in the world, and I hope you’ll all give her your support. And I hope one day, she’ll accept my apology and let me throw in my support too.”

Everyone clapped. I scanned row after row for Reagan, but couldn’t see her anywhere.

“So . . . I think—I hope actually—that I’ve covered all the bases, since Ms. Hay has already received my full confession regarding my not being Amish—”

I paused, as quite a few people seemed to find this hilarious. When I started talking again the words came faster and faster. I felt giddy—euphoric with the knowledge that I was almost done—that the hardest part was already behind me. And I was still here. And I was sort of—yes, I could hardly believe it—I was having a good time.

“. . . and I know she’ll want me to sum things up by stating what I’ve learned. So here’s the thing I’ve realized—something uniquely, one hundred percent vintage Moxie Roosevelt Kipper. In Bach’s work, the farther away he gets from the aria, the more obvious it is that the variations can’t exist without that aria. In the end, everything goes back to the foundation Bach gives us in the beginning. The same applies to me. You can understand the piece best by listening to all thirty variations. But each one, even the few I’ve played tonight, give this great window to all the different places a genius like Bach can take one melody.”

And all at once I knew I was going to do it.Without any introduction, or warnings about mistakes, or disclaimers of any kind, I launched into Johann Sebastian Bach’s 28th Goldberg Variation. I didn’t allow myself to think what I sounded like, or anticipate a particularly difficult section, or worry that I had played two, four, nine wrong notes. I simply plunged into the experience directly, my left hand dancing through the trills like a hummingbird hovering over bee balm. I thought of nothing while my right hand navigated the notes, bouncing over the left hand and back, over and back. There wasn’t anything to it except everything. The minute I stopped resisting the hard parts so strongly, it all came together, imperfect and wonderful.

And when I had played the final notes, the entire piece taking only around two minutes, I put my hands in my lap. That was that. Nobody in the audience knew how long it had taken me to drum up the courage to even try to play this variation. How many hours of work I’d put in, how many mistakes were fudged into the lightning-fast trills. But it didn’t matter. It was what it was. I was who I was.

I stood up and took the microphone in my hand.

“I’m Moxie Roosevelt Kipper, in I don’t know how many crazy variations. One of the most important things I’ve learned from my music teacher here, Mr. Tate, is that I’ll never be done as a pianist—I’ll always have work to do. Now I realize that applies to all of me. And if Ms. Hay has taught me one thing, it’s how to laugh at myself. Oh, and to always check your seams before doing Downward Facing Dog. Words to live by. Thanks.”

I put the mike back on the stand and walked off the stage into the wings. People clapped, and I heard Spinky and Haven calling my name. Don’t get me wrong—it wasn’t thunderous applause. There was no standing ovation. No one begged me to come out and entertain them some more. But they’d listened, and some of them had laughed. And they had seen me, just as I was.

The Reinvention of Moxie Roosevelt was over. And the real Moxie Roosevelt had finally stood up.

Spinky
found me backstage after the final act, where I had remained standing in a state of controlled post-talent-show paralysis. Spinky escorted me out the fire exit into the crisp night air by the auditorium parking lot, her arm linked through mine.

“You’re quite a composer,” she said, pulling her scarf around her neck and zipping her leather jacket up to her dimpled chin.

“That was a performance, not a composition,” I corrected. My voice sounded weird all by itself, no longer channeled and amplified through the loudspeakers.

Spinky grinned.

“I think it could be argued either way,” she said.

“Well, Moxie Roosevelt, as I live and breathe,” I heard.

Ms. Hay was standing in the fire exit, illuminated from behind. She looked like an ethereal doorstop.

“Pass or fail?” I asked, my words fogging the night air.

She came outside laughing, and gave me a hug, the bobble on her hat coming just to the bottom of my chin. Someone else came into the doorway behind her.

“I had a feeling about tonight,” she said.

“That sounds ominous,” I said ruefully.

“No, I did,” Ms. Hay insisted. “You’re living proof that Self-Confidence Through Comedy is a valuable offering for students.”

“You make it sound like I’m the first to pass,” I said.

“You are the first at all,” Ms. Hay said. “I had to face down the administration to get this EE approved. If you hadn’t signed up, they would have canned it.”

Wow. My clipboard malfunction had been responsible for more than I knew.

“Moxie—you’re getting more auspicious by the minute,” Spinky declared.

“Um, this is my roommate, Spinky Spanger.”

Ms. Hay waved at Spinky.

“Your reputation precedes you, Spinky,” Ms. Hay said.

Spinky bowed.

“So does yours. And not to rain on your EE parade, but Haven was supposed to meet us around front, on the quad,” Spinky told me. “She’s going to wonder what happened to us.”

“Yeah come on, Hobbit,” came a male voice from the doorway. My mouth almost dropped open. Was I dreaming, or had some random guy actually called Ms. Hay
Hobbit
out loud?

“Keep your hair on,” Ms. Hay said, still grinning. “Moxie, this is my husband, Jim.”

Husband? Ms. Hay had a husband? Why yes, there was a little ring on that tiny finger.

“Ah yes, the famous Moxie,” said Mr. Hobbit, stepping out of the doorway and onto the grass. He was, if not tall, of perfectly normal height and exceeded average cuteness by a long shot. “Nice to meet you. Now if you’ll excuse us, I’m going to remove Hobbit from the premises. There’s a Bears game on TV tonight.”

Ms. Hay rolled her eyes.

“He calls me Hobbit,” she said. “I really have no idea why.”

Then she flashed me the Vulcan finger sign, and followed her husband into the parking lot.

I stared after her for a moment. Ms. Hay was full of surprises.

Spinky pulled my arm.

“Ready?”

I nodded, and Spinky linked her arm in mine, walking me onto the path that led around the auditorium and toward the inner quad. I was in a daze, and let Spinky do the driving for both of us. I noticed someone walking toward us, but didn’t register who it was until I heard a voice say my name. A male voice. Which is a sound that really gets one’s attention at an all girls’ school.

Spinky and I stopped, and I squinted into the distance. I had to be hallucinating.

“Hey Moxie,” he said again as he pulled even with us.

It was Luscious Luke. And he was Luscious Luking right at me.

“Moxie Roosevelt, right?” he repeated.

“That’s me,” I squeaked.

“You’re good on the piano,” he said.

And then his legs transported the rest of his awesomeness down the path.

He knew my name. Luscious Luke
knew my name
. And I wasn’t even wearing high bouncy pigtails. I would never think of Carson McGillion again.

Perhaps not entirely true.

“Come on, celebrity,” said Spinky, pulling gently on my arm.

“Wait,” I said. “I have to see if Mr.Tate has come out yet.”

A few people were still exiting the auditorium. Mr. Tate was always easy to pick out, even in a crowd, and tonight was no exception. He was standing to the side of the door, his hair even wilder than usual. He looked like he’d been strolling casually through a wind tunnel. As I walked toward him, he checked his watch, looked surprised, and checked it again.

“Mr. Tate,” I called, and he looked up. He was wearing the same green sweater he had on the day we had our first meeting, and khaki pants, and his spotless white Converse high-tops. His only concession to the cold October air was a maroon muffler wrapped several times around his neck.

“Ah, Miss Kippah. I thought perhaps you had been detained by your legion of fans at the stage door.”

Stage doe-ah.

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Tate,” I said. “Just my roommate.”

He examined me silently for a moment. All the nervous talkie-fillers I might produce for someone else—“I’m sorry it wasn’t . . . I hope you thought it was okay even though . . . I realize I should have . . . ”—weren’t necessary for Mr. Tate. There was nothing I could say to him that he didn’t already understand about my music. Whatever embarrassing tidbits about the rest of my life that I’d just aired in the auditorium would not matter to him one bit.

“Well now,” he said finally. “You hit one out of the park this evening, Miss Kippah.”

I broke into a huge smile

“Thank you,” I told him.

“Oh, it’s my pleasure.”

Mah pleh-zhuh.

“Go on now, and see your friends. You and I will get back to work on Monday morning,” he said, adjusting his muffler and gazing off toward the dining hall, where he probably expected breakfast was now being prepared.

“I’ll be ready,” I said.

Mr. Tate laughed.

“Oh, I have no doubt you will. Good night, Miss Moxie Roosevelt Kippah.”

Ki-puh. It actually sounded quite elegant when he said it.

“Good night,” I said.

Spinky was waiting for me on the quad, which was filled with a large number of students, and a smaller number of parents. Conversation, hugs, and the occasional flash of cash were being exchanged.

“Are you wishing you parents had come after all?” Spinky asked, as if reading my thoughts.

I shook my head.

“No. I’m glad I asked them to sit this one out. I kind of had to bare my soul a little in there, and I just couldn’t have done it with my mom and dad watching,” I said.