Fourth grade was a big year. At least, for a fourth grader.  Being a fourth grader meant one could finally join the rest of the big kids in the elementary school band. No more chorus. Alfred hated chorus. He thought it was for girls. And Alfred F. Jones was no girl. No, he wanted to be in the band and play the drums and be loud as he wants! Not that anything really stopped him. The only time he was quiet was during chorus because he didn’t like singing. Except the National Anthem. That song he knew by heart and would scream sing it at the top of his lungs. The teacher, Mr. Edelstein, didn’t like playing that song so much.

            “Mr. E! Mr. E! Hi! Yo!” Alfred shouted, bouncing with each step as he ran up to the table. Mr. Edelstein sat behind said table, a clipboard on his right and a magazine to his left. The music teacher smiled patiently as Alfred started banging on the table with a pair of beat up drumsticks. After a few moments of the racket, Mr. Edelstein gently took hold of the sticks, silencing the noise.

            “Good evening, Alfred. How are you?” he asked, looking past the small boy to smile up at the boy’s father.

            “I wanna play drums!” Alfred shouted, ignoring the actual question and banging his worn drumsticks again. Mr. Edelstein grimaced. He pitied the child’s father. The worn sticks must have been a nuisance for a long time. He took the sticks away again.

            “I’m sorry, Alfred… I’m afraid there’s no more room in the percussion section,” Mr. Edelstein said, looking through his list. It was true; the percussion section had been filled long ago. It was always a popular first choice.

            “Percussion? No, Mr. E. I want to be a drummer! You know! Like, with drums!” Alfred said, refusing to give up his grin. Mr. Edelstein sighed. He was glad he had patience of a saint. Living next door to the most annoying man in the world does that to you.

            “A drum is part of the percussion section, Alfred. Along with the triangle and the cymbals and all of the other things you hit,” he explained, watching the crestfallen look shadow the boy’s face.

            “O-oh… Well… I guess…” Alfred trailed off, scuffing his feet and starting to turn back to his father. Mr. Edelstein’s heart clenched.

            “Alfred! Wait! Maybe there’s something else you could try out! A band needs more than just the beat! You need the wind, too!” cried the teacher, opening his magazine, racking his mind for the perfect instrument. He had already decided long ago that Alfred would not be a percussionist, even if there was room. He smiled when he found it. “Alfred, have you ever heard of the saxophone?”

            Alfred’s eyes shone as he stared at the picture of the shiny metallic instrument. He gently touched it and traced the curves before shaking his head slowly. No, he had not heard of the saxophone. He liked it, though. It was shiny and looked like it would be loud. He wanted one.

            “Dad. Dad. Dad! I want one. I want to play this!” he gasped out, reaching back to tug on his father’s suit jacket sleeve. The older man chuckled, stepping forward to take a look at the picture. As he began to speak to Mr. Edelstein about rental costs and lesson plans and a bunch of other boring adult mumbo-jumbo, Alfred took the magazine and slid to the floor, attempting to read the woodwind’s abridged history that took up the page under the picture. Not that he couldn’t read, of course. The words just happened to be really big and he was so excited, he had to re-read the same sentences over and over again. He wanted to soak in as much about this instrument as he possibly could before actually playing it. Alfred F. Jones was no girl. But he thought, maybe, he might have fallen in love at first sight.