My Cardboard Balcony

You, Me, & the Symphony by Belinda Roddie We're dressed in our finest, our programs tucked in the crooks of our satin arms. Hand in hand, we take our seats to the right of the conductor's podium. The cellists are already scanning their sheets. One wipes his brow with his bow beneath his knuckles. His fingers noticeably tremble. I've heard this symphony before. I was eight when my mother took me to the civic center in our hometown to witness Beethoven's Fifth. Somewhere, the deaf grizzled bastard was still tinkering on a celestial piano, a second ode to joy for his new audience. You have never listened to Mozart, never indulged in Holst or meddled in Mahler. You prefer your music to sound like firecrackers and breaking glass instead of muddy rivers and listless leaves. You give each note a name and each instrument a secondary moniker. A violin is a bard's first love. An oboe is the captain of a ship built with reeds. I glance down at ...

He shows no empathy in class or on the schoolyard. He deliberately harms his classmates. Last week, he put Leslie in a chokehold and kept yelling the word "dyke" into her ear. Her cheeks were tinged with blue. Yesterday, he smashed his soda bottle over Thomas's head and howled with laughter when he screamed. This report card just isn't enough to describe it. I'm doing you two a favor, Mister and Missus York. I'm putting an end to your son.