No Talking by Andrew Clements Page B

her pencil and pointed at a quarter rest. “How many beats of silence do you allow for this rest?”
    Ellen tapped once on the music stand.



Her teacher said, “Correct, but just say, ‘one beat.’” Then Mrs. Lenox pointed at the symbol for a whole rest. “And how many beats for this one?”
    Ellen tapped out four beats. “Just say ‘four beats,’ dear.”
    Ellen smiled and tapped four times, and then pointed at her mouth and shook her head.
    â€œWhat?” asked Mrs. Lenox.
    Again Ellen pointed at her mouth and shook her head.
    â€œYour lips? Something about your lips?” asked the teacher. “Just tell me, dear.”
    Ellen smiled and shook her head. Then she lifted the flute to her lips and played the piece again, and this time she read all the rests perfectly.
    Her teacher nodded, smiled, and then turned the page to the next piece. Before Ellen began to play, Mrs. Lenox pointed at each rest, and Ellen tapped out the right number of beats. The teacher nodded, and Ellen began to play.
    When she finished, Mrs. Lenox smiled, pointed at the start of the piece, picked up her own flute, nodded, and they played the whole piece again as a duet.
    Neither of them said a word for the rest of the lesson.
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    Brian’s mom picked him up at school, and when he got in the car, she said, “You need a haircut. We’re stopping at Zeke’s on the way home.”
    Brian groaned and shook his head. He stamped his feet on the floor of the car. His mom kept driving.
    Brian hated going to Zeke’s Modern Barbershop. Zeke was this grumpy guy who’d been cutting hair in Laketon for more than forty years. He gave everyone the same haircut—short on top and buzzed close on the sides.
    But the last two times he’d been there, Brian had forced Zeke to do a halfway decent job—but only because he practically yelled at the man the whole time. “Not so short on top. No, really, that’s enough off the top. And don’t use the clippers on the sides. Just scissors . . . there, that’s enough. Don’t cut off any more. Really. No, please, no clippers. Just use scissors. Please.”
    And that’s why today was the wrong day for a haircut. If Zeke got him into that worn-out barber chair, Brian knew he’d end up looking like something that had escaped from the zoo.
    When his mom parked the car, Brian jumped out and dashed into the pizza place next to the barber shop. But his mom followed him. He pointed at the menu, but she shook her head. “There’s no time fora snack. We have to pick up your sister in fifteen minutes.” She took him by the arm and pulled him out of the restaurant and over to Zeke’s door. “Now get in there. Quick—there’s no line right now.”
    Brian wanted to say, News flash, Mom: There’s never a line at Zeke’s. The man’s a rotten barber. And he has bad breath.
    But Brian couldn’t say that. And he wouldn’t be able to talk to Zeke, either. He was doomed.
    Fifteen minutes later, when his big sister got into the car, she took one look at Brian and burst out laughing. She said, “Zeke, right?”
    Brian could only nod. He had paid a heavy price for keeping his mouth shut. But he’d kept his promise to Dave and the other guys, and if they didn’t beat the girls, well, it wasn’t going to be his fault. And he had the bad haircut to prove it.
    Was it worth it? Yeah , he thought, it was worth it. So what if I look like a monkey for a week? Or two. Or three.
    Brian stared out the side window and tried not to think about it.
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    Mrs. Burgess was worried. She glanced in the rearview mirror and looked at her daughter’s face again and thought, Did she have a horrible day at school?
    Is that what’s bothering her? Or maybe something happened at soccer practice—that coach of hers can be pretty