you can’t even see the grease in this one; that’s why it’s my favorite

M

arcel joined a club at middle school.

He’s only been going for a couple of weeks and by all accounts (read: his) it is an intimate gathering on Friday afternoons in the orchestra room. Four sixth grade boys collect there after class for a small session on music composition. It is a new club and, with a committed membership of an elite four, it may well be short-lived. But for the last several Fridays, these boys have returned to the music room for what Marcel calls “The Music Composing Club.”

In addition to being part of a collaborative brainstorming session at the last meeting that produced his very first band name, “We Don’t Need a Viola,” for a string trio that doesn’t include a viola (get it?!!!?), Marcel started to write music for his new group.

Torn between his newfound enthusiasm for composing and his long-standing love of pizza, Marcel got pizza grease on the bottom of the page he was working on. (It was gross. You could see through the page in, like, five different places.) So he took the paper upstairs to re-copy his work onto a new sheet, one that didn’t smell quite so much like pepperoni.
“Take a picture of him!” I hissed to Scott from the door to the office, gesturing frantically in the direction of our terminally ill camera.

He did, but now his stupid picture is better than anything I could write to go with it.

Show-offs, the both of them.