Haters of music of the variety taught in school take solace in the clef, for it provides the catalyst for mental doodle of daydreams – visiting music-free orbs in some far away galaxy. Not only the brilliantly curved transfer of ink to paper, but the imagination of being elsewhere, a place where you’re the one in control of any conversation.
Miss Elliot stared. “Pay attention, Billy. One day you may want to form a band. You should know the basics.”
“But I hate music, Miss.”
She smiled, “Oh, come on now. Hate’s a strong word, don’t you think?”
“Not for the way I feel about this stuff, Miss. I don’t get it. I must be tone deaf or something.”
“Nobody’s tone-deaf, Billy,” she replied in stern monotone.
“I am, Miss … Do you like hockey?”
“Not really, Billy.”
“But maybe you’d like to be a hockey player when you grow up.”
“But I don’t like hockey, Billy,” she mumbled, as she shrunk lower.
“But hockey’s so healthy. It builds character, and helps you sleep at night. It gives you plenty of fresh air and exercise, and from the looks of you, I think you could use some.”
“But already I told you, Billy. I don’t like hockey.”
He mirrored previous conversations, “Everybody likes hockey. There’s no such thing as a person who doesn’t like hockey.”
Her bottom lip protruded as the volume increased, “I tell you, Billy. I really don’t like hockey.”
Billy shuffled his wiry body, recovering from the music hater’s slouch. “Mr. Anderson likes hockey, Miss. Maybe you’d like to visit him.”
“I don’t see why I have to go to the principal’s office because I don’t like hockey!”
“You shouldn’t raise your voice at me, Young Lady! Just go. Don’t come back until you like hockey, Miss!”