Being Teddy Roosevelt (6 page)

“No! But I do. Me. Riley O’Rourke.”

Riley could tell she still didn’t understand. “So—can’t you get a saxophone?”

“No!” He was in so deep now, he might as well admit the whole thing. “I don’t have the money to get one. I’ve been working and saving, and I still don’t have enough.”

Gandhi reached over and patted him on the shoulder.

“I wish I could help you,” Queen Elizabeth said, while Napoleon, Lincoln, and Queen Victorialooked on, gaping. “Queen Elizabeth was a patroness of the arts, you know. I helped Shakespeare, and now I want to help you.”

“Help me how?” Riley didn’t know if he felt nervous or hopeful. Probably both.

But he didn’t want Queen Elizabeth getting him a saxophone. He wanted to get one himself. The Teddy Roosevelt way.

Not that it hurt to have a queen on your side.

“I want to help, too,” Grant said.

It didn’t hurt to have a brave bald guy in a loincloth on your side, either.

“Let’s come up with a plan,” Riley said.

“Maybe,” Riley said, “I should talk to Mr. Simpson.” He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of that before. But he hadn’t had an A–on a report before, either.

He could hear the sound of fifth-grade instrumental music coming down the hall from the cafeteria. The fifth graders had started already; the fourth graders were starting next week.

“That’s a wonderful idea,” Erika said.

It felt good being praised by a queen.

Erika went up to Mrs. Harrow and whispered something to her.

“Now?” Mrs. Harrow asked, looking displeased.

Erika whispered something else. Mrs. Harrowhesitated. Then she smiled. “Certainly, Your Majesty,” Riley heard her say.

Back at the table, Erika tapped Riley on the shoulder. “We’re going to talk to Mr. Simpson.”

“Now?” Riley sounded like Mrs. Harrow and not at all like Teddy Roosevelt. “I mean, now!”

Grant jumped up. “I’m coming, too. This’ll be like the salt march to the sea. I’m good at salt marches.”

Mrs. Harrow was busy at another table, so nobody stopped Grant as he followed Riley and Erika out the door.

In the hall, they met Sophie, coming back from the girls’ room, where she had gone to calm down after breaking the teapot. She wasn’t wearing a blindfold anymore; Riley could see that her eyes were red from crying. She wasn’t wearing earplugs, either. Just her old-fashioned dress. It suited her better than regular clothes somehow.

She said something to them with her hands. “That means ‘hi.’”

“Hi,” Riley replied.

“Where are you three going?”

Riley explained.

“Can I come, too? Teachers always like me …”

But Sophie sounded uncertain. “I
think
they like me,” she said. “Except when I break teapots.”

“Hey, it was an accident,” Grant said.

“I broke the prettiest one. The pink one with the rosebuds. I helped my mom set up for the tea after school yesterday, when I wasn’t wearing a blindfold, and that teapot was the prettiest one. And now it’s ruined forever.”

Well, it was definitely ruined forever. There was no way it could be glued back together.

“Everyone makes mistakes,” Riley said.

“I don’t!” Sophie said. “At least, I didn’t.” Her voice was getting smaller and smaller.

“Look,” Erika said crisply, “the teapot is broken. It can’t be mended. Period. The end. Do you want to come with us to talk to Mr. Simpson, or not?”

It was a relief to Riley to hear her sounding cross again.

“I want to come,” Sophie said. She gave Riley a shaky smile.

As they got close to the cafeteria, Riley could hear the fifth graders playing a lively march. It made him feel braver inside. Music could do that for you. It could change the way you felt. It could make everything better.

The four of them approached Mr. Simpson as the march soared to its end.

What if he said, “Why are you bothering me? I have no idea where you can get a saxophone. Stop wasting my time.”

Instead he said, “What is this, Halloween a month early?”

Riley had forgotten that they were dressed in their biography-tea clothes: red hair, crown, mustache, bald head, loincloth, and all.

“I want to play the sax,” Riley said. “And my mom can’t afford to rent me an instrument. And I was working and saving to buy a second-hand sax—her brother’s sax.” He pointed at Sophie, who looked guilty and miserable again. “But he sold it to someone else. And I got an A–on my Teddy Roosevelt report, so that proves I can do instrumental music and keep up with my other homework. So my mom will let me do it. But I don’t have a sax.”

There. He had said it.

“Does the school have any extra saxes that students can borrow?” Erika asked in her best queenly voice.

“Everyone needs to learn how to play an instrument,” Sophie said. Riley waited for her to list the instruments that she played, but she didn’t.

“Well, everyone who wants to,” Grant added.

Mr. Simpson studied the four of them, as if still unsure why Queen Elizabeth, Teddy Roosevelt, Mahatma Gandhi, and some girl in an old-fashioned dress had shown up in the middle of his fifth-grade instrumental music class.

“So you want to play the sax,” he said to Riley.

Riley nodded. His heart was in his throat.

“In that case,” Mr. Simpson said, “welcome to instrumental music.”

“So you
do
have a sax he can borrow?” Erika persisted.

“Of course I do. You kids are right. Everyone should have a chance to learn an instrument. The school district has a few used instruments it can loan out to students who need them. It just so happens that I have an extra sax in the back of my van right now.”

Riley grinned.

Mr. Simpson tossed his car keys to Riley. “It’s the dented van right by the back door. The sax sitting on the backseat is yours.”

Five minutes later, Riley had returned Mr. Simpson’s keys, and he and the others were back at the biography tea. Riley clutched the handle of his used, battered, beautiful case with his very own saxophone inside.

Now the title of his biography could be
Riley O’Rourke: The Boy Who Found a Way to Get Himself a Saxophone, After All.
Or maybe just
Riley O’Rourke: Sax Player.

He gulped down a big sip of lukewarm tea, careful not to drench his mustache. It tasted awful. Riley didn’t care.

Mrs. Harrow beamed at him. “Congratulations,” she said. “Bully for you, Teddy Roosevelt.”

Gandhi lifted his teacup in a toast. At the next table, Helen Keller raised hers, too. And two queens, one president, and one emperor joined in.