Secretism II, or Knowing When to Shut Your Piehole

A couple of weeks ago, I took John to his first private Viola lesson. He's been playing for two years in school. He started in the Fifth Grade Strings program and last year moved up to the Orchestra Program for sixth grade. We struggled academically last year, or maybe I struggled with my expectations of the academics last year, and so when it came to practicing viola, I didn't have a whole lot to say. I would make him play me his current scales from time to time, or whatever piece they were working on and he seemed to be keeping up. Others in his class were taking private lessons, but I just felt that if we could get our Math homework turned in, that was enough. So at the end of the year he came home to inform me that a couple of people from his class had made Varsity for next year and quite a few kids had made Jr. Varsity, but he did not. "Mom, it's because I didn't have private lessons." "No it's not." "Yes! Every person who got moved up had private lessons!" "You know why those kids moved up?" Blank stare. "They practiced." "MOM." "People who have private lessons just practice more than you did, it's all about practicing." "Ms. Eisher says that Mr. Smith still has an opening. She says he's the best private tutor in our area." "I know, I know, I'll call and see what he says, but you need to practice!" He has a musical ear, which he inherits from his Dad, and by the end of the year I had noticed that he rarely ever had his music with him when he played me something. And I was starting to suspect he was memorizing the pieces by ear rather than by reading the music. So I called Mr. Smith and spoke to this very softspoken man who indeed, had an opening which I procured for every Tuesday at 5:30 for thrity minutes, $17.

On Tuesday, we gathered up his instrument and other assorted materials and set off for the high school. We found the orchestra department and looked down the hall at door after door of practice rooms. Not knowing which one to go to, we headed down the row, peeping into each one as we passed to see if the room was occupied by a teacher. Door after door we found a teacher working with a student and I began to wonder how we would know which one was Mr. Smith. I suppose I could have asked the mother-daughter team who arrived just before us as they seemed to know what they were doing, but we continued down the hallway in silence peeping in the last few doors and at the end of the hall there was a door with a piece of paper taped to the front stating "MR. SMITH", we casually passed and peeked. He was working with a student and after we passed, John said "Wow. That's not at all what I thought Mr. Smith was going to look like." "Shhh!" I warned. All my kids speak in above average tones and the hall was starting to fill with new students getting ready for their lesson. "WELL, THAT'S JUST NOT AT ALL WHAT I PICTURED HE WOULD LOOK LIKE. I WAS PICTURING A CROSS BETWEEN MR. PARR AND MR. BENTLY." "A little quieter." I pleaded, because I knew where this was leading. "IT'S JUST THAT HE'S WAAAY BIGGER THAN I THOUGHT HE'D BE AND HE'S BLACK. THAT'S JUST NOT AT ALL WHAT I THOUGHT HE WAS GOING TO LOOK LIKE. WHAT?!" he asked when he saw me squench my face and close my eyes. "I'M NOT SAYIN ANYTHING. I'M JUST SAYIN."
"Okay, okay, please quit talking now."
"WHAT?"