Power Forward

1

I've imagined lots of ways to get famous. The best of all would be if I took a game-winning shot in the NBA finals. But I wouldn't mind being a magician who slices people in half on America's Got Talent. I'd like to set the Guinness World Record for burping the Chinese alphabet. I've seen lots of YouTube videos. I know what it takes to become famous.

I never, ever, imagined getting famous by playing the violin at the Brisk River Elementary School fall concert.

The concert program booklet calls it a "memorable night of musical escape." The sweaty audience slumped on rows of metal folding chairs looks ready to escape. It feels like three hundred degrees in the school cafeteria. But "memorable"? I'm sure everyone will forget tonight as soon as they rush out the doors to the parking lot.

Ms. Sterling is waving her baton like she's conducting the National Symphony Orchestra, not the fourth-grade orchestra. I'm sitting on the second level of the stage, melting in a white shirt, black pants, and purple clip-on bow tie. It's extra hot because I'm wearing my basketball training jersey and shorts underneath. I ran over from the gym right after practice. And I couldn't find my dress shoes this morning, so I'm in my sneakers. My basketball and empty water bottle are tucked under my chair.



Our third song goes perfectly. Ms. Sterling raises her hands, soaking in the applause. Next is our finale, "Tribal Lament." It ends with a cool drum solo by Antonio. I raise my violin to my chin. Abigail, who's sitting next to me, starts to whisper.

"Zayd! I need more room." She sticks her bow out so far that it almost touches my face.

"See?" she whines. "Move over!"

I scoot my chair to the right a few inches and start playing.

"I need more room!" Abigail hisses.

It looks like Abigail has plenty of room, but she's glaring at me. So I scoot over again, way over to the edge of the riser. I shift in my seat, still playing, and then--oh no! My chair tips over and I'm falling. AHHHHH!

I see my life flashing before my eyes. Wait, no. Phew. It's the flashes of everyone's cameras. And then, CRASH! I land smack in the middle of the drums, barely missing Antonio. My chair clangs to the floor somewhere behind me. WHACK! My basketball smacks me on the head before bouncing into the audience.

All the music stops. I hear gasps from the crowd. Then there's nothing but silence. Ms. Sterling rushes over to me, her face pale.

"Zayd! Are you okay? Can you move?" she shrieks.

I nod, take her hand, and slowly stand up. My shirt is untucked and a little torn, and my bright red training jersey is peeking through. My bow tie is missing. But nothing seems broken, especially not my playing arms. For playing basketball, I mean. I can't afford to be injured. My league has tryouts coming up in just four weeks, and I have to make the gold team.

Ms. Sterling looks like she's about to cry. I can feel everyone's eyes fixed on me. And then, suddenly, I understand what "the show must go on" means.

I face the audience and take an extra-deep bow. Everyone cheers, whistles, and applauds. And then I actually get . . . a STANDING OVATION! I bow again and can't help but laugh with the crowd. I rub my head where the basketball hit me, and someone from the audience throws it back to me.

As I climb back onto the risers, Abigail helps me set up my chair.

"Sorry," she mumbles.

If you had told me I was going to be famous today, I wouldn't have believed it. My older sister Zara posted a video of my fall on YouTube. It's already been viewed forty thousand times. In six hours! I can only imagine how famous I'll be by tomorrow. And in the end, this concert might actually be memorable after all.

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Excerpted from Power Forward by Hena Khan
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