A/N: I do not own Pop Tarts. I don't own saxes or bassoons. I'd like a
soprano, but I don't have one. I did invent Carpenton, Jamie, Mitchell,
Anthony, and a certain deity you'll meet in this chapter. And I think
closed-hole bassoons may be my own invention. But it's still funny.
The first suspicion Anthony Tead had that his son was a secret saxophone addict was when Mitchell was in eighth grade. True, Anthony had wondered from time to time why Mitchell spent so much time at school, a place Anthony had never been able to stand, despite his band addiction. But he passed it off as a new-found obsession with the bassoon and was quite pleased for a long time. The breaking point for Anthony came one night when Mitchell didn't get home until well after dark. The street lights had been on for about two hours and Anthony was about to call the police when he heard the guilty creak of the front door slowly opening.
"MITCHELL?" he roared. "Yeah, dad?" Mitchell said, trying to keep his voice from wavering. He had not only been playing the forbidden instrument that night, but he had also received his first official lesson from Jamie, a new girl in Carpenton and a virtuoso. He knew he would probably be disowned if his father ever found out. "Get in here!" Anthony snarled. "Um, yeah?" Mitchell asked, stepping out into the light of the living room. "Let me look at you." Mitchell shuddered inwardly, but he did his best to remain the picture of nonchalance as his father crucially studied him. The jeans were fine, the sneakers typical, and the burgundy and yellow "Hardcore Bassoonist" T-shirt was a nice touch. But Anthony had been a band geek for too long to be fooled. He knew something was amiss. "Let me see your fingers," he demanded, roughly yanking Mitchell's hands toward him as he stepped forward. "How come these calluses aren't ring- shaped?" Mitchell struggled to keep his face casual as he recited the answer he and Jamie had prepared. "I got some plugs. The calluses were really starting to annoy me, so now I have a closed-hole bassoon." He smiled reassuringly at his father, shuddering again inside. "WHAT? You WUSS! I won't have my only son being a closed-hole WUSS!!! TAKE THEM OUT!" he demanded, storming off into the bathroom. Mitchell silently thanked the Band God and shuffled off to his room to whittle away his secret Pop-Tarts stash and dream of his very own alto.
The first suspicion Anthony Tead had that his son was a secret saxophone addict was when Mitchell was in eighth grade. True, Anthony had wondered from time to time why Mitchell spent so much time at school, a place Anthony had never been able to stand, despite his band addiction. But he passed it off as a new-found obsession with the bassoon and was quite pleased for a long time. The breaking point for Anthony came one night when Mitchell didn't get home until well after dark. The street lights had been on for about two hours and Anthony was about to call the police when he heard the guilty creak of the front door slowly opening.
"MITCHELL?" he roared. "Yeah, dad?" Mitchell said, trying to keep his voice from wavering. He had not only been playing the forbidden instrument that night, but he had also received his first official lesson from Jamie, a new girl in Carpenton and a virtuoso. He knew he would probably be disowned if his father ever found out. "Get in here!" Anthony snarled. "Um, yeah?" Mitchell asked, stepping out into the light of the living room. "Let me look at you." Mitchell shuddered inwardly, but he did his best to remain the picture of nonchalance as his father crucially studied him. The jeans were fine, the sneakers typical, and the burgundy and yellow "Hardcore Bassoonist" T-shirt was a nice touch. But Anthony had been a band geek for too long to be fooled. He knew something was amiss. "Let me see your fingers," he demanded, roughly yanking Mitchell's hands toward him as he stepped forward. "How come these calluses aren't ring- shaped?" Mitchell struggled to keep his face casual as he recited the answer he and Jamie had prepared. "I got some plugs. The calluses were really starting to annoy me, so now I have a closed-hole bassoon." He smiled reassuringly at his father, shuddering again inside. "WHAT? You WUSS! I won't have my only son being a closed-hole WUSS!!! TAKE THEM OUT!" he demanded, storming off into the bathroom. Mitchell silently thanked the Band God and shuffled off to his room to whittle away his secret Pop-Tarts stash and dream of his very own alto.
