The Secret Life of Ms. Finkleman Read Online Free

didn’t know him that well. In class and at lunch and stuff he kept pretty quiet, and otherwise nobody saw much of him. He was always busy doing what he was doing right now: Practicing the piano.
    Kevin’s father was the concert pianist Walter “Walt” McKelvey, the only real, live celebrity in the Mary Todd Lincoln parent community. The second famous fact about Kevin was that he practiced the piano four hours a day, and was therefore known as the Piano Kid—although some people called him the Suit Kid, because he wore a navy blue blazer and tie to school every day. Once an obnoxious substitute teacher named Mr. Beshelov, who thought he was funny, had kidded Kevin about it. He asked Kevin if he had a date after school, and Kevin mumbled no, but Mr. Beshelov kept needling him until finally Kevin stood up and gave this whole little speech about how his father said you had to have respect for theinstrument, which meant having respect for yourself, and he would appreciate very much not being teased about it by a so-called grown-up.
    How could Bethesda look through Ms. Finkleman’s desk with the Piano Kid hanging around? She cleared her throat. “Hey, Kevin.”
    The Piano Kid stopped playing and twisted around on the bench. “Oh, hello, Bethesda. What are you doing here? ”
    “I, um, I just need to …” Bethesda suddenly figured out how she could make this happen. “Kevin, what’s that you’re playing? ”
    “Oh, um, it’s a piano.”
    “I know. I meant, what song are you playing? ”
    “Right. Duh.” Kevin blushed bright red. “It’s Bach. The Goldberg Variations.”
    “I really like it! ” said Bethesda, twisting a tannish reddish lock with her forefinger. “I liked the part that you were doing just then.”
    “This part?”
    Kevin turned back to the piano and started to plunk out the notes again.
    “Yeah, that part,” she said encouragingly. “It’s totally clamfoodle.”
    “It’s totally what?”
    “Clamfoodle. Meaning, just, like, really good. My dad makes up words sometimes,” she added, strolling nonchalantly toward Ms. Finkleman’s desk. “He’s a total goof. Anyway, keep playing. I love it.”
    Kevin kept playing, totally focused on the Goldberg Variations, as Bethesda sat down at Ms. Finkleman’s desk.
    Unfortunately, it wasn’t much help.
    There were no pictures of family members (like Mr. Melville had on his desk) or pets (like Mrs. Howell had on hers); no coffee mug with a jokey slogan about golf (like Mr. Carlsbad’s). Just a pencil sharpener, a bowl of those little clementine oranges, and the teacher’s edition of
Greensleeves and Other Traditional English Folk Ballads.
    Yeesh,
Bethesda thought.
    Ms. Finkleman had been teaching at Mary Todd Lincoln for eight years. Was it really possible that she had sat at this desk for all that time and not done anything to make it personal? There was no hint of the individual who sat here—just a perfectly neat desk and a sad little bowl of fruit.
    Bethesda slid open the top drawer, and it banged against her knee. “Ow! ” she hollered, and Kevin stoppedplaying. She quickly straightened up, laced her hands in front of her, and leaned her chin on them as if lost in concentration. “Wow,” Bethesda murmured. “That part was really great.”
    “Oh, thanks,” Kevin said. “Um, what are you doing?”
    “Just listening.” Bethesda smiled. “Just enjoying. Is there more? ”
    “What? Oh, sure. Yeah. That was just the first three variations, sort of. There are thirty of them.”
    “Perfect!” said Bethesda. “I mean, I’d love to hear the rest. If you don’t mind.”
    Kevin’s fingers returned to the keys, and Bethesda returned to her investigation. The top drawer was no help either: a pile of ungraded sixth-grade music-theory quizzes, a stack of neatly folded handkerchiefs.
Yawn.
    Then Bethesda opened the bottom drawer, and stopped cold.
    “Huh,” murmured Bethesda quietly—too quietly for Kevin to hear over the gentle