Chapter 3

 Chapter Three – Whispers in the Classroom

Every day at school, I carried my flute in a cloth bag Uncle Sam made for me. He had sewn it with strong thread, neat stitches, and a little pocket where I could keep a piece of cloth for cleaning. It wasn’t fancy, but to me it was priceless. I guarded that bag more than all my notebooks. Sometimes I even placed it on my desk, keeping my hand on it, as though I was protecting something alive.

At first, no one paid attention. But the moment my classmates noticed the bag, the whispers started.

“Look at her,” one boy sneered from the back. “She thinks she’s a real musician.”

Another laughed. “Maybe she’ll play her flute during exams and expect the answers to dance onto her paper.”

The class broke into muffled giggles. Their laughter filled the room like stinging smoke.

My cheeks grew hot. I gripped the bag tighter, wishing I could hide inside my desk. I told myself I wouldn’t cry, but my eyes burned anyway. Each laugh felt like a stone thrown at my chest.

The rest of the lesson passed in a blur. I couldn’t hear the teacher’s words. My ears only caught the whispers, the snickers, the sound of pencils tapping on desks. All I wanted was the bell.

When break time finally came, I slipped out before anyone else. My feet carried me straight to the old cashew tree behind the hall — my secret place. The branches stretched wide, making a green roof. The ground was cool, with fallen leaves scattered like little brown wings. Here, the noise of the school faded. Here, I could breathe.

I opened the bag and pulled out my flute. The polished wood felt smooth and warm in my hands. I pressed it to my lips, closed my eyes, and let out a trembling tune.

The sound rose into the air, soft and shaky at first, then steadier. The notes curled with the breeze, like petals from a flower carried by the wind. Each note carried a piece of me — my fears, my hope, my wish to be seen and not mocked.

I didn’t know I was being watched until I heard footsteps. Annie, my best friend, walked toward me. Her smile was so bright it felt like the sun had broken through the leaves.

“Don’t mind them,” she said, brushing the grass off her skirt as she sat beside me. “Play for me. I want to hear it.”

I hesitated, but then I raised the flute again. This time, the song came out clearer, stronger, like a bird testing its wings and then flying. Annie leaned back against the tree trunk, closed her eyes, and swayed gently. She looked as if the music had carried her into another world.

When the last note faded, she opened her eyes slowly.

“You’re amazing,” she whispered. “One day, the same people laughing at you will clap until their hands hurt. You’ll see.”

I wanted to answer, but another voice cut through the air.

“Stop making noise!”

It was Chuka, the loudest boy in our class. He walked past with a group of students at his heels, grinning like he had found something funny. He pointed at my flute.

“Nobody cares about your silly stick,” he mocked. “Blow it too much, and your cheeks will burst like a balloon.”

Laughter exploded around him. My heart dropped. My hands shook as I lowered the flute.

Before I could hide it, Annie jumped up. Her eyes flashed like sparks.

“Keep walking, Chuka,” she snapped. “At least Lyra has talent. What do you have, besides your big mouth?”

The group jeered, muttered a few things, but none of them dared to answer her. They shuffled off, still laughing but less sure of themselves.

When the noise faded, Annie turned back to me. Her gaze softened. She crouched and took my trembling hands in hers.

“Don’t listen to them, Lyra. Promise me you won’t stop playing. Promise me you’ll keep going, no matter what they say.”

I looked into her eyes. Her faith in me was like a candle glowing in a dark room. It was small, but it was enough to chase away the shadows. Slowly, I smiled, though my

 heart still ached.

“I promise,” I whispered.