The Whistle That Would Not Come
Everyone in Mo's family could whistle. His dad whistled while he washed dishes. His big cousin could even whistle a whole song. Mo, who was nine, could only blow air that sounded like a leaky tire.
"Pucker your lips," his dad told him. "Make a small circle, like you are sipping from a straw."
Mo tried it in the kitchen. Air. He tried it in the car. More air. He tried it on the porch, in the garden, and once in the bathtub. Still air.
His cousin said to curl the tongue back a little. Mo curled it. Nothing happened except a lot of spit.
After two weeks, Mo felt grumpy. Whistling seemed like a club that would not let him in.
One morning, he was walking to school and not thinking about whistling at all. He was thinking about a sandwich. Without noticing, he puckered his lips into a tiny circle, curled his tongue, and let out a slow breath.
Tweeeet.
Mo stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. He tried again. Tweeeet! A thin, clear note floated out into the cold air.
He whistled all the way to the school gate. By dinner, he could whistle two notes, and he drove his whole family a little bit crazy.