The Tuba Case That Would Not Stop Rattling
The band bus rumbled down the highway toward the regional concert, and every few seconds Owen's tuba case let out a small, sharp rattle. Clink, clink, clink. He had rented the instrument only the week before, and he was convinced that he had already managed to break something inside it.
"It could be a loose valve," whispered Mei, who played the trumpet in the seat behind him. "Or possibly a screw."
Owen frowned. Since he could not open a tuba case on a moving bus, he spent forty minutes imagining everything that might be wrong, and every bump in the road made his stomach tighten a little more.
At the concert hall, he laid the case on the floor of the band room and flipped open the latches while Mr. Bell, the director, leaned over his shoulder. The enormous brass horn gleamed, completely undamaged. Owen tipped the bell gently, and something rolled out of the horn and across the floor.
It was a glass marble, deep blue and swirled with white, and a tiny folded note was taped to its side. Owen unfolded it and read aloud: "For luck. Play loud. Love, Nora."
His little sister had slipped it into the bell before he left that morning. "She must have gotten up awfully early to do it," he said, and Mr. Bell chuckled. Owen tucked the marble into his shirt pocket, and when he stepped onto the stage that evening, he played the loudest and cleanest low notes of his entire life.