My music teacher is like a ruffled bird, straight and stiff. He has a slightly angry, bemused air. I find him to be fascinatingly funny. The general consensus agrees with this. Though there are those who purse their lips at his swaying, snapping dance moves (proof, I believe, of their envy. At the last school function, my mother pointed at him and said “Did you see that? That guy? That’s your teacher? He’s dancing? Okay, um, wow. He’s good.” My cyniscm is a byproduct of my mother’s and, if she’s impressed, I cannot differ), we all have a certain degree of respect for him. He dresses in button-down, cream-colored shirts and velvety brown pants – clothes a mother would choose for her child, imagining he would grow into them. His hair is slick, gelled, balding at some points. Repeatedly he reaches back to smooth his palm over it, as if to check that each jet black clump is in place. He has fluid movements, his hands reaching up and over, fingers closing and opening rapidly when he wants to silence us, just like they do in orchestra. Does he imagine each of us to be an instrument?