Zoe Can’t Whistle (Yet)

Zoe’s big brother, Hugo, whistled all the time. He whistled while he put on his sneakers. He whistled while he watered the tomatoes. He even whistled while he brushed his teeth, which made a bit of a mess on the mirror. All Hugo had to do was round his lips, and out came a tune, just like that: fweee, fweee.

Zoe wanted to whistle too. She rounded her lips. She blew. “Pfff.” Nothing but air. She tried again, harder. “Fffff.” Her cheeks puffed up like a balloon. Hugo burst out laughing. “You sound like a bike tire going flat!” Zoe didn’t laugh at all.

She went up to her room and sat on her bed with her arms crossed. “I can’t whistle,” she told her teddy bear. “I’ll never be able to.” The bear didn’t answer. But behind him, on the shelf, there was a photo: Zoe on her bike, last summer.

Zoe remembered. Last summer, she couldn’t ride without training wheels. She zigzagged, she put her foot down a hundred times a day. And now she could ride all the way to the park, with Dad walking behind her. Before that, she couldn’t write her name either. Now she made a beautiful Z, as big as a lightning bolt.

Zoe uncrossed her arms. “I can’t whistle,” she told her bear. “Not yet.”

So Zoe made a plan: practice a little bit every day, no more. In the morning, in front of the mirror, she rounded her lips as if she were blowing on soup that was too hot. In the bath, she tried with her tongue down, then with her tongue up. In the backyard, she blew softly, then very softly. Pfff. Pfff. Still just air. But on the fifth day, out came a tiny sound, so tiny she thought she might have dreamed it.

Meanwhile, Zoe discovered she could do other things. She could click her tongue like a trotting horse. She could hoot like an owl by blowing into her cupped hands: hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo. Hugo tried to hoot like an owl too. “Pfff.” Nothing but air! Zoe smiled. “Want me to show you?” And she showed him, patiently, how to hold his hands.

One morning in the backyard, a robin landed on the fence and began to sing. Zoe crept closer without a sound. She rounded her lips like she was blowing on hot soup, blew very gently… and a sound came out. Fweee. A thin, wobbly little sound, but a real whistle. The robin tilted its head. Zoe whistled again. Fweee. The robin sang back. At least, that’s what Zoe thought she heard.

Zoe ran all the way to the house. “Hugo! Dad! Listen!” She whistled. It was very small, but everyone heard it. Dad clapped. And Hugo held out his hand to his sister. “Deal? You teach me the owl, and I’ll teach you a song.”

That evening, sitting on the back steps, Zoe and Hugo had their first lesson. Zoe showed him how to cup his hands, with his thumbs pressed together. Hugo showed her how to hold a note without letting it fly away. Hoo-hoo, went Hugo, a little crooked. Fweee-fweee, went Zoe, a little wobbly. On the fence, the robin sat very still, as if it were taking the lesson too. Tomorrow they would try again. All three of them.