Look, I know you’re busy and trying your best to appease others, but please, please, please don’t reopen school this September. I won’t be able to make it another year with those behemoths suffocating me with their skeevy, pudgy fingers.

I am tough, thanks to my ABS resin and ancestry of the polymer clan (RIP, Grandpoppy), but even the percussion kit agrees. We like it in this deserted closet. It’s an opaque, peaceful coven where the “Do Not Disturb” sign shall always hang.

We’ve never had such privacy. Just the two of us. We’ve shared deeply personal stories, and I’ve realized I’m not the only one. I know you may be questioning my loyalty to your brand, but I’ve just needed some time to think things through. Yes, I go to St. Jacob’s, but the level of abuse my community has faced is unbelievable. It doesn’t matter the tempo. Would you want to be punched in the face every 10 seconds like my friend percussion?

I’ll take that silence as a no.

What about me? I may not be the holiest of all the recorders, but at least I’m not a prick like the piano. He thinks he’s all that just because he would graze his keys upon Beethoven and Chopin’s fingers.

Excuse me, but last time I checked, no piano had a love affair with King Henry VIII. Yeah, that’s right. Everybody talks about his marriages, but nobody remembers his collection of 76 recorders. I’d like to see Mozart write 33 original compositions while ruling England like my king.

For I come from a royal dynasty that defined the sound of the Renaissance. I don’t deserve to live this nightmare any longer—where at any second, some slug sticks their cheesy-puffed salvia and swallowed snot into my core. I’m not a baby bird. I’m a grown-ass recorder.

Ms. Cherry isn’t an innocent bystander either. No, she fully encourages these monstrosities. When she first held me, I thought, this is a woman who respects recorders, but nope. She doesn’t even care when we’re abducted into these little pee-flavored phlegm’s houses. Anything for the greater good of “the recital.”

I’m sorry, but if I remember correctly, the MET wasn’t performing concerts under gymnasium lighting. Ms. Cherry needs to chill. The kids don’t want to be there. The parents don’t want to be there. Even the principal has better things to do than see Ms. Cherry’s army of hell-born urchins mime musical vibrations. We all know the stereo is carrying the performance.

But no matter how many times this musical tyrant inflicts the pain of “Hot Cross Buns” on me, it cannot compare to her so-called students’ sole mission to slap me around their siblings’ backs, heads, and bums. For I am a refined, prestigious musical instrument, not a lowly lightsaber.

If I was a nincompoop like the piano, I would laugh at Ms. Cherry’s face when she realizes not one of her students practiced at home, but I don’t—hence, my saint-like qualities to consider during this case.

I get that your wish-granting system is overflowing with requests to end wars, play cupid, and erase moments of cringe-y history, but this is so much more. You see, I’m destined for greatness. No 4th grader deserves me. Ask McCartney, Bowie, and the everlasting stones that roll. I’m the secret sauce to classic rock—just don’t ask Hendrix. We had a falling out because someone was jealous.

As much as King Henry VIII deserved love, I deserve to be free of these little imps, oozing with fungus, for at least a year. That’ll give me and the percussion kit enough of a head start to the promised land of Windsor.