Page 15 of Symphony of Salvation

Although the cancer hadn’t been gone long enough to warrant saying it was in remission, things were looking up. Since the surgery, however, the teenager had battled a different disease.

Depression.

Although Constance had undergone intensive speech therapy to teach her how to speak with the artificial device, she refused. According to her father, Constance didn’t like how her voice sounded. It embarrassed her, and on more than one occasion, the teen had openly stated she’d wished the cancer had killed her instead. Because her mother had taught her sign language as a child, the girl resorted to using it for communication instead of the prosthesis she’d been given.

In accordance with her family’s wishes, we were to dissuade her from using signs and promote speaking in class.

The warning bell rang, and my ninth-grade students streamed into the classroom, chatting noisily as they took their assigned seats on the risers, dictated by what primary instrument they played.

Each student carried an instrument case along with their standard backpack. Our routine never fluctuated. We started every day with scales.

Constance entered as the final bell rang. Tight flaxen braids hung over each shoulder. Her uniform did nothing to hide her petite frame. Knobby knees showed under the hem of her skirt, while bony fingers clasped the straps of her backpack. Nervous eyes glanced around the room, taking in everything and everyone at once. I could imagine it had been a daunting first day.

Her wary attention fell on me.

“Hush. The bell’s gone. Instruments out. You have ten minutes of free practice time before we get started.”

The noise settled to hum and the clamor of instruments being assembled. The squeak of adjusting stands, the preliminary honk of a horn, a screech of a bow on an untuned string. I motioned for Constance to join me at the desk in the back corner of the room.

Constance looked nothing like her father. Her fair skin and lighter hair contrasted August’s darker features. Where he was tall and broad, she was short and willowy. Fragile, which I feared was a result of the cancer.

Before she reached the desk, the hectic commotion of twenty-one students running scales overtook the room, reverberating against the walls.

Constance didn’t carry an instrument, only a school bag. I directed her to pull up a chair, and when she sat, she placed the backpack at her feet.

“I’m told you go by the name of Constance. Is that correct?”

The girl nodded, her body language the epitome of misery. I didn’t have to know a thing about her to know she didn’t want to be here. It was torture.

A patterned scarf circled the girl’s neck, drawing my attention. She didn’t wear it for fashion, but how many other girls had accused her of breaking the Timber Creek dress code rules because of it? Had they teased? Tattled?

I knew what the fabric covered and told myself not to stare or make her uncomfortable. Having worked in a high school for my entire career, I understood teenage sensitivities regarding self-image. I could only imagine how such a drastic change in the girl’s life had affected her—not purely her fight against cancer and having surgery, but Constance had spent her whole academic life with private tutors.

Koa had been homeschooled, and I knew the social struggles he’d encountered when his grandfather eventually put him in a regular curriculum.

But here was a girl battling depression after a life-altering surgery, and instead of allowing for a period of adjustment, her parents had made it worse by plunging her into a school system where Constance was at the mercy of potentially mean-spirited peers.

I offered the fretful teen a warm smile as I leaned across the desk, getting closer to be heard over the racket. “If no one has said it yet, welcome to Timber Creek. I’m Mr. Edwidge, the one and only music teacher. Let me start by saying I’m pleased and rather embarrassed to have you in my class. I saw your performance at Roy Thompson Hall. I have to be honest, Miss Castellanos, I don’t think I’m a worthy instructor.Youshould be teachingme, not the other way around.”

My comment earned a soft smile and a modest head shake. The girl’s cheeks flushed pink.

“What? You’re not that good? I misheard? That wasn’t you playing the piano the other night?”

Her smile grew, and she shrugged.

“I think you’re humble. I met your father earlier today.”

The smile faded. Constance’s chin dipped until her gaze landed on the bag at her feet. The same melancholy I used to see on my best friend slipped over her body like a comfortable sweater, so I said something I shouldn’t.

“Your dad’s a bit of a show-off, isn’t he?”

Constance lifted her head, eyes sparkling with humor. She nodded briskly in agreement. I’d spent one period with the man. I couldn’t fathom growing up under his tutelage.

I chuckled. “You’re not going to waltz in here and make me feel small too, are you? I’ll hand in my teaching badge right now. I don’t think I could handle it.”

She shook her head, still grinning.

“Good. Phew.” I dramatically swiped my brow. “Now that we got that out of the way, I see you didn’t bring an instrument. How about we take a stroll and find you something to play for today?”

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