Page 22 of Symphony of Salvation

“How about you spend the day observing. Get a feel for classroom life. I’m sure it’s not what you’re used to. If you have any questions…” I trailed off. What could I possibly have to offer a man like August? This whole situation was a joke.

I was barely a shadow in his bright ray of sunshine.

***

August confiscated my desk and spent the rest of the morning and all afternoon observing the routine as I’d suggested. After a preliminary introduction to each class, where I called him Maestro Castellanos out of spite, he didn’t interrupt or exchange words with the students. He didn’t flaunt his credentials or correct my methods.

Yet I felt judged.

I felt inferior.

I felt like a child with a bully, except the bully was perfectly respectable and doing no harm. The problem, I recognized, was fully mine.

Regardless, I didn’t invite August for lunch or stick around to ensure he felt welcome at Timber Creek. In my indignance, I abandoned him and ate in my car with the heat running. What ifa colleague asked about my day? I would be forced to lie and say all was fine.

Technically, allwasfine. The only thing not fine was me.

Guilt festered over the hour break, and I begrudgingly brought an extra coffee when I returned to the classroom, unsure if my guest indulged in caffeinated beverages but needing a peace offering, nonetheless.

August was at the piano again.

He stopped when I moved into his line of sight and smiled shyly when I extended an apology in the form of a ceramic mug wafting steam and a bold coffee essence. “Coffee,” I announced. “The staffroom only has milk, no cream. If you need sugar, I keep those individual packets in the top drawer of my desk. If you don’t drink coffee…”

“I do. Thank you.” He stared at it momentarily and sat it beside him on the bench without taking a sip. “Which class is Constance in?”

“Last period.”

He absently nodded, attention drifting to the ivories. “I might take that time to rummage through the available pieces in the back room.”

“Whatever you want.”

Chapter six

August

Fourth period arrived, along with a full dose of anxiety and a classroom full of students my daughter’s age. I couldn’t share my concerns with Niles. Although amicable with one another, undeniable tension rippled the air between us.

Niles didn’t like me. He didn’t want me there.

Worse, he seemed to have put me on a pedestal, convinced I lived an idealistic life because of a top education and career success. Niles didn’t see the darker side of my life, the underbelly, the horror that lived behind curtain number two outside the public eye. My complicated relationship with Chloé and my parents notwithstanding, ten minutes of observing the friction between father and daughter might show him otherwise. The elevated pedestal was undeserved.

Niles would soon realize that one could excel at music and fail at life.

Shame filled me long before Constance graced the classroom. She didn’t want me there either, and our ongoing squabbles might prove disruptive, if not embarrassing.

Before I could make excuses and leave, escape to the back room as planned, Constance appeared among a cluster of students. She frantically scanned the room until our gazes clashed, upon which she gave me a cold-eyed glare, flicked a braid over her shoulder, and took a seat next to three violinists, who prepared their instruments, tightening bowstrings and testing their tuning.

The boy on Constance’s left immediately engaged her with ceaseless chatter, and she smiled in a way I’d never seen. My gut curdled. Any parent understood the queasy sensation born when their child reached puberty and started dating, but I was at a disadvantage. I hadn’t developed a foundational relationship with Constance in her youth. My extended absence meant I’d never been the rule enforcer. That responsibility had rested solely with Chloé.

Until now.

The new position of authority was going down like a sinking ship.

The boy was a fellow violinist with auburn hair and glowing dimples. Constance communicated with nods, shakes, and a few simple hand gestures. No shrugging or eye rolling for him. She used her phone to type messages to the boy, and he read them with wide eyes before responding. I considered taking her phone away but dismissed the notion. It was not a feasible option in this day and age.

With the assembly of instruments came loud honking, sharp screeching, and the shrill whine of tuning. Warmups filled the room. Staccato scales and long-held notes. A boy with a trumpet balanced on his knee blew raspberries into a mouthpiece and formed obscure and purposefully obscene shapes with his lips to exercise his embouchure.

Niles quieted them after a time and motioned me forward. He’d insisted on a proper introduction before I escaped tothe back room, as he’d done with the other classes. For whatever reason, Niles felt it prudent to list the handful of accomplishments I’d shared earlier in the day like they alone encompassed me as a person. Little did he know that what I told him barely scratched the surface.

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