Page 40 of Symphony of Salvation

“What about genderqueer or transgender students and our acceptance policies, you ask? Well, I don’t have an answer for you. Believe me, I’ve brought it up several times, demanding updated policies, but unlessthe problemof gender nonconformity presents itself—problembeing their word, not mine—then the board is happy with their antiquated guidelines and doesn’t see a need to change.”

“Heated topic for you?”

“Does it show?”

“Yes.”

“Good. It should. It’s almost twenty twenty-five, for god’s sake. If we weren’t a private school running under a private board of directors, this would have been dealt with years ago.” Niles blew out a frustrated breath. “Not the point of the tour. Moving on.”

I followed him down another hallway, itching to make excuses and leave. Had Constance taken Cody home? Were they in her bedroom with the door closed? What would I tell Chloé if her fourteen-year-old daughter ended up pregnant when I’d had her in my custody for less than three months?

As though reading my mind, Niles spun, walking backward as he spoke. “Going crazy yet?”

“Yes. I wish you’d get to the point.”

He smirked and veered into a stairwell. “We’re almost there.”

I had to jog to keep up, and by the time we’d climbed three flights to what appeared to be an abandoned level, I was out of breath. Dusty piles of unused furniture littered the open space, along with mountains of cardboard boxes and several stacks of outdated textbooks. Drop cloths and broken-down scaffolding lay unprotected on the ground, and overflowing carts of building supplies had been shoved wherever there was room.

The overhead lights were off, so the only illumination came from the afternoon sunlight slanting through a bank of far windows. Dust motes stirred as Niles moved stuff out of the way and crossed through the wreckage.

“Watch your step,” he said. “During restoration, they used this space to store stuff they didn’t know what to do with. They still don’t know what to do with it, so here it remains. Broken desks, antique chalkboards, outdated electronics, you name it. Junk.”

“Why not throw it away?”

“Good question.”

Niles stopped at one of the windows and peered over his shoulder as I caught up. I sidestepped and weaved through debris, dodging a spiderweb and climbing over a toppled, rotted beam. Concerned it was meant to support the roof or hold up a wall, I scanned in horror.

Niles chuckled. “We are structurally sound. I promise.”

“Why are we here, Niles?” I moved in beside him, brushing dirt from the sleeve of my jacket.

“I want to show you something.”

“Up here?”

“Out there.” Searching the floor, Niles snagged an abandoned dust cover and used it to wipe a section of the window. It left a greasy film behind, but the view was clearer.

This side of the recreation hall overlooked a snow-covered football field and bleachers. Yellow goalposts marked each end. I would have expected the freezing weather to have driven the students indoors, but at least a dozen or more ran about the field, kicking a ball and jostling one another out of the way. Another dozen or more sat bundled on the sidelines, watching, clapping, and cheering their friends.

Our overhead perspective made it easy to pick out burly Coach Blaine in a leather academy jacket with the Timber Creek wolf mascot emblazoned across the back. He ran alongside the edgeof the field, following the kid with the ball. When the teen crossed into the end zone, Coach Blaine blew his whistle and clapped gloved hands.

“Why are you showing me this?”

“Every Friday after school, rain or sun, snowy days or clear days, a group of kids come together on the field and play their made-up version of ball hockey. It’s not the typical ball hockey you see the kids play on the street in the summer. It’s a blend of soccer, ice hockey, and baseball. I don’t pretend to understand. I’m not a sports guy. See that man,” he pointed to another adult, high-fiving the kid who’d evidently scored.

“Yes.”

“Dr. Koa Burgard, Constance’s English teacher, that’s his partner. Jersey Reid. He used to play for the NHL. He volunteers with sports-related stuff when he has time. The kids love him. See the teen in the red beanie moving toward the stands?”

I squinted, and the tight knot that had wound around my gut let go. “That’s Cody.”

“Yep. He’s not the greatest musician. I’m sure you’ve noticed. He puts his heart and soul into practicing but will never earn a place on stage like you or Constance. Stardom with the violin is not meant for him. He knows, but let me tell you, he’s driven to be the best mediocre player you’ve ever seen.

“Now, ask him to figure out a complex math equation or explain relativity, and he will blow your socks off. That boy is going to be an engineer someday. He dreams of going to space. Mark my words. He’ll make it.”

Niles leaned a shoulder against the dirt-smeared window, no longer looking outside but focusing on me. “Cody loves sports too, with the same heart that he loves music. He has incredible team spirit. Every Friday afternoon when the bell rings, he’s the first on the field, organizing the teams so they’re as fair as possible. Like music, Coach Blaine says he’s an average player.He’s not going to win any trophies or medals or get drafted to a team, but every kid on the field wants Cody at their back because he’s a fighter, and he won’t give up.”

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