Page 42 of Symphony of Salvation

“I’ll leave you be,” I said when more time passed, and August refused to look at me. “I thought it was important you knew more about Cody before judging him. He’s a good kid, and Constance is a smart girl.”

I waited to see if he’d respond.

A slight tick radiated along his jaw, but otherwise nothing.

“Okay. I’ll see you Wednesday.”

I crossed the obstacle course of broken furniture and debris. Why had I opened my mouth? An attraction existed, sure, and returned interest was evident, no matter that he denied it, but even with the kinks smoothed out and our working relationship less hostile than it had been on day one, August was outside my league. What did I hope to accomplish by flirting with a world-renowned musician whose entire career made me feel small?

“Niles.” The strain in August’s voice drew me up short as I approached the door.

I turned back, but his attention remained fixed on the field. “Yes.”

“Thank you for this. I needed it.”

“Anytime.” I waited, but he was done talking.

***

“The Baroque period is said to have laid the groundwork for the next three hundred years of music. It saw the birth of the orchestra, the opera, concertos, sonatas, and cantatas.” Chalk dust rained down as I wrote each on the board.

“Who can give me an example of a Baroque period composer?”

No one enjoyed the days we studied music history, especially when that day landed on a Friday so close to Christmas. Not a single student in my grade nine class showed a spark of life. Their gas tanks were on E, and there wasn’t a filling station in sight. Some struggled to keep their eyelids from drooping, while others doodled in notebooks.

“How about this? Can anyone give me a time frame for the Baroque period?”

It was written on the blackboard and still no one took the bait. I whistled. “Tough crowd. No one?” I pointed at the answer. Blank stares. No reaction. No volunteers.

Sighing, I deposited the hunk of chalk on the ledge and brushed my hands on my trousers. “For the record, I don’t enjoy teaching the history aspect as much as you don’t like learning it.”

“Then why can’t we skip it?” Benjamin Murray, a horn player in the back row, asked as he penned a tattoo on his forearm.

“It’s part of the curriculum, Mr. Murray, and if the design you’re drawing is suggestive in any way, you will spend the rest of the period chatting with Dr. McCaine.” He scribbled it out, dropped the pen, and surreptitiously covered his arm like I hadn’t witnessed the whole thing.

“I’m just doing my job here, folks. Someone, please answer either question, and I promise I’ll wrap it up as fast as I can.”

Constance raised her hand.

“Yes. Miss Castellanos to save the day.”

She signed the lettersH-A-N-D-E-L.

“Handel. Good example. Thank you. He was indeed a Baroque composer. Can anyone name another?”

Dean blurted, “Bach?”

“Are you asking me or telling me, Mr. Townsend?”

A few teens smothered smiles, and one muttered, “Neither. He’s clucking like a chicken. Bach, Bach, Bach.”

More laughter.

I slanted a brow. “Mr. Townsend?”

“Um… telling you?”

“Are you sure?”

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