Page 53 of Symphony of Salvation

As she commenced, I found myself watching August as much as I watched his daughter. I’d seen plenty of parents at concerts, radiating pride as their children performed, but none of them were ever so scrutinous. I didn’t have to be a mind reader to know August dissected every note and pitch, analyzed her poise and posture, and critiqued her technique and interpretation.

Constance wasn’t a child. She was a project. She was his personal masterpiece to sculpt and display at will. It curdled my stomach.

When I tuned into her playing, the indigestion got worse, not better. How could I objectively grade this girl?

No mark would suitably match whatever August had already assigned in his head. Too low would be insulting, and I’d suffer his wrath. Too high would justify his claim that I knew nothing about the nuances of classical music. To be critical would suggest superiority, and August would never see me that way. I was a lowly high school teacher. I had never attended Juilliard or any other revered music school. I’d never played with a symphony orchestra or graced the stage as a renowned musician. I was mediocre at best.

The truth was, for a fourteen-year-old, grade-nine student, Constance’s performance was flawless. Stage-worthy. On par or better than anything I could have done. He knew it, and I knew it.

Constance finished and lowered the violin, offering a graceful bow of the head like she’d done weeks ago on the stage at Roy Thompson Hall. A virtuoso at fourteen. Hiding my turmoil—my envy—I smiled. “That was incredible.”

She signedthank youand collected her music, pointing at the door with a quirked brow.

“You may go.”

I waited for August to say something or stop her from exiting. Any regular parent would have at least offered their child areassuring smile. Praise. He did not. He focused on the blank marking sheet I’d not permitted him to fill out. I had no doubt he was taking notes inside his head.

When the door closed, he shifted to face me, the anticipatory look waiting for feedback.

The only thing I’d written on my page was Constance’s name and the title of the piece she’d performed. I turned it face down, hedging, unsure what to say. “It was perfection. I’ll have to consider the finer details before giving her a grade.”

“Constructive criticism will help her improve.”

“There’s not a lot to criticize.”

“There is always room for criticism. Perfection doesn’t exist.”

“It does when it’s your daughter, and her skill outshines the teacher’s. Anything I say will be wrong. She shouldn’t be in this class. I haven’t managed to teach her a single thing. The joke’s on me, isn’t it? If it’s not you making me feel inferior, it’s her.”

I stood, collecting the stack of marked forms and banging them into a pile. “No more today. I have a concert tonight, and I need to prepare.”

Chapter thirteen

August

Constance’s late start at Timber Creek meant she wasn’t part of Niles’s Christmas concert—although she should have been. Her midterm solo was leaps and bounds beyond her classmates’, and she had stage experience like they would never know. I’d tried to bring it up with my daughter, but she’d yelled with a fast flurry of ASL. I could only assume it meant I should mind my business.

Apart from occasionally observing rehearsals, Niles hadn’t wanted me involved with the Christmas show. It was his baby to nurture, and he’d kept me at a distance. Heaven forbid I suggest ways to improve it. He wore his bruised ego like a second skin. I let it go. After the holiday, the concert band was mine, but I suspected surrendering the reins was the last thing Niles wanted to do.

The final bell rang, and the fourth-period class trickled out much slower than usual. A few students helped Niles gather music stands and percussion instruments, transporting them to the auditorium. Constance approached, backpack slung over oneshoulder, violin case clutched in her left hand. She extended the right with a message written on her phone.

In no mood to wage war over words, I took the device and read.

I’m going home. What are you doing?

I scanned the room. “I’ll see if Mr. Edwidge needs help preparing for tonight.” Although I thought he would prefer I scatter with the rest of the students, but setting up for the evening seemed part of my duties as a guest teacher.

Constance took her phone back and typed.

How was my solo? Any feedback?

I eyed Niles across the room and lowered my voice. “Excellent pacing. Watch your bow grip during the flurry of runs near the middle. It grew rigid during the longer passage, choking the sound. You’ll end up with a bounce if you aren’t careful.”

Constance nodded with pursed lips and a furrowed brow. She was as much a perfectionist as her father.

What did Mr. Edwidge think?

I sighed, again seeking Niles, but he wasn’t in the classroom. “I don’t know. We never discussed it.”

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