Page 23 of Symphony of Salvation

“Starting today, we have a guest teacher among us. Please welcome Maestro Castellanos, a Juilliard-trained musician specializing in flute, piano, composition, and theory. The maestro left the Chicago Symphony Orchestra to join us, so we should be grateful he’s lending us his talent.”

“Mr.Castellanos is fine. It’s nice to be here.”

The mouth-stretching trumpeter raised a hand and waited to be acknowledged before speaking. “I’ve heard of you. My mom saw you perform in London years ago, a private show at the Royal Festival Hall. She talked about it nonstop when she got home. She’s followed your career ever since. She thinks you’re hot.” Students giggled. “She has a poster of you in her office. Drives Dad crazy. I can’t wait to tell her you’re teaching us. You won two World Classical Music Awards, didn’t you?”

I sensed Niles’s gaze boring into the side of my face and reached for the buttons on my jacket, undoing the top one, then doing it back up before clearing my throat. “I won three, actually.” Instead of embellishing, I offered the youth a patent smile and motioned to Constance. “My daughter won the gold WCMA at age six for violin. I think that’s far more notable.”

Constance shrank in her seat as several students glanced in her direction. The toxic glare I earned suggested I’d misspoken. Again.

“Tell your mother I said hi,” I concluded with a wince.

Niles came to the rescue, calling the class to order and allowing me to slip out of the spotlight and into the back room. I hadn’t expected to be recognized and put on the spot. My fame was nuanced. Unless a person was entrenched in theclassical music world, I was nobody. Another face in the crowd. I’d declined every offer to publish my work, sticking to private performances to showcase new pieces. I’d refused countless TV interviews and allowed only a few articles to be printed in magazines.

My music was my voice, and if people wanted to hear it, they could find me in an auditorium on stage. They could pay the big bucks and attend a show. Unfortunately, being photographed was part of most contracts. Marketing included printing brochures and posters, double-page spreads in programs listing the dozens of achievements Niles had yet to learn about.

I turned on the light in the music library and absorbed the task as I listened to Niles teach.

The complexity of scale variations he used with the ninth graders for warmup was understandably different from those he used with the seniors. Both verged on rote. The students would benefit from more variety. A bigger challenge. He didn’t correct them as he should when they made mistakes. I would change that.

Standing among thigh-high stacks of compositions, ear cocked, picking out errors and easily distinguishing my daughter’s playing from her auburn-haired suitor, the conductor in me reared with a barely restrained force.

Among a class of twenty-some-odd students, I heard every note, evaluated each individual pitch and reverberation, and concluded that eleven students played with reasonable skill, and the rest were trash. I wanted to be at Niles’s desk, appraising them properly and taking notes for later use.

Constance would have been upset regardless. My mere existence bothered her. Whether I hid in the back room or remained in plain sight, it wouldn’t change our relationship.

Before long, Niles allowed the teens to spread out and work on their midterm solos. A few students gathered in the instrumentstorage area outside the music library, where I’d lost myself among scores.

I half listened and half explored options for the spring concert, plucking crisper folders from the shelf, knowing, because of their condition, they contained compositions that had likely never been played. Unaware of the skill level of the concert band and having only seen the senior class for the first time earlier that day, I was ill-prepared to choose something appropriate.

Abandoning the task, I slipped out the door and moved silently among the scattered pupils, observing their individual methods of practice, analyzing their choices for their pieces, and smiling at the few who made eye contact.

Although the urge to offer guidance or suggestions was almost too strong to resist, I held my tongue, hearing my daughter call me a show-off and seeing Niles’s face when I’d proposed changes to his playing on the first day we’d met.

Another day, when they were more comfortable with my presence and didn’t see me as a threat, I would correct their errors. Although I rather thought Niles was the only person who felt threatened by me, and I couldn’t fathom why.

The practice rooms contained a few students each, none taking advantage of the provided study time, seemingly more interested in chatting. How did they expect to improve? Again, I held my tongue.

In the main music room, a spread of teenagers occupied every nook and cranny, and the conglomeration of noise was familiar and soothing.

The mouth-stretching trumpet player stood nearby, fingers bouncing with ease on the keys of his instrument. His tone was perfect, and I followed along as he played. When he caught me watching, he stopped and grinned. “I want to go to Juilliard too, so if you have any advice…”

“I do. Practice, practice, practice. Your playing is decent, but decent won’t get you anywhere. It needs to be exceptional. Eat, sleep, and breathe your music. It’s a discipline as much as a skill. Juilliard is beyond competitive. Only the best land there, so you need to be the best.”

“And I’m not yet?”

“Not even close.”

It was a daunting notion for a fourteen-year-old to understand, but I had a hunch this kid got it.

“Fair enough.” He motioned to the sheet music on the stand. “Any feedback? Don’t coddle me. I can take it.”

I chuckled. “All right. I suggest you find something more challenging. This piece is far too easy. You’ll never improve if you don’t take risks.”

His face fell. “But I only have two weeks until testing.”

I slanted a brow at the pink-cheeked youth. “And?”

“Practice, practice, practice,” he said. “Got it.”

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