Page 34 of Symphony of Salvation

I slapped the laptop closed and puzzled the information. Koa was right. August didn’t belong at Timber Creek. With a career like his, a high school teaching job was far beneath him. Why he’d agreed to assist our department made no sense.

My classes passed in agony. As much as I would have liked to assign quiet study, I couldn’t deny my students their practice time this close to midterm. I chewed aspirin, guzzled water, andpushed through the day. By fourth period, my grade nine class, I was ready to fall into bed.

My headache had subsided, but I was wretchedly tired. After having the students warm up with scales, I dismissed them for private practice. Violin in tow, Constance placed a stand beside my desk. We exchanged smiles as she readied her sheet music.

Waves of flaxen hair hung loose over her shoulders, pushed back off her forehead by a wide headband. A patterned scarf circled her neck. It matched the school uniform, cleverly protecting her prosthesis. Did the other students know, or was her disability something she wanted to hide? Teenagers were self-conscious, judgmental creatures, prone to ostracize anyone who didn’t fit an expected mold, and this was Constance’s first experience with school and peers. I kept that in mind.

Enraptured by her professional profile, I sought resemblances between her and August. She didn’t have his coloring. His hair was dark mahogany, and his skin tone much warmer. Constance was pale and nearly blonde, her eyes vibrant green. They shared a similar facial structure, with high cheekbones, straight noses, and thin mouths. Constance wore a splash of freckles under each eye, her face softer and more delicate. August’s lines were more refined and masculine. Her perfect posture reminded me of her father, but that was likely a learned trait and not something inherited.

Did Constance know her father had been with me the previous night? Was she aware of his proclivity to stare at other men’s mouths with interest? I guessed not.

The teen positioned the violin under her chin and lifted her right arm to situate the bow over the strings. She flexed the fingers on her left hand, finding their positioning on the fingerboard. A pause ensued before the most beautiful music flowed through the instrument and filled the noisy room.

Constance had chosen a section of6 Sonatas, a complex piece by Eugène Ysa?e written specifically for violin. It required exceptional bow control and intensive fingering, but she managed it effortlessly. She was in a different category than the other students. How was I supposed to grade her on the same curve? Her presence annihilated the curve. I would be forced to reconstruct my grading scale.

Torn between resentment and admiration, I listened to her play. At her age, my skill had far exceeded my fellow students’ as well. However, unlike Constance, my family chose to be unsupportive. Their remarks hindered passion and nurtured shame. Music was not a respectable career choice, not when my siblings were all doctors, lawyers, and engineers. Every step I’d taken to fulfill my dream was against the current. No one had cheered me on.

Constance was a lucky girl in some respects. She likely didn’t think so.

The last note hung in the air as she lowered the violin. I earned another smile, a proud smile, and noted she shared a dimple with her father, too, except Constance had another to match.

“Well done. Simply remarkable. I have no feedback. The class is yours. I quit.”

The smile grew, digging deeper grooves into her cheeks.

“Seriously, though, I could listen to you play all day.”

Resting the instrument at her feet and freeing up her hands, Constance used the ASL alphabet to spell.It makes me happy.

“I can tell. Hold onto that. Music makes me happy too.”

Do you play the violin?

“Not with your skill, but yes. The piano is my primary instrument. The violin is a close second.”

Piano is my primary instrument too.

I smiled through the pain of her statement. She was a prodigy like her father. Constance’s fingers formed more letters, but Ishook my head. “Too fast, and I missed the beginning. Start again.”

The previous day, I’d informed Constance of my limited abilities with ASL—I could manage the alphabet and a few simple words. If she spelled her side of the conversation, I understood, provided she didn’t rush.

I made you sad.

“Not at all. I’m in awe of you.”

Will you play for me?

I chuckled. “Not today. My nerves are jangled from lack of sleep, and I don’t want to embarrass myself.” I held a hand flat to show her the slight tremble. It had more to do with skipping lunch than insufficient rest, but it got my point across.

“How’s your dad?” I asked, itching to change the subject and reaching for the first topic at hand.

Constance’s lips formed a tight line before she signed,I haven’t talked to him since yesterday. He’s a…She hesitated and formed the wordjerk, although I got the impression it wasn’t what she’d originally thought.

I motioned to the chair I kept near the desk. “Have a seat.”

Constance perched on the edge with a grimace.Are you going to lecture me about talking too?

“No. That I promise you.”

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