Page 36 of Symphony of Salvation

My daughter’s caustic glare pinned me in place as she removed her coat and gestured for the boy to do the same.

“We’re going to practice. Constance offered to give me pointers for my solo.” Cody’s grin made him look like he’d won the lottery. He tipped his head at the piano, asking again, “Was that your own creation? You’re a composer, right?”

“Yes, it is… I’m… I’m sorry, but did you say practice?”

Constance rolled her eyes and guided Cody by the arm down the hall, her violin case thumping against her thigh with the hasty retreat.

It took my addled brain a second too long to catch up, so my warning, “Do not close that bedroom door,” came as said door slammed.

Without thought, I stormed after them and flung it wide. “Not a chance, missy. You’re fourteen. The door stays open, or the boy leaves.”

Constance’s cheeks burned brightly, but Cody touched her arm, simmering the flames. “It’s okay. Not a big deal. Your dad’s gonna hear my mistakes anyhow.” Cody chuckled. “The walls aren’t soundproof, I bet.”

Still hot with anger, Constance signed something she knew I wouldn’t understand before performing a sweeping action with both hands.Go away, the gesture said.

I fought the urge to tell her no, to insist on standing under the doorframe to be sure they didn’t get up to no good, but I relented and moved back down the hall to the piano, pacifying my nerves by telling myself they couldn’t be getting busy so long as I heard the violins.

I couldn’t concentrate on writing and played randomly instead, pausing only when the music down the hall stopped. I timed the silent intervals, considering how and when I might have a conversation with my nonverbal daughter about boys and their intentions regarding pretty young girls.

Chloé had given me no guidance when it came to dealing with our teenage daughter and hormones. Had they shared a mother-daughter chat about the important stuff, or was that up to me now that she attended school? It wasn’t like I could call and ask Chloé either. Not without invoking problems. No contact, she’d told me. If she was given permission to chat, she would call. I’d agreed, promising I would be okay.

But I wasn’t okay. I was failing at every turn.

All evening, I listened to Cody and Constance practice their midterm solos. The only voice that emerged from her room was Cody’s. Not even a peer, a lovestruck teenage boy, could convince her to talk. What chance did I have?

When they went too long without playing, I made an excuse to poke my head in, offering to make sandwiches for dinner. Cody informed me he had to be in the dining hall for roll call atseven unless he had permission to be absent, which he didn’t. He thanked me with a toothy smile, but Constance only sneered.

After his departure, my daughter kept her bedroom door closed for the remainder of the evening. No amount of bribery convinced her to come out.

Frustrated, I returned to the piano and the strange composition I’d begun.

***

The commencement of second period had come and gone by the time I arrived at the music room Friday morning. A cacophony of scale variations bled through the door. The same format Niles had used with each class on the previous Wednesday.

I listened, mindlessly adjusting the ill-hung music notes for the third time. If I caught the culprit responsible—and if it was up to me—I’d make them perform a solo in front of their peers. One they had to transpose on sight, converting between major keys with each repetition. If the punishment was good enough for me when I misbehaved in my youth, it was good enough for a miscreant high school student.

And people wondered why I persistently insisted that parenthood wasn’t for me.

Having delayed long enough, I buttoned my jacket, straightened my spine, and wandered into the classroom under the camouflage of a D minor scale, depositing myself at the vacant piano. At the conductor’s podium, Niles had yet to notice me. His arm swung as he conducted what had already become the mundane in my world. Warmups didn’t have to be routine.

Less troubled over my behavior Wednesday evening, I joined the chorus of instruments, giving the scale flair and startling Timber Creek’s music teacher so he whipped around, sunset eyes wide and full of surprise.

My name took shape on his lips, but I didn’t hear it over the noise.

I smirked, winked, and continued into a new variation on the scale’s descent, calling out to the class what we were playing next.

Niles used a familiar progression—C, G, D, A, and E before hitting the minors—but I preferred randomness, wishing to see if the senior class could flawlessly transition on a whim or if they’d been trained in strictly one direction.

“E major,” I said, making the shift.

With a few stumbles and moderate confusion, the students followed my lead. Niles dramatically threw his hands up in surrender and waltzed to his desk in the back corner. “Well,” he intoned jovially, voice raised, “on that note, I’m taking a break.”

“Was your double entendre intentional, Mr. Edwidge?”

Niles flinched and blew a flyaway piece of hair off his face before propping his hands on his hips. “Yes, it was,Maestro.”

I quirked a brow at the students. “He’s fibbing.”

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