Page 37 of Symphony of Salvation

A few kids fumbled the runs as they laughed around mouthpieces. It was utter garbage. They were sloppy and uncoordinated, and it took everything in me not to advise them of their flaws.

“G,” I called when we completed E major. “Accelerando. Come on. I’m bored. Spice it up with me. And good lord, if I see you following sheet music, you fail. You should be long past reading scales on a paper. They should be up here.” I tapped my forehead and picked up the tempo, using new articulation and waiting for the class to catch on before switching notes. It didn’t take long. When I rearranged the flavor and added a flutter of sixteenth notes on each stepping stone up the ladder to the peak, the flutists copied immediately.

The lone tubist laughed and peered around the instrument on his knee. “Who does this guy think I am?” I heard him say to his neighbor.

“Not Arnold Jacobs, I assure you. Don’t make excuses because your instrument’s large. Continue.”

He tried.

I switched and swapped and mixed the pieces on the gameboard enough times the whole class was doing their darndest to keep up. They dropped out one at a time until a steady three remained. A saxophone player, a remarkable French hornist, and a cellist whose grin told me he enjoyed the challenge. Him I liked.

“Let’s end with a chromatic scale, shall we?”

The three remaining students raced to keep up, but by the time I made it back to the bottom, I was playing solo. I ended with a flourish, stood, and bowed. The students whistled and cheered.

A lone man slow-clapped from his desk in the back corner. “Are you done showing off?” Niles asked.

I made the motion of brushing dust off my palms. “I am. Should I see myself out?”

“Don’t tempt me.” To the class, he said, “You have forty-five minutes to practice today. Maestro Castellanos and I will come around to offer advice, pointers, or answer questions. If you’re not working when we come by, you will get to study music history. Something wretchedly boring.”

Niles delivered the statement without taking his eyes off me. The bustle of teenagers rearranging themselves around the room never broke his concentration. Questions reflected on mirrored sunsets. I purposefully did not try to decipher them. I had too many of my own to worry about his.

At best, I owed Niles an apology for storming his house at such a late hour on Wednesday, drinking his wine, and overstayingmy welcome. I touched my tie and moved to unbutton my jacket but refrained as I crossed the room.

Arms crossed, ass perched on the corner of his desk, shirtsleeves rolled and exposing lightly furred forearms, hair in a messy bun at his nape, and collar open, exposing his throat, Niles tracked my approach. He looked gloriously relaxed. An untroubled man, comfortable in his environment. Confident, bold, and secure with himself.

I was an imposter in a nice suit, life upside down, career on hold, and with a responsibility beyond my skill level. Also, an ancient, niggling truth I’d long ago buried was trying to resurface.

“How are you feeling, Maestro?” he asked when I was close enough to avoid having to shout.

“I thought we agreed I didn’t like the title.”

Niles shrugged. “It’s required in this building during school hours.”

“Unfortunate.” My fingers twitched toward my tie, but I made a fist and dropped my arm before making contact.

Niles observed me with a quizzical expression. “You know, despite school policy, I’m not stuffy about dress code. You don’t need to wear a jacket and tie if they make you uncomfortable. This isn’t a fine-dining establishment or Roy Thompson Hall. It’s high school. I’m a bit of a nonconformist myself.” He pushed the loose strands of hair from his face with a smirk.

“I noticed. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Niles’s smile mirrored the memories I’d taken home Wednesday night. Warm. Open. Inviting. A thrumming bass note resonated in my chest, humming over my skin. More notes tinkled through my mind. Something undefined passed between us, there and gone before I could fully comprehend what I’d seen. Had Niles felt the chord’s vibration? Did he hear the music as well?

Before I had a chance to worry, Niles stood upright, cleared his throat, and scanned the classroom. “We should get to it.”

“I don’t mind taking this task if you have other things to do.”

But he insisted, and I got the impression my presence stepped on his toes. Although more companionable, he didn’t want to fully hand over the reins. I didn’t argue and spent the rest of the day working one-on-one with students, listening to them play, offering advice, and giving tips to help them improve their performances. More than once, I bit my tongue so as not to offend.

Niles circled the opposite way. I found myself repeatedly watching him instead of doing my duty. The thrum reverberated anew when he caught me staring and slyly smiled and winked before returning his attention to the student he was assisting.

Notes, chords, bar after bar of music floated inside my head. I would need to remember them and write them down. It had been a long time since a composition demanded to be written.

During fourth period, Constance went out of her way to pretend I didn’t exist. Niles turned warmup over to me since I’d had so much fun with it during second period, and my daughter was the only student who didn’t crack a smile at my antics. She was also the only one who managed to keep up the whole time.

When dismissed for self-study, she and Cody claimed a practice room. I wanted to object but held my tongue, fearing I would cause a scene. Niles must have sensed my discomfort and poked his head in to see how the pair of violinists were doing more often than he’d done with any other group.

When the bell rang at the end of the day, Constance and Cody left together, Cody chatting up a storm and my daughter wearing an eye-creasing smile.

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