Page 5 of Symphony of Salvation

The gymnasium adjacent to my classroom echoed with the thump of basketballs and the shrill cry of a whistle. Coach Blaine’s Girls’ AAA volleyball team was predicted to win the OFSSA championship in March, and it had been six years since they had been deemed contenders. Extra practices had been set up as a result.

Apart from my allocated corner of the school—I despised existing so close to the gymnasium—the halls were quiet and desolate. A lone janitor pushed a cart of supplies from classroom to classroom, emptying the garbage before the school day began.

The student body—who lived in dorm rooms on campus—would be gathered in the dining hall for breakfast or huddled in the library to finish neglected assignments. The few who crossed my path as I made my way to the administration offices offered a quick, “Good morning, Mr. Edwidge.”

Mister.Like shards of glass raked over tender flesh. I was the onlymisterin the entire faculty. Timber Creek’s hiring policy stated that their instructors be exemplary. They were an investment. A selling point when encouraging parents to pay extravagant fees. Who better to educate their gifted children than professors with doctorates.

I was the exception, and Dr. McCaine never failed to remind me of the accommodation I’d been granted. “Parents don’t approve,” she’d told me on more than one occasion.

Rapping a knuckle on the office door, I stared at the two gold embossed letters that appeared on the nameplate. McCaine’s designation.Dr.

“Come.”

In her late fifties, Justine McCaine’s hair had gone from bronze to silver as though she’d moved up in the world with age. She wore a navy pantsuit that morning. Her customary attire. Prim and proper as a captain should be. If I could find fault with the woman, it was in her skin. A youth spent sunbathing on beaches with oils instead of sunscreen, and decades of fad-smoking cigarettes before the government actively proclaimed it was not cool and was, in fact, bad for your health had left Timber Creek’s principal wrinkled and spotted like a leopard. Aged in a way that children today, with knowledge, would be able to prevent.

She waved to a vacant chair and urged me to sit.

I’d tied my long hair back into a messy bun, but a few strands must have pulled loose when I’d removed my woolen hat. Dr. McCaine seemed to notice, and I earned a disproving puckered glare, so I quickly found the culprits and tucked them over my ear.

“Quite the storm we’re getting,” I said defensively.

“Indeed.” She opened a brown folder and peered through the bottom half of her silver-framed glasses as she skimmed the top page of what seemed a text-filled booklet. “You’re not going to like what I have to say.”

I flashed my attention to the text but couldn’t make out the words from my vantage. Every excuse I’d imagined she might use to release me from my contract filled my head.

Timber Creek was a historic building with poor insulation and rattly windows. The winter wind often pierced the walls, encouraging the student body to add extra layers.

But the outdoor chill didn’t reach me that morning.

Sweat greased my palms and dampened the strands of hair at my temples.

Dr. McCaine eyed me over the brim of her spectacles, a cat toying with a mouse for pleasure.

“Not like what, ma’am?” Miraculously, the words came out strong and unwavering.

She cleared her throat, referenced the form, and folded her fingers together on top. “I’ve approved a guest teacher to assist with the instruction of your classes three days a week starting on Wednesday.”

“A what? Excuse me? Did you—”

“I have approved—”

“I heard what you said. I don’t understand.”

“We’ve been offered an invaluable gift, Mr. Edwidge. Turning it down would not only be insulting to the party making theproposal, but considering the reputation of our school, it would be impolitic. Foolhardy, to say the least. If parents caught wind of—”

“What invaluable gift, ma’am?”

Dr. McCaine referenced the folder. “Maestro Castellanos, Miss Castellanos’s father, has charitably offered his expertise in your classroom. Isn’t that wonderful?”

She didn’t wait for my reply. “It’s temporary. A couple of days a week. You’re aware who this man is, aren’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.” But shamefully, I didn’t know much. Only when Constantina had been drawn into my radar had I briefly looked up the maestro.

World-renowned musician and composer, Augustus Castellanos. Reading the long, humbling list of achievements and awards he’d gathered over his forty-one years would have aggravated my feelings of inferiority, so I’d skipped them, already jaded, already hating the man on principle.

Augustus Castellanos was going to guest-teach a bunch of, albeit intelligent, high school kids? I couldn’t find a single word to contribute to the conversation. It didn’t make sense.

Dr. McCaine waited with irritating patience as I evaluated what it meant.

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