Page 52 of Symphony of Salvation

“What? Free expression? Yes, in fact, it is. Is that a problem?”

August tossed his pen on the table with a huff. “What do I know?”

“Nothing when it comes to teenagers. Believe me.”

A low blow, and the moment the words left my mouth, I regretted them.

Each subsequent battle grew progressively worse.

On Tuesday, I waved a hand over the aggressively marked form he’d completed on a clarinet player named Rianna. “What is this? We’re not grading poise and posture. It’s not a category.”

“It should be. Humility has no place on stage. The sooner she learns that the better. She must command and controlthe audience the second she walks out there. She must exude confidence. Arrogance. Plant her feet, lift her chin, and prove herself worthy. A person can’t afford to be meek and mild in this business. You don’t slouch. You don’t tap your toe to keep the beat. You are poised and professional. Both feet rooted to the floor at all times. Firm. Confident. You don’t grimace when you make a mistake. There is no room for flaws when the spotlight is on you.”

I blinked several times in astonishment as August explained his position. He’d lost his mind. “What the hell are you talking about? These are teenagers, and we’re in a high school music room. Do you see a spotlight? Rianna is sixteen. What stage?”

August blanched and glanced at the harshly marked form, then at the practice room surrounding us. He balled the paper in a fist and excused himself.

I didn’t see him for the rest of the day.

The worst exchange came on Thursday when it was Constance’s turn to perform. I’d considered how to approach the situation all week.

“You can’t be part of this. Not when she’s your daughter,” I said before Constance appeared. “It would be seen as favoritism.”

“I won’t grade her, but I’d like to watch.”

“She doesn’t need undue pressure.”

“My daughter is a performer. If she can’t operate under the strain of having a parent in the audience, she has no business pursuing a music career.”

“She’s fourteen.”

“And aiming for Juilliard.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The friction between us mounted by degrees. Every exchange turned caustic. Under it all was the ever-present attraction wepretended didn’t exist and the kiss we never shared. In place of lust grew anger, but who were we angry with? Each other or the situation? I was forty-four, far beyond miserly games and quibbles, but there we were, battling it out like we were fresh out of high school. Pointing fingers. Accusing. Name-calling. All because August refused to have an adult conversation.

“We’ll leave it up to Constance. If she asks you to leave, you leave. If she’s okay with you staying, you keep your goddamn mouth shut. You don’t get an opinion on her grade. Period. I will take this to Dr. McCaine if I have to.”

“Yes, go tattle to your boss. Tell her the highly acclaimed professional doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“My god, you’re insufferable. I’m glad you didn’t have the balls to kiss me. That would have been a mistake.”

August’s dark eyes smoldered with rage, but he bit back whatever comment must have been brewing on his tongue when Constance opened the door.

She glanced between us, cold and indifferent toward her father, warm and smiling with me. I smugly enjoyed the contrast.

Constance placed her music on the available stand. Chin high, she acknowledged her readiness with a slight dip of her head. Although I sensed no notable discomfort from the young teen, I wanted to offer her options before she began.

“Your father has asked to remain in the room, but you should know, he won’t be part of the grading process. If you’d prefer that he leave, that’s perfectly acceptable.”

Constance’s expression didn’t change as she dashed a quick glance at her father and back. Since her hands were full and she couldn’t sign, I asked, “Do you want him to leave?”

Constance shook her head, seemingly undisturbed.

“Whenever you’re ready.”

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