Page 56 of The Escape Plan

It’s a routine I’m falling into, once again, in Serendipity Springs: leaving my apartment with a bagged lunch of a breakfast roll—sandwich—and an apple and heading straight to Blue Notes to spend my morning teaching guitar lessons.

Today is my first day, and I’m already enjoying every second.

“Good, just like that,” I tell Sammie, whose face is pinched up in concentration as she attempts to hold a G chord with her little fingers. “You’re doing amazing.”

As if on cue, her finger slides out of place, and when she strums her guitar, the sound is flat. Off-key.

“No, I’m not.” She looks up at me, all big brown eyes and wobbly lower lip. “I suck, Beckett.”

It’s nearing the end of her forty-five-minute lesson, and I’m assuming that both her mind and her fingers are tired. So what’s happening right now is understandable.

But I know better than to say that to a six-year-old. Logical explanations are not the way to make Sammie feel better about herself and her abilities—she needs tofeelit to believe it.

“Hey.” I set down my own guitar, which I was using to show her finger placement, and hop out of my chair. Walk over and crouch in front of her. “Sammie, can I ask you a question?”

She nods cautiously, lip still wobbling, like she’s unsure she wants to sayyesin case she gets the answer wrong.

“Okay.” Her expression is so reminiscent of how I used to feel in school that my stomach twists in empathy for her.

I wasn’t good in school. I found it hard to concentrate and spent a lot of time staring out of windows, zoning out and humming tunes to myself in a way that was—needless to say—not conducive to drumming up popularity. Or making teachers like me.

They figured my behavior was due to laziness. An unwillingness to try.

If I had a penny for how many times I was told to “apply myself”… well, I’d have a good few more euros, at this point.

Or “bucks,” as they say here.

Back then, the only place I could escape to was the music room. Music was the one thing that made me feel like I didn't “suck,” as Sammie just said. And when I enrolled in teaching college, it was with the intention of paying this feeling forward.

So, the fact that I’ve ended up teaching in a private school for the academically gifted—a school that would have never let me through its doors as a student—is an irony that’s not lost on me.

It’s one of the main reasons I took up giving volunteer guitar lessons on the side.

Thistype of teaching is important to me exactly because of moments like this one. Where I can use music to make a difference to how a kid feels about themself.

“Can you name me three people you love?” I ask Sammie gently.

Her face brightens. “Yes! My mommy, my daddy, and my brother Zachary.”

“Brothers are great. I have two brothers, and I love them very much.”

Sammie smiles in solidarity. “My brother is the best. He’s four.”

“I bet you’re a great big sister to him.” I lift my eyes to meet hers. “Do you ever teach Zachary things?”

“Yup.” Her little chest puffs with pride. “I taught him how to color in the lines! And I help him on his scooter because he can’t balance yet, so I show him how.”

“And is he getting better at balancing on his scooter now, thanks to your help?”

“Mm-hmm.” Sammie grins, her cheeks flushing.

I pause. Drop my voice so it's as gentle as possible. “And when he falls off, do you help him back up and encourage him to try again?”

“Yes, because practice makes perfect, my mommy always says.”

“Your mommy sounds really clever. And hey, what do you think Zachary would say to you if he heard you saying you suck?”

She pouts out that lower lip—no longer wobbling—for a moment, before screwing her nose up. “He’d say I shouldn’t say mean things about myself.”

---